Somehow, it looked even bigger.
The same sleek desk, same floor-to-ceiling windows, same city skyline that looked like it was built to remind small people like me how replaceable we were. Talk about pressure
Chase walked past me, silent, the sound of his footsteps too calm for someone who they talked about more than the president Which was shocking, I thought people as influential as him would be pompous, have a high this one about themselves and swagger all they want. Chase seems to be the opposite of that . He sat, motioned for me to do the same. No small talk, no smile. Just those unreadable blue eyes that made my stomach twist. I was sick. Why did I keep thinking about how blue his eyes were. I swear they were haunting myy dreams last night
"Your desk will be right outside my office," he said, gesturing toward the glass door behind me. It was the one Lillian was sitting behind yesterday. I wonder where she was right now. I had to thank her. You know for being the only one that made my interview bearable. "You'll manage my schedule, filter calls, handle correspondence, and keep me on time.", Chase was saying. I completely blocked all the random thought in my head and focused. Even though I didn't hear anything he said before that. It would be rude to as him to repeat
And did I hear that right
On time. Great. The one thing I'd already failed at today. I felt a nervous smile creep on my lips. Yeah, this is going to be trying.
He looked at me with blank eyes. I felt myself stiffen and drop my head, feeling my fingers curl on my thighs.
I nodded quickly. "Of course, sir."
He blinked and continued, voice level. "You'll receive all internal and external communications first. Nothing reaches me without your review. I expect discretion. Absolute discretion."
Discretion. I could do that. It's not like I say everything that pops in my head. That would bee... I shook my head subtly. I practically lived in silence. Even though my mind isn't most of the time.
"Yes, sir.", I said, voice steady
"Lilian will show you the system we use for scheduling, and HR will send you the company access codes. Until then, use this."
He slid a slim silver badge across the desk. My name was engraved beneath the CMI logo. E. Michaels. Executive Assistant.
I touched it carefully, liking the smoothness under my hand. Still felt like a dream.
"I—thank you," I said.
Kate would be dreaming to get anywhere near Chase Carson and here I am, stummering like a drunkard
"And you start at seven," he added, leaning back in his chair. "Not seven-thirty."
Right. Of course. Early bird CEO.
"Yes, sir."
"Good." His gaze drifted to the window for a moment. "You'll find your office to the right. It connects directly to mine. Keep the door open during the day unless I say otherwise."
Open door. Great. And here I thought I could breakdown in private
I stood, clutching the badge like a sacred relic, and turned toward the glass door he'd mentioned. My reflection looked pale and nervous. The outer office was smaller but still far too elegant for me—white desk, silver lamp, a vase of white roses. A crazy thought passed and I wondered how it looked if blood was on it. What was wrong with me?!
There was even a little coffee station in the corner. I doubted he used it, but it made the place smell faintly of roasted beans and something clean, expensive.
I ran my hand along the desk. Smooth. Cold. Real.
This was mine.
Or maybe borrowed, until someone realized they'd made a mistake.
"Miss Michaels."
His voice came from behind me—steady, low. I turned.
"Yes?"
He was standing by the window when I turned, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a file that looked heavier than paper should ever be.
What was that for?
"You remember what I told you," he said, his tone calm but clipped. "If you fail to prove yourself, there is nothing stopping me from firing you."
It shouldn't have stung, but it did.
"Umm.. I will," I said quickly. "I'm sorry if I gave the wrong impression —"
He looked up sharply, cutting me off. "Don't apologize. This is nothing you have to apologise for."
My throat closed. Right. Because he was literally telling me I was replaceable.
He walked toward me, stopping just inside the threshold of my new office. "Your first task is to review this week's meeting summaries and flag anything that needs my attention. I want them organized, annotated, and sent to my inbox before noon."
I took the folder from him. His fingers brushed mine—barely a touch—but the contact sent a little electric jolt through me. Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. He didn't even notice.
"I can do that," I said, though my voice sounded smaller than I wanted it to.
He nodded once, slow, measured. "Good." Then his gaze flicked to the desk, scanning it like he was already imagining how I'd arrange things. "Lilian said you type fast."
"Pretty fast," I said. Liar! Who told her that?
"We'll see," he murmured, half to himself. He raised a brow, as if doubting me
He turned away, walking back to his office. But before he disappeared behind the glass, he paused at the doorway and said, "And Miss Michaels—"
"Yes?"
"Close the blinds in here when you leave for the day. I don't like reflections at night."
Then he was gone.
I stood there for a few seconds, still gripping the folder, wondering how anyone could sound so calm and yet leave such chaos behind them. I was so confused right now.
The silence that followed wasn't peaceful. Mostly because I felt I was being watched.I looked at the camera from the corner of my eyes. Yeah, being watched.
I sat down slowly, opened the folder, and tried to breathe normally. Inside were rows of typed notes, names, project codes—words that all looked like a secret language. I had no idea where to start. But I had to. First task and I wasn't going to fail. No way.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly. "You can do this," I whispered to myself, because someone had to say it. Not that I needed anyone to.
The computer purred to life, and I started typing. The rhythm helped—something steady to hold onto. Numbers, dates, words. One after the other.
Every few minutes, I caught movement through the frosted glass—his shadow pacing, stopping, then moving again. The sight was oddly grounding, like watching a storm through a window.
Halfway through the file, I realized I'd been biting the inside of my cheek. My head hurt, but my focus sharpened. Maybe this was how I survived here—by blending into the background, by being invisible but essential.
When I finally sent the organized notes to his inbox, my clock read 11:47. I almost smiled. Eleven forty-seven. Early. For once.
I didn't know whether to tell him or wait. Maybe waiting was safer.
I picked up my phone anyway, thumb hovering over the intercom button, then froze when it buzzed on its own.
"Miss Michaels," his voice came through, smooth and quiet. "Come in."
I took a quick breath and went.
His office looked different now—warmer, somehow, with sunlight flooding the windows. The light hit the side of his face, outlining him in gold. It felt unfair for someone to look like that at eleven a.m.
He gestured to the chair. "Sit."
I obeyed, clutching my hands together to stop the fidgeting.
"You finished early," he said, glancing at the folder on his screen.
"I—yes," I said. "I sent the file just now."
He didn't nod. Didn't smile. Just studied me for a moment that stretched too long. Then, finally: "Efficient."
Was that… a compliment? Maybe. My brain didn't know what to do with it.
He clicked something on his computer. "Tomorrow, I'll have you manage a board presentation draft. You'll also confirm travel arrangements for the Zurich clients. You'll receive details from HR."
My head spun trying to keep up. Zurich. Board. Clients. I scribbled everything in my small notepad, words slanting awkwardly.
He noticed. "You still take notes by hand?"
I looked up. "I remember things better that way."
A flicker of something—not quite amusement, not quite approval—crossed his face. "Old-fashioned," he said softly.
I smiled nervously. "Maybe just bad with too many screens."
He leaned back, fingers tapping once against his desk. The sound echoed, precise. "You'll get used to it. Everyone does, eventually."
The way he said it made me wonder if he was talking about screens or himself.
He stood then, signaling the conversation was over. I stood too, clutching the notepad like a lifeline.
"One more thing," he said, and his tone changed—less formal, but somehow heavier. "If you ever feel overwhelmed, step out. Take a walk. Don't let it build up."
I blinked, not sure I'd heard right. Chase Carson, offering… grace?
"Alright," I managed.
He nodded, gaze briefly softening. "Good. I'd rather not have another assistant faint in the middle of a meeting."
I almost laughed. Almost. "That—happened?"
He didn't answer, but the corner of his mouth curved slightly, like he remembered it too well. "Go on, Miss Michaels. You've done enough for today."
When I stepped out, my heart was still beating faster than normal. The glass door closed behind me, muting his world again.
I sat back at my desk and let myself exhale. The badge on my blouse caught the light—E. Michaels, Executive Assistant.
For a moment, I just stared at it.
People like me weren't supposed to end up here. Not in offices that smelled like power and cost more per square foot than my entire life's savings. But I was here. Breathing, typing, functioning.
Maybe that counted for something.
The hum of the city outside bled faintly through the glass. Somewhere in the distance, I heard him on another call, his voice low and even, words sharp like they were carved from steel.
I turned back to my computer and started typing again, pretending not to listen.
But I did. Every word. Every pause. Every piece of him that slipped, unguarded, into the silence between.
Because I had the strangest feeling that everything I did from now on—every decision, every breath—would somehow lead back to this office. To that voice. To him.