Ava's POV
My brain froze.
It was him.
The man from the diner. The one who had looked at me like he saw right through me — then disappeared without a word.
And now he was my boss.
Damian Stonewell's piercing gray eyes met mine across the desk. For a long, unbearable second, neither of us spoke. The room was silent except for the low hum of his computer.
"You're late," he said again, his voice calm now — too calm.
I blinked, struggling to find my voice. "I—I got here before eight—"
He leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. "Before eight isn't early. For me, it's barely acceptable."
The way he said for me sent a chill down my spine.
"I'll do better, sir," I managed, my voice low.
"You will," he said simply, turning his attention back to his laptop as if I'd already ceased to exist.
I stood there awkwardly, clutching the folder HR had given me. Should I… sit? Ask for instructions? Run away?
He didn't look up. "You're still standing there. Why?"
"I—wasn't sure where I should—"
He gestured lazily toward the adjoining office. "That's your desk. You'll handle my calls, schedule, and correspondence. You'll also make sure my coffee doesn't taste like it was brewed by amateurs. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," I said, biting my tongue.
"And, Miss Carter…"
I froze halfway through the doorway.
His voice dropped an octave — smooth, sharp, commanding. "You'll learn very quickly that I have no patience for excuses. If I say nine, you arrive at eight. If I say now, you move faster than that."
I nodded stiffly. "Understood."
He smirked faintly — just a flicker, like he could already tell I was terrified.
"Good," he murmured, eyes back on his screen. "You may go."
I exhaled a shaky breath the second I stepped into my small adjoining office. My legs felt like jelly.
I collapsed into the chair and buried my face in my hands. Great first impression, Ava. You've officially embarrassed yourself in front of the world's coldest man.
Still, something about him lingered. The way he spoke. The quiet confidence. The impossible calm that hid… something darker.
And worse — the fact that he didn't seem to recognize me at all.
Did he really not remember?
Was I just a forgettable stranger to him?
My chest tightened. I wasn't sure if I felt insulted or relieved.
Hours passed in a blur of emails, phone calls, and endless schedules. Every time I heard his voice through the wall, my body went tense.
At one point, he called my name through the intercom.
"Miss Carter."
I nearly jumped out of my chair. Great. What the hell does Mr. Not-So-Nice want now?
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried this smooth, cutting edge that made my skin prickle like I'd already done something wrong. "Yes, sir?"
"Come to my office"
I took a deep breath, straightened my blazer, and walked into his office again. He was standing by the window now with his sleeves rolled up.
"Yes, Mr. Stonewell?" I asked, trying to sound professional and not like I was dying inside.
He looked up, and—holy shit—those dark gray eyes of his started to narrow in that slow, dangerous way. The kind that could tempt you and terrify you all at once.
"Coffee," he said.
I blinked. "Coffee?"
"You're my secretary," he replied flatly. "When I ask for coffee, you bring me coffee. Black. Hot. No sugar, no cream. Perfect."
I nodded too fast. "Of course. Right away."
But before I could bolt, his voice sliced through the air again.
"And, Ms. Carter?"
"Yes?"
"If it isn't perfect, you'll do it again. And again. And again. Until you get it right."
Oh, fantastic. A coffee-making death sentence on my first day.
After wandering around for a good ten minutes, I finally found the machine. It looked like something NASA would use to launch espresso into orbit. God, rich people. This thing probably cost more than my rent.
I'd made coffee before. How hard could it be? (Famous last words.)
I poured water, scooped some grounds, pressed a shiny button, and watched dark liquid hiss into a mug. Looked decent enough.
Carrying it back with trembling hands, I prayed silently. Please, Lord, just let him like it so I can keep my dignity for five more minutes.
No such luck.
He didn't even glance up when I set the cup on his desk. He lifted it, took one sip, and grimaced like I'd just poisoned him.
"Again," he said.
That was it. Just again.
By the fourth cup, I was sweating.
By the sixth, my hands smelled like I lived inside a coffee shop.
Each time, same routine: sip, pause, that cold stare. Then, "Again."
Apparently, "communication" wasn't part of his billionaire vocabulary.
By the eighth attempt, my patience was wearing thin. "Perfect" wasn't even a direction—it was psychological warfare.
By cup fifteen, I was practically shaking. My hair clung to my neck, my fingers burned from the steam, and I carried that mug into his office like a soldier offering tribute to a warlord.
He took it. Sipped.
And then—silence.
My heart hammered. "Is it… acceptable?"
His mouth twitched. Not a smile, but close. "For now."
And that was it. No thank you, no nod, just a dismissive wave of his hand, like I hadn't just sacrificed my sanity over a cup of coffee.
I stumbled back to my desk, legs like jelly, face hot with irritation.
He was impossible. Infuriating. Unfair.
And stupidly, ridiculously attractive—which made it all worse.
He returned to his laptop, his voice casual. "Tell Hailey from HR to send me the new merger report. And cancel my two o'clock with Walter — I'm not in the mood for his whining."
"Yes, sir."
I turned to leave, relieved.
Then he added, almost idly, "Miss Carter?"
"Yes?"
He looked up this time — straight into my eyes.
"Next time you plan on pressing my intercom ten times in a row… don't."
Heat rushed to my face. I opened my mouth to respond, but he was already typing again.
Dismissed. Just like that.
Back at my desk, I sank into my chair with a groan.
It had only been three hours. Three. And I already understood why people said he was impossible.
But underneath all that ice, something about him didn't fit the rumors.
He was harsh, yes. Intimidating, absolutely. But there was also this… calm intensity. Like every word he spoke was deliberate. Controlled. Dangerous.
And maybe I was crazy, but I could've sworn — when our eyes met — there was a flicker of something human there. Something almost… familiar.
I was just about to turn back to my computer when the intercom buzzed again.
"Miss Carter," his deep voice drawled.
I swallowed. "Yes, sir?"
"Step into my office."
My stomach dropped. What now?
When I walked in, he was standing by his desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The top button of his shirt was undone, revealing just enough to make my thoughts scatter for a second.
He didn't look up when he spoke. "I want my full corporate schedule for the next nine months on my desk by tomorrow morning."
I blinked. "Nine… months?"
He glanced up, eyes sharp. "You heard me."
"But sir, that would require access to—"
He cut me off smoothly. "Figure it out. If you're half as capable as you claimed to be, I don't expect excuses."
My throat went dry. "Yes, Mr. Stonewell."
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Good. Because failure on your first day, Miss Carter, would be… disappointing."
That faint smirk again. The kind that made it impossible to tell whether he was serious — or just enjoying watching me squirm.
"Yes, sir," I said again, trying to sound braver than I felt.
"Then stop standing there," he murmured, turning back to his computer. "You have work to do."
I spun around quickly before he could see the panic flash across my face.
Nine months. By tomorrow morning.
As I stepped into the elevator, my heart pounded so hard I could barely breathe.
I wasn't even sure where to start. But one thing was clear — Damian Stonewell was testing me.
And no matter what it took, I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of watching me fail.
To be continued...