Chapter nineteen: Back to a robot

Lily’s POV.......

My new hotel room is shit, the shower isn't working ad the lights are blinking, I grabbed my bag and knocked on Andrew's door.

He opened it immediately

“Can I sleep here, Ill sleep on the couch please”

He only sighed and left the door open for me

*****

The next morning, sunlight poured into the room far too early. I groaned, dragging myself out of bed. Andrew was already up, as usual—

I could hear faint music coming from the adjoining room. Curious, I walked to the room—and froze.

He was working out. Shirtless.

My brain short-circuited for a second.

His body moved with perfect rhythm, muscles shifting with each push-up, each pull of breath. The early light caught on his skin, outlining every defined line like something out of a dream—or a sin.

He didn’t notice me at first. I should’ve looked away. I didn’t.

He finally glanced up, catching me mid-stare.

His lips curved into that dangerous, knowing smirk.

“Like what you see, Miss Hart?”

Heat flooded my face instantly. “I—uh—I came to remind you about the meeting.”

“Mm.” He grabbed a towel, wiping his face, still not breaking eye contact. “sure” he said sarcastically

I crossed my arms, doing my best to sound composed. “Not everything revolves around you, Mr. Sterling.”

“Funny,” he murmured, stepping closer. “It usually does.”

The air between us tightened again, sharp with tension.

“Go get ready,” he said finally, low and calm. “And bring me coffee.”

“Sure.” I said and bit my tongue to keep from retorting

The rest of the day passed in meetings and emails. He worked like a machine, completely in control again.

By afternoon, the air in the conference hall was thick with authority and all kinds of perfume.

The long glass table glittered under the chandelier, and the smell of expensive cologne made my stomach twist. I stood a little behind Andrew as the shareholders took their seats — all perfect smiles and sharper gazes.

Andrew was already in his element, suit crisp, voice steady. He didn’t need a script; confidence dripped off him like second nature. Watching him like that almost made me forget the man who’d argued about ice cream and called me dramatic for liking vanilla.

Almost.

I sat among the other assistants, my tablet in hand. Everyone looked immaculate, polished. There was Ryan too, sitting a few seats away, his jaw still bruised from the night Andrew punched him. He avoided Andrew’s eyes — wisely.

The meeting began. Presentations, projections, numbers I barely understood flew around like darts. Andrew spoke with calm precision, explaining market expansions and profit margins like poetry. He didn’t look at me once, but I still felt tethered to him.

When the break was announced, I escaped to the restroom to breathe.

The marble bathroom looked like it belonged in a palace. I stood by the mirror, reapplying my lipstick, when the door opened.

Ryan’s assistant — the red head with a nose that tilted slightly upward — walked in. Her heels clicked on the floor. She gave me a once-over, her lips curling into a smirk.

“You’re Sterling’s assistant, right?” she said, her accent thick and her tone dripping disdain.

“Yes.” I capped my lipstick calmly.

Her smile widened — the kind that wasn’t a smile at all. “You don’t look the part. I mean, they say he’s particular about everything. I wonder what he saw in hiring… you.”

My fingers stiffened around my purse. “Maybe he values competence more than gossip.”

She tilted her head. “Competence? That’s cute. But everyone knows Sterling only keeps people who obey. Not ones who think they matter.”

“Is that why you’re so scared to blink without Ryan’s permission?” I said before I could stop myself.

Her eyes flashed. “Watch it, little girl. You’re just a temporary distraction. Men like Sterling don’t notice women like you. They use them.”

I didn’t flinch, though her words hit harder than I wanted to admit.

“Thanks for the advice,” I said quietly. “But I’ll keep doing my job — since that’s what I’m actually here for.”

She scoffed, flipping her hair, and walked out.

I let out a long breath, staring at my reflection. My hands were shaking.

Maybe she was right. Maybe I was just another assistant to him.

But then again — maybe not.

---

When I returned to the conference room, Andrew was speaking to a few senior partners. He glanced at me once — just a flicker — but it was enough to steady me again.

“Miss Hart,” he said suddenly, addressing me across the table. “We’re starting the assistant challenge.”

“The what?”

The head of HR, a cheerful older man, stepped forward. “A little quiz we hold at every annual retreat. Quick, fun, mostly harmless. The assistants answer company-based questions. The winner gets a gift card and a bonus.”

Laughter rippled across the room.

Great. A public test of humiliation.

Still, I joined the group of assistants standing near the projector. Questions began — about reports, clients, logistics. My heart pounded as I answered one after another. Some I guessed, some I knew, some I just got lucky on.

By the final round, it was just me and Ryan’s assistant. She gave me a smug little look — the same one from the bathroom.

“Final question,” the HR man said. “What’s the Sterling expansion policy’s third clause for international projects?”

Her hand shot up. “Partnerships must be exclusive under a five-year renewable term.”

“Incorrect,” I said softly.

All heads turned to me.

“It’s a four-year renewable term,” I continued. “Section 3B, page 12.”

A pause. Then the HR man smiled. “Correct! Miss Hart wins.”

The room erupted in applause.

Ryan’s assistant’s face went pale, and she clapped twice — slow, forced, bitter.

Andrew didn’t clap. But when I looked at him, I caught it — the tiniest, almost invisible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

And that was better than a standing ovation.

---

By evening, the trip was wrapping up. People were exchanging numbers, sharing drinks, promising to “keep in touch” even though they wouldn’t.

I found Andrew by the terrace, staring at the ocean again. His tie was loose, his sleeves rolled up, the sunset painting gold over his sharp profile.

I hesitated before walking up. “We’re done with everything, right?”

“Yes.” His tone was clipped, detached.

“Then can we go somewhere before we leave?”

He looked at me briefly. “Where?”

“There’s a museum nearby — the Galleria Italia. I heard it’s beautiful. We have a few hours before the flight…”

“No.”

That single word hit like a wall.

“Why not?” I pressed. “We’ve been in Italy for almost a week and all I’ve seen are hotel rooms and meeting halls.”

“It’s not a vacation, Miss Hart.”

“I know,” I said, stepping closer. “But I’ve been working just as hard as you have. Please, just a little while.”

He exhaled sharply. “You’re persistent.”

“I’m hopeful,” I said, smiling. “That’s different.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, reluctantly, he grabbed his jacket. “Fine. One hour.”

I grinned so wide I thought my face might split.

---

The museum was even more stunning than I’d imagined — marble floors, towering statues, oil paintings that looked like they whispered secrets from centuries ago.

Andrew, of course, looked bored.

While I ran from one gallery to another, taking pictures and gasping at the ceilings, he trailed behind like a shadow, hands in his pockets.

“You’re not even looking!” I said.

“I’m looking at you,” he said dryly. “Which, apparently, is enough activity for one day.”

I threw him a playful glare. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re loud.”

We stopped in front of a painting — a woman holding a broken mirror, her reflection shattered into pieces.

“It’s called ‘Fragments of Her’,” I read aloud. “The artist said it represents how people lose themselves trying to please everyone else.”

He hummed. “Sounds familiar.”

“Which part? The losing yourself or the pleasing everyone else?”

He didn’t answer.

For a second, the silence between us stretched — not heavy, not cold. Just… real.

Then I smiled and lifted my phone. “Smile, boss.”

He sighed. “No.”

“C’mon, it’s just one picture!”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Fine.”

I took the photo quickly before he could change his mind. When I looked at it later, he wasn’t smiling — not really. But there was his vicious smirk.

The next morning, we flew back home. The plane ride was quiet again, but not the same kind of quiet.

This time, it felt like something had changed — like the space between us had softened.

Or maybe I was imagining it.

Because the moment we landed, Andrew switched back.

Cold. Detached. CEO mode.

No more half-smiles, no soft tones. Just orders.

“Prepare the post-trip report.”

“Don’t forget the meeting schedule.”

“Get the files from the boardroom.”

Each word felt like a step backward.

By the time we got to the office, I couldn’t take it anymore.

“What happened to you?” I blurted, following him into his office.

He didn’t look up from his laptop. “Excuse me?”

“You. You were human in Italy. Now you’re—this.”

“This,” he repeated calmly, “is who I am.”

I clenched my jaw. “You don’t have to be.”

He finally looked up, eyes sharp. “Don’t mistake kindness for change, Miss Hart. The sooner you remember that, the easier your job will be.”

That stung more than I wanted it to.

“Understood,” I whispered.

I turned before he could see the hurt on my face. My chest ached, my throat burned.

The door clicked behind me, and I stood there in the hallway, heart breaking in slow motion.

So maybe Ryan’s assistant had been right.

Men like Andrew Sterling didn’t notice women like me.

Or maybe they did — just long enough to make you wish they hadn’t.

**