I wake up before my alarm.
Again.
Sleep doesn't linger the way it used to. It comes in shallow stretches, interrupted more by thought than noise. I stare at the ceiling, the city still quiet outside my windows, and let myself exist in the pause before the day starts demanding things from me.
People assume adulthood comes with certainty. Stability. Confidence. What they don't talk about is the constant awareness—the feeling that you're being measured. That once you reach a certain point, slipping isn't just personal anymore. It's public.
My life reflects that truth exactly. In my family, perfection was never a suggestion—it was an expectation. You could be nothing less. And yet, deep down, I've always known I'm not perfect. I'm the only one who seems willing to admit that.
To keep my family satisfied—to avoid hearing the familiar that's not how we raised you speech—I became what they wanted me to be. Or rather, what I was supposed to be. I learned how to present myself in a way that reassured them, even if it meant leaving parts of myself unseen.
I live in a very nice condo in the city. Clean lines. Neutral tones. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline, offering a view without inviting distraction. Every piece of furniture serves a purpose. Nothing excessive. Nothing sentimental left out in the open. No framed photos lining the walls, no clutter on the counters. Just space, order, and intention. It's the kind of place designed to impress without ever feeling indulgent.
This is how I was raised to conduct my life.
According to my father, people should never step into your home and know your entire story just by looking at it.
Everything has its place.
Perception matters. The stories it tells matter even more. Unfortunately for me, everyone seems to be paying attention.
The firm watches because I represent more than myself now. I'm a return on their investment—a name that reassures clients before I ever open my mouth. They expect consistency. Precision. Results. They don't need me inspired; they need me reliable. Sharp. Unwavering. There's no room for hesitation, no tolerance for visible mistakes. I'm proof that their standards work, and proof doesn't get to falter.
The press watches because I'm useful to them. A headline. A narrative they can shape. The youngest partner. The prodigy. The man who looks good on paper and even better in photographs. They want interviews, access, something quotable. They don't care about the work—they care about the image. And the moment I give them anything human, they'll decide what it means for me before I ever get the chance.
Society watches because success makes people curious, and curiosity turns into entitlement faster than anyone admits. They want to know how I live, what I drive, who I'm seen with. They want me aspirational but distant. Impressive without being relatable. Someone to admire without having to understand.
And then there's my family.
Especially my father.
His name still carries weight—more than mine ever will in certain rooms. Brilliant attorney. Respected educator. A man whose career became a benchmark long before I was old enough to understand what that meant. I grew up learning expectations without anyone ever having to say them out loud. Achievement was assumed. Failure wasn't discussed because it wasn't considered an option.
To them, I'm not allowed to be ordinary. I'm not allowed to struggle publicly. I'm expected to be the continuation of something larger than myself—composed, accomplished, unshakeable.
They don't want perfection because it's realistic.
They want it because it's reassuring.
So I give them what they expect.
When I finally roll out of bed, I realize I need to start getting ready or I'll be late. I head to the bathroom and turn on the shower. When the water finally heats up, I strip down completely—naked, exposed—and step under the spray, the sudden heat sending a jolt through me.
The shower is where my thoughts finally slow down.
Steam fills the space as water hits my skin, warm enough to pull me out of my head and into my body. I close my eyes and let it run over muscle shaped by discipline and consistency—broad shoulders, defined abs, strength built over time rather than for show. A body maintained the same way I've built my career: deliberately, without shortcuts.
It isn't vanity.
It's care. Structure. Something I can control.
I stay longer than I need to, letting sensation replace thought. For a few minutes, there's nothing to analyze, nothing to anticipate. Just the steady rhythm of water and breath.
When I step out, towel around my waist, I feel steadier.
Reset. Ready.
I open my closet and scan suits I've worn a hundred times. There's comfort in routine—something grounding about knowing exactly what works. I choose a blue-and-white suit, crisp and understated, and pull it on piece by piece.
The fabric settles against me like armor.
I adjust the cuffs, straighten the collar, smooth the lapels. Not out of obsession—out of habit. Appearance matters in my world. It always has. Looking put together is expectation.
In the bathroom, I fix my hair with practiced ease, watching the man everyone recognizes stare back at me.
They never see the preparation it takes to look that way.
Breakfast is quick. I'm rarely hungry in the mornings. Grab-and-go has become habit. I pull a protein bar from the pantry and fill my travel mug with coffee—black, one sugar, no cream.
By the time I grab my keys and head out, everything feels locked back into place.
I take the elevator down to the underground garage. The ride is quiet, composed. The doors open with a faint ding, revealing the cool, dim space below. My car waits exactly where I left it—sleek, black, expensive.
I slide into the driver's seat and head to work, already mapping out calls, meetings, decisions.
The office is buzzing when I arrive.
Isabelle, the receptionist, meets me halfway down the hall, clipboard in hand.
"Good morning, Mr. Hayes. You have three voicemails, two urgent emails, and—"
"Press?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Tell them no."
She nods. "You also have an interview today. Elena Moore. Noon."
Right. The assistant position.
"Thank you," I say, already unlocking my office.
The morning disappears into calls and strategy. Clients. Deadlines. When the press calls again, I shut it down without hesitation.
By the time I check the clock, it's already lunch. I'm starving, irritated, and thinking—if I had an assistant, someone would've brought food in by now. The irony isn't lost on me. I push the thought aside and prepare for the interview.
Isabelle knocks lightly.
"Mr. Hayes, Ms. Moore has arrived. She's waiting in the conference room."
"Alright," I reply, irritation slipping through despite myself.
I head down the hall and enter the conference room, pulling the door closed behind me.
"Good afternoon," I say, my voice settling into its professional cadence.
Silence.
When I look up, I understand why.
She's staring at me—frozen, wide-eyed, like she wasn't expecting me. Maybe she thought she was interviewing with someone else. Maybe she wasn't prepared for the reality of who she'd be working for.
"Ms. Moore?" I ask evenly.
"Yes—hi," she says too quickly. "Sorry."
She's loud. She knows it too. I can see it register immediately, the apology coming right on its heels.
The corner of my mouth lifts before I stop it.
"Please," I say, gesturing to the chair. "Have a seat. Do you have a copy of your résumé?"
She hands it over. I skim, though I already know what I'll find. We have requirements. She wouldn't be here if she didn't meet them.
"Your experience is solid," I say. "Your references are strong."
Relief softens her posture, just slightly.
"If selected, HR will walk you through firm standards and expectations," I continue. "Northbridge maintains a specific professional image. Presentation matters here."
The word lands.
Presentation.
I see it register, even as she keeps her expression neutral.
She nods. "Of course."
"It's nothing complicated," I add. "Just something to be aware of."
I sound like an ass. I know that. But everyone answers to someone, even me. I don't always agree with management's expectations, but I still have to uphold them.
"I can meet the expectations," she says, a defensive edge slipping through.
My eyebrow lifts slightly.
Attitude?
"That's good," I reply. "We'll start you tomorrow. Eight a.m. sharp. HR will finalize the paperwork."
I stand. "We'll be in touch."
I don't look back as I leave. I'm not sure whether I'm sparing her nerves—or avoiding the possibility that she's glaring at me over the presentation comment.
Back in my office, I enter her information into the system.
"Elena Moore," I murmur aloud, the name lingering longer than necessary.
I pause.
"Huh."
Once I finish, I shut down my computer, turn off the lights, and lock my office door behind me. At the front desk, I stop briefly.
"Isabelle," I say, "Elena Moore is hired. Make sure she's directed to HR in the morning."
She nods, already writing it down.
"I'm gone for the day," I add. "I forwarded my phone to your desk. Draft the messages and slide them under my door before you leave."
I don't wait for a response, instead I proceed to walk out and head to my car. On my way home I decided that I was going to stop at my favorite Chinese place to pick up dinner.
I nearly make it all the way there before muttering, "Shit—the shirts." I forgot I had placed an order for three dress shirts steamed and pressed.
I turn the car around and head toward Bellrose & Co. The stop is purely practical. In and out. Another task before the day officially ends.
Inside, the boutique is quiet and carefully curated. Minimalist displays. Clothing arranged like art instead of inventory. As I step inside and approach the counter, I notice two clerks standing there, idle, as if they have nothing better to do. The moment they recognize me, their focus sharpens instantly—eyes locking on, posture changing, attention snapping into place.
It's the perfect example of what I mean when I say people watch me. They know who I am. To them, it's an honor. And at the same time, it's a curse.
I give my name, though it feels unnecessary. Before I can even finish my last name, one of the clerks disappears into the back, already moving to retrieve my order. I don't comment on it. I never do.
Instead, I wander the floor, my attention drifting to the dress coats, running my fingers lightly over fabric as I wait.
That's when I hear her voice.
I recognize it immediately.
There's tension in it—controlled, but tight. The same edge I heard earlier in the conference room, only now it sounds exposed instead of defensive.
I turn.
Elena stands at the counter; dresses draped over her arm. She looks different here. Smaller. Less guarded. The confidence she carried during the interview has softened, replaced by something more uncertain. Not weak—just unarmored.
She was speaking to the other clerk that had been standing behind the counter he looks her over openly, his gaze lingering in a way that has nothing to do with customer service. I don't need to see his expression to know what he's doing—I recognize it immediately.
"Are you sure these are your… taste?" he asks, smirking.
"Just ring them up." she says sounding almost defeated.
I don't think about it before stepping in.
"That comment," I say calmly, "was inappropriate."
He stiffens almost immediately. "Yes, sir." he says looking nervous
Elena turns, surprise flashing across her face when she sees me.
"Oh," she says. "Mr. Hayes."
"No reason you would've noticed me," I reply lightly. "I was distracted."
The clerk finishes ringing her up in silence and retreats, suddenly as if trying to avoid any more embarrassing confrontation.
I linger a second longer than necessary. I don't want to seem as if I am being rude after running into her.
"Starting tomorrow can feel abrupt," I say, keeping my tone conversational. "Northbridge has a way of throwing people into the deep end."
"I can swim," she replies, without hesitation.
That earns a real smile—brief, but genuine.
"I figured," I say. "You wouldn't have made it this far otherwise."
Her hands shake slightly as she gathers her bag. She tries to hide it. She doesn't quite succeed.
I decided I didn't want to push the moment.
I collect my shirts when the clerk returns and leave before the air between us has time to shift into something else.
That night, I finally eat the Chinese food I'd been thinking about all afternoon, sitting alone in my dining room. The food barely registers. My mind keeps circling back to the day—the interview, the boutique, the way she carried herself when she thought no one was watching.
I remind myself I hate training people. Hate inefficiency. Hate disruption.
But her résumé is solid.
And something about her feels… different.
After I clean up, I get ready for bed, resetting my space the way I always do.
in an instant of course, morning comes too fast.
By the time I reach the building, I'm already back in work mode. Emails queued. Calls waiting. HR paperwork to sign off on. Another day that's supposed to run exactly as planned.
I cross the lobby without breaking stride. I made it very clear to HR that once they were finished with her, she was to be brought directly to me. I would be the one to train her. I don't delegate that part. Not because I don't trust other people—but because I'm particular about how things are done, and I've learned the fastest way to get what I expect is to teach it myself.
Northbridge doesn't leave room for interpretation.
Neither do I.
The elevator dings.
The sound cuts through the lobby, sharp and unmistakable.
I look up as the doors slide open.
There she is.
For a moment, everything else fades—the phones, the movement, the quiet efficiency of the space around us. The timing is off. The pause stretches longer than it should.
I freeze.
It's subtle. Anyone watching might miss it. But I feel it—the hesitation, the disruption, the brief loss of rhythm I don't allow myself.
The words don't come the way they usually do.
And then she speaks.
"Good morning."