Augustus headed for the door, already moving with that effortless stride that said he expected the world to keep pace.
I twisted the shirt fabric, trying to cinch it at the waist with fumbling fingers.
"Catch up, Juliette." His voice carried from the doorway, impatient.
"Where are we going?"
"I told you, I have a meeting." He paused at the threshold, glancing back. "And as my assistant, you should be there."
My hands stilled mid-adjustment.
"You want me in your meeting?"
"That's generally what assistants do. Take notes, observe, and occasionally contribute something useful." His eyebrow arched. "Or did you think you'd spend six months fetching coffee?"
Heat flushed through me—part embarrassment, part something else entirely.
I'd assumed he'd keep me tucked away at that desk outside his office, shuffling papers and answering phones. Busywork designed to humiliate.
But if he actually expected me to participate...
"Right. Yes." I abandoned my futile attempts at looking presentable and grabbed my phone from where I'd set it on his desk. "Coming."
My coffee-stained blouse lay draped over the chair like evidence of my incompetence.
I'd deal with it later.
Augustus held the door, watching me scramble to collect myself with an expression that might have been amusement.
Or exasperation.
With him, it was impossible to tell.
Augustus didn't slow his pace or glance back as we cut through the corridors. His footsteps echoed against polished marble, measured and relentless.
I hurried to keep up, the oversized shirt billowing around me like a sail.
"You'll observe. Take notes. Speak only when necessary."
His tone brooked no argument.
"Define 'necessary.'"
"When I ask."
"Sounds like a dictatorship," I muttered, but followed anyway.
Because what else could I do?
Storm off in his borrowed shirt and prove every assumption about me correct?
The executive meeting room materialized ahead—glass walls stretching floor to ceiling, revealing a panoramic view of Shorebridge. The harbor glittered below, container ships lined up like toys in a bathtub.
Augustus pushed through the door.
Inside, five people already occupied the sleek conference table.
Vanessa sat nearest the head, her bob perfectly straight, glasses reflecting the morning light.
She glanced up as we entered, her gaze flicking to me—to the enormous shirt swallowing my frame—and something cold passed through her expression.
David from HR nodded politely. Two department heads I didn't recognize looked up from their tablets. A woman in a burgundy blazer sat with a stack of folders, probably PR.
Tension hummed beneath the surface. This wasn't routine business.
Augustus took his seat at the head of the table without preamble.
I hovered near the door, uncertain where assistants belonged in this hierarchy. Augustus gestured toward an empty chair along the wall.
I sank into the seat, feeling every gaze track my movement.
On the screen behind Augustus, bold text declared: "Urgent—Logistics Disruption: Shorebridge Port Delay."
Vanessa tapped her tablet, and the screen behind Augustus populated with slides.
Her voice sliced through the room, clinical and precise.
"Major shipment detained at Shorebridge Port—new trade restrictions imposed overnight. Twelve million in product currently stalled. Three investors have already contacted the communications department for clarification."
Numbers scrolled past. Revenue projections dipped into the red.
She advanced to the next slide.
"If we can't issue a statement by the end of the day, the press will run with it. We control the narrative now, or we spend the next week in damage control."
Augustus sat motionless, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
His expression revealed nothing—no alarm, no frustration. Just that maddening calm.
I scribbled notes on my phone, trying to appear useful while my brain spun through the implications.
Twelve million wasn't catastrophic for Ever Holdings, but the optics…
My thumb paused mid-swipe.
The draft statement on the screen referenced the Shorebridge Port Authority as the regulatory body causing delays.
Something nagged at me.
I'd read an article—where? Business Chronicle? No, it was one of those dry policy briefings Camille forwarded during grad school—
The Port Authority restructured last quarter. Merged into something larger.
Vanessa clicked to the final slide, her tone decisive.
"We finalize the draft, issue it through all channels by four PM, and coordinate a follow-up investor call tomorrow morning."
She glanced at Augustus for approval.
My pulse kicked.
"That's not the current port authority." The words tumbled out before I could reconsider.
Silence crashed down like a guillotine.
Vanessa's head swiveled toward me, eyebrow arched in glacial disbelief.
"Excuse me?"
Heat flooded my cheeks, but I pressed forward, gripping my phone tighter.
"If you release that statement, it'll look uninformed. The Port Authority merged into the National Trade Council last quarter. Using the old name will read as negligence."
Every pair of eyes drilled into me.
Vanessa's lips thinned.
The burgundy-blazer woman exchanged a glance with one of the department heads.
Augustus's gaze flicked to me—sharp, assessing, unreadable.
David's fingers flew across his tablet.
The room held its breath.
"She's right," David said quietly, turning the screen toward Vanessa. "Restructure finalized September tenth. All regulatory filings now go through the NTC."
Augustus leaned back, fingers releasing their steeple to rest flat against the table.
"Noted. We'll amend the release." His expression gave away nothing.
Vanessa's jaw tightened, the muscle jumping beneath her smooth skin. She nodded once, sharp and controlled, then tapped her tablet to update the draft.
The meeting continued, but something shifted. I stopped pretending to take notes and actually paid attention.
Watched how Augustus controlled the room without raising his voice. A tilt of his head to redirect conversation. Silence stretched just long enough to make someone reconsider their position.
The department heads clashed over budget reallocation—Operations wanted faster shipping routes, and Finance balked at the cost.
Augustus let them argue for exactly ninety seconds before cutting through with a single question that reframed the entire debate.
When Augustus wrapped the meeting—"Draft by end of day, investor call briefing on my desk by eight AM"—he stood.
Then paused.
"Juliette will handle the crisis report draft."
My eyes widened.
Vanessa's pen stilled mid-stroke.
"She'll what?"
"Draft the report. You'll review before it goes out." His tone allowed no argument. "Consider it part of her development."
For a second, I wasn't sure if he was punishing me or promoting me.
I followed Augustus out of the meeting room. Back at my desk, my screen lit up.
A shared folder access request from Augustus Evans.
PROJECT: Crisis Report Draft — Assistant Review
The folder opened, revealing subfolders upon subfolders of logistics data, shipping manifests, regulatory filings, and investor statements.
Hundreds of pages.
The deadline blinked at the top: Tomorrow morning, 8:00 AM.
I stared at the screen, then glanced toward Augustus's closed office door.
"He's trying to kill me."