"Three big breaths," Octavia whispered to herself.
She stood frozen before the elevator, a cardboard box clasped against her chest tightly, carrying her notebooks, mismatched pens and a chipped green mug, all small fragments of a life she had built on the ninth floor. She had left behind two very quiet, very uncomfortable and very boring years there. And now was time to, quite literally, climb toward something a bit bigger. Something more demanding.
Her wide green eyes gazed at her reflection in the elevator's mirrored wall. She took another deep breath, hoping it would be enough to hide the desperation she saw there. But the mirror only revealed every insecurity she hoped no one else would notice: the uncertainty in her eyes, the tremor in her breath, the way her curls framed her face in an untamable, wavy halo that refused to submit to any corporate aesthetic.
The elevator beeped impatiently.
"Will you come in, eventually?" a gravel-deep voice croaked from within.
Startled, Octavia jerked forward, nearly dropping her box. Perched on his foldable stool sat the building's oldest, crankiest elevator operator. He was a wiry man with a wrinkled face baked by decades of sun and smoke. His white hair bore stubborn stains of old nicotine, and he smelled faintly, and eternally, of cigars. As if tobacco had sunk into his very bones. Octavia wondered how many cigars a person had to smoke a day to look like one. Whatever the number were, he sure reached it.
He eyed her box, then the seven mismatched silver pieces scattered across her ear, and grunted.
"Ninth floor, right?"
"T-twelfth," she corrected. "First day."
He whistled low. "Working with the big boss."
The words seemed to reverberate around the metal walls like a curse. Or a warning.
"Careful up there, doe-eyes," he muttered while pressing the button. "Or they'll eat you alive."
She flashed him a thin, polite smile, mostly because she feared opening her mouth again would make her scarce breakfast to make a guest appearance. The doors slid shut with a heavy sigh, cutting her off from the familiar world she'd known.
When they opened again, she stepped straight onto the twelfth floor.
The difference was immediate, almost jarring. The lower floors buzzed with office chaos and the static crackle of fluorescent lights. But this floor, well, it exhaled quiet power. It was luxurious without being ostentatious. Dark polished wood, warm sconces, modern furniture placed with deliberate precision. The air smelled faintly of vanilla and leather. Contemporary art lined the walls: architectural sketches, clean geometric shapes, pristine photographs of construction sites preserved in impossible stillness.
"Fuck." she mumbled looking around.
Octavia inhaled once, twice, and god know how many times until she forced herself to walk with the strut she had practiced the entire subway ride. Fake it till you make it. Or at least until they can't tell the difference.
Near, employees stood loitering around a coffee machine with far too many buttons to be destined to employees instead of clients, three of them sipping coffee and chatting. Their conversation quieted as she passed.
"That's the new one," one whispered.
"So young," another murmured, too loudly. "Wonder how long she'll last."
"Do you think Pierce chose her himself?" the third asked.
"Of course not," the first scoffed. "He doesn't choose anyone. He evaluates."
Octavia stiffened. Her strut faltered for half a second.
The third employee, noticing, muttered an awkward "Good luck," then quickly walked off with the others.
Fantastic. Five minutes on the job and she was already part of the floor gossip ecosystem. She shook her shoulders and kept moving.
The anteroom opened into a pristine reception area, where Eliza Thompson noticed her immediately. Eliza rose from behind her monitor with brisk precision, her straight brown hair falling neatly to her jawline like a curtain.
"There you are," Eliza said. Warm smile. Sharp eyes. Posture of steel. Got it, Octavia thought, approaching her new desk besides her to set the box down.
"Welcome to the twelfth floor," Eliza said, voice warm enough to soften the intimidating décor. "Let's get you settled."
"Ok!" Octavia said way too fast "I'm ready."
"Oh, you look it," she replied, smirking knowingly.
The morning unfolded like a tide. Smooth, relentless and utterly overwhelming.
Eliza walked her through everything: call protocols, email priorities, how to assemble client folders, how to sort schedules with ruthless efficiency. Octavia scribbled notes so fast her handwriting turned into a frantic scrawl. She didn't ask a single question about the boss. Not out of disinterest, but because she suspected asking too soon would make her seem too anxious. So she bit back.
The first day felt endless. The rest followed quietly, stacking themselves on top of it.
By the middle of the week, Octavia had finally stopped noticing the passwords and started noticing patterns. She learned how to schedule appointments without tripping over time zones, how to prepare client packets without mixing projects, and how to recognize the boss's convoluted and rigid organizational system inside the many drawers of the writing desk.
And then, when the papers were neatly inside her head, she began to read the office itself: who walked fast, who whispered, who avoided the boss's door like it was cursed.
Eliza, who at first had judged her by the confident walk and crisp coats, slowly realized the truth: Octavia was not a preppy kid with a superiority complex, though she sure tried to look like one. She was a nervous, earnest stress ball, who asked probably a thousand questions at any given chance. She noticed how, usually by midday, her messy wavy hair had already devolved into chaos, and how her silver ring clicked against the keyboard whenever she typed too fast, and that every time she laughed at one of Eliza's dry jokes, her big green eyes squinted like a delighted child's.
They warmed to each other quickly.
After some assessing of the office settings, Octavia decided to spent lunches in the building's shared refectory, absorbing gossip like ambient noise. After all, what better place to hear all of the real stories:
"Pierce doesn't tolerate inefficiency."
"He can spot structural flaws no one else sees."
"He once fired someone for chewing too loud near him."
She nearly choked on her soup when hearing that last one. Until Eliza leaned over and whispered, through barely contained laughter:
"He never fired anyone over it. Someone just panicked when he gave them the look."
Yes, the look.
Apparently that was a whole legend by itself.
Still, despite all the whispers, she never asked directly about him. She focused on routines, procedures, workflow. It felt safer that way.
But by the fifth day, the mystery had fermented into genuine curiosity.
She sat in her chair, rotating slowly, tapping her pen against her knee as she tried to phrase the question casually.
"So, Eliza…" she finally said, adjusting her posture. Eliza hummed, eyes fixed on her screen. "Where is the boss?" Octavia gestured lightly toward the office with the closed blinds, as if drawing attention to a myth sealed behind a glass at the museum.
"Oh, don't worry about him," she said with a laugh, still typing. "You'll have plenty of work even when he's not around."
"I see." Octavia let her chair drift in another slow half-circle. "Is that often? Him being absent?"
"It happens every once in a while. Most business trips you will accompany, though."
"So… he's on vacation?" Her gaze drifted involuntarily to the calendar. Mid-month vacations, sweet. She cleared her throat. "I assume… because you're here."
"Well, I had to stay to meet you, didn't I?" Eliza darted Octavia a knowing look "He is evaluating a property we might acquire near the coast. He takes those trips regularly, likes to handle the important ones himself."
"I see," Octavia murmured, softening.
Then she leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially, so inviting in its childness, Eliza mirrored her instinctively, curious.
"How is he?" Octavia whispered. "You know… as a boss."
Eliza's eyes ran on her face for a moment before she started laughing. Not a loud mocking one, but with genuine delight. And not because the question was silly, but because she kept remembering the way Octavia strutted to her chair when she arrived and, honestly, it contrasted hilariously with her schoolgirl hush now.
"He is very strict," Eliza said finally, choosing her words carefully. "But fair."
"Fair, huh" she rose her pencil to her mouth and began chewing it absentminded "I've heard all sorts of humors. Everyone reacts like he's… I don't know, a ghost?"
"What type of rumors?" Elize asked curiously.
"Oh, you know. The usual nonsense. He never smiles. He can smell incompetence from two floors away. He once fired a man for chewing gum near him."
"Utter nonsense, of course. He's never fired anyone for gum!" Eliza shook her head with an expression you'd think octavia personally ofended her family "He made them spit it out. Then fired them for something entirely different."
Octavia blinked.
Eliza laughed again.
"He's not a ghost, dear. He just likes his privacy. And people love to fill in gaps with dramatic stories."
Octavia nodded, feeling a strange mix of relief and anticipation. "I guess I'll meet him next week then."
"Oh," Eliza said lightly, "probably sooner."
Octavia nodded, mulling the conversation over in a way to let it settle. Strict but fair. Not a tyrant then but demanding. Present even when absent. An invisible gravity shaping the entire floor, like Darth Vader. Octavia nodded to herself, satisfied with her assessing.
Then she found herself glancing at the shuttered blinds again.
What kind of man could possibly command that much space without being in it?
Late Friday afternoon, when the office had thinned and the sun cast long amber streaks across the polished floors, the elevator chimed.
Eliza straightened instantly, giving her most sharpened posture. Octavia felt the shift too. The air changed, thickened. Footsteps echoed along the wooden floor in steady beats. Steady enough to make Octavia think of a metronome.
A leather bag rustled. A coat brushed the air.
And then Carter Pierce stepped into the anteroom.
Tall. Broad. Immaculately put together despite the travel-worn edges. His charcoal suit fit him with effortless precision. His dark hair was tousled, not styled, but striking. And his expression was controlled enough to be unreadable.
But his presence…
His presence filled the room the way low thunder filled the sky.
He glanced at Eliza first.
"Eliza," he said, voice deep and even. "Good evening."
"Welcome back, Mr. Pierce," she replied, warmth slipping subtly beneath professionalism.
Then he turned his gaze to Octavia. The moment their eyes met, something jolted in her stomach, immediately sharp and tense.
"Is this the new secretary?" he asked.
Octavia stepped forward, pulse hammering but voice steady.
"Yes, sir. Octavia Ramos. It's a pleasure to meet you."
He studied her for a long, assessing moment. Not unkind, but intense enough for Octavia to feel her feet slowing turning into sand bags.
Then he nodded once.
"Welcome, Miss Ramos."
Just that. Simple and Precise.
When he turned away to remove his coat, Octavia found herself watching the small, efficient movements of his hands. They were surprisingly unhurried for a man whose reputation was built on precision. There was a quiet confidence in the way he carried himself, as though time bent for him rather than the other way around. He set his leather bag on the edge of his desk, not carelessly, but with the kind of absent attentiveness that suggested he was already thinking three steps ahead, already solving problems no one else had noticed.
She didn't know what she had expected. Someone colder, maybe. Sharper. A dark cape dancing around his feet and maybe a computer voice along heavy mechanical breathing. But Carter Pierce was something different entirely. He had a subtle gravity, a weight that drew attention without demanding it. Even his silence was oddly charged, like a current humming under the floorboards.
He said nothing else after welcoming her.
No small talk, no questions, no instructions. But she caught the way he had assessed her quickly, without malice but without warmth either. As though he were taking inventory, filing away some internal conclusion only he would ever know. It wasn't threatening, exactly… but it made her sit a little straighter, breathe a little more carefully..
And still, she couldn't stop replaying the moment his eyes had met hers.
Of all the rumors she had heard in the past week, none had told her this:
That the man was not frightening because he was harsh.
He was frightening because, in a single brief moment, he made her want to impress him.
And that realization settled over her like heat.
Unwelcome, unexpected, undeniably real.