Chapter 03 (Part 02)

His office was so quiet I could hear the hum of my own nervous breath.

Killian sat behind his massive desk, reading something on a tablet. His fingers occasionally swiped across the screen, the movement elegant and precise. He didn't look up as I entered. His expression didn't change. His eyes didn't lift. For a second, I wondered if I should clear my throat or announce my presence somehow.

Then he said, without looking at me—

"You took eight minutes."

His voice was even, measured, neither loud nor particularly soft. Just matter-of-fact. As if he'd been timing me—which, I realized with a jolt of anxiety, he probably had been.

"I—sorry," I said quickly. "I was making sure I got the order right."

He looked up then. Those pale eyes finding me like a laser-guided missile. They were a color I couldn't quite define—somewhere between blue and gray, like the sky before a storm. Cold. Calculating. Completely unimpressed.

"I said coffee. Not an essay."

I bit the inside of my cheek and stepped forward, setting the mug down on a black coaster that seemed to exist solely for this purpose. "Black. One sugar. No cream."

His gaze flicked to the cup. One long finger traced the rim before he picked it up, sipped once, and said absolutely nothing.

I stood there, half-expecting some sort of feedback. Approval. Criticism. An insult. Something to indicate whether I'd passed or failed this small but seemingly crucial test.

But he'd already looked away, dismissing both me and the coffee from his attention. His focus returned to the tablet, scrolling through whatever document had captured his interest before my interruption.

Dismissed.

I turned, quietly retreating toward the door. My heels sank into the plush carpet, muffling my steps. I had almost reached it when his voice stopped me cold.

"If you're going to last here, Miss Quinn… stop being so afraid of me."

I froze.

The words hit like a physical force, halting my retreat. My hand hovered inches from the door handle. I could feel the tension radiating up my arm, through my shoulder, across my back.

Slowly, I turned back. "I'm not afraid of you."

A lie. We both knew it.

He sat perfectly still, watching me with that penetrating gaze. In the stark lighting of the office, his features seemed more severe than they had in my interview—sharper cheekbones, stronger jaw, darker brows. He wore a charcoal suit that fit him with mathematical precision. No wrinkles. No imperfections.

His head tilted slightly, that unreadable expression flickering across his face.

"No?" he said softly. "Then why are your hands shaking?"

I glanced down—dammit, he was right. My fingers trembled slightly, betraying my composure. I hadn't even noticed until he pointed it out.

I curled my fingers into fists. "I'm not afraid of you," I said again, more firmly this time. "I'm just not used to being around people who treat every interaction like a test."

The words escaped before I could censor them. Too honest. Too direct. My mother would have been horrified—she'd raised me to be polite, to respect authority, to never talk back to employers. But something about Killian Vale made conventional wisdom feel inadequate.

His expression didn't change. But the air in the room did.

Tighter. Sharper. Charged with something I couldn't identify.

"You're right," he said finally, setting the cup down with a soft click against the coaster. "This is a test. Everything is."

For a moment—just a fraction of a second—something else crossed his face. Not warmth, exactly. Not approval. But recognition, perhaps. As if I'd said something marginally less disappointing than he'd expected.

And just like that, the moment passed.

He turned back to his tablet, and I left, pulling the door closed behind me with a soft click.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of panic and precision.

Emails flooded my inbox—dozens per hour, each requiring categorization, prioritization, and often a response crafted to sound like it came directly from Killian himself. I studied his previous correspondence, mimicking his terse style and direct approach. No pleasantries. No unnecessary words. Just information, delivered efficiently.

Voicemails accumulated on the office line. Executives and clients and partners, all demanding attention, all convinced their issue was the most urgent. I transcribed each one, attaching notes about priority level and required follow-up.

An overwhelming amount of tasks I had to learn on the fly. The proprietary software used for scheduling. The internal messaging system. The complex filing protocols that seemed deliberately designed to confuse newcomers.

And yet, somehow, I kept up. My fingers flew across the keyboard. My brain absorbed acronyms like a sponge. Years of working service jobs while putting myself through college had taught me adaptability if nothing else.

I did not, however, speak to Killian again.

Not once.

He stayed in his office. I stayed in mine. The physical barrier between us—that frosted glass door with his name etched upon it—remained closed. Occasionally, I'd feel the phantom pressure of his presence, like he was watching me through the wall, but when I looked—nothing. Just silence and the weight of unspoken expectations.

Twice, his phone rang. Twice, I transferred calls to him. Twice, he answered with that same clipped tone, revealing nothing.

By 5:00 p.m., my body ached and my mind was buzzing. The day had stretched into infinity, each hour marked by new challenges and narrow escapes from disaster. I had survived—barely—but the victory felt hollow. Nothing about this job was what I'd expected. The listing had promised "executive assistant duties" and "professional communication skills." It had not mentioned psychological warfare or coffee preparation under duress.

I gathered my things slowly, checking twice to make sure everything was organized and nothing was out of place. My desk needed to be immaculate—no stray papers, no misaligned pens, no evidence that a human had actually occupied the space. I straightened a stack of folders, aligned my keyboard perfectly parallel to the desk edge, wiped a smudge from my computer screen.

Just as I was slipping my laptop into my bag, my office phone rang.

I stared at it.

It was the line from his office.

My heart sank. So close to escape. So close to the sanctuary of my tiny apartment, where I could kick off these pinching shoes and decompress from the day's accumulated tension.

I picked up. "Yes?"

A pause.

Then: "Stay fifteen minutes late. We'll be reviewing documents together."

Click.

No request. No explanation.

Just another command.

I stared at the phone in disbelief.

Reviewing documents?

We?

The royal we? The editorial we? The actual, physical we that meant Killian Vale and I would be occupying the same space for an extended period? Interacting? Communicating?

I set the phone down carefully, as if it might explode. My plans for the evening—a hot shower, takeout Chinese food, maybe a glass of wine while scrolling mindlessly through streaming services—evaporated like mist.

Instead, I straightened my blouse, checked my reflection in my darkened computer screen, and waited.

At 5:17, his office door opened.

The sound was subtle—just the soft click of the latch disengaging—but in the quiet of the empty reception area, it might as well have been a thunderclap. I looked up to see Killian standing in the doorway, his tall figure framed by the muted light from his office behind him.

He didn't speak. Just nodded toward the conference table in the corner. A silent command. I followed him, nerves prickling like static under my skin.

He had a stack of files in one hand and a pen in the other. His movements were economical as he placed the documents on the polished surface and gestured for me to sit beside him.

Close. Too close.

Near enough that I could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, despite the late hour. Near enough to notice that his eyes weren't simply blue-gray but had flecks of something darker around the pupils. Near enough to realize that the severe, untouchable Killian Vale was, in fact, human after all.

His cologne hit me first—clean and expensive. Not overpowering, just a subtle note of cedar and something else I couldn't identify. Then the quiet sound of paper sliding across the table.

"Summarize the action items," he said.

I looked down at the document. Words blurred together, dancing across the page in a jumble of corporate language and financial terminology. My exhaustion from the day suddenly hit me like a physical weight.

Focus, Emery.

I cleared my throat and began reading aloud, voice steady but quiet. The report detailed acquisition strategies for a smaller tech company—projected timelines, financial considerations, potential obstacles. I highlighted the key points, distilling complex paragraphs into concise summaries.

He didn't interrupt. He just listened. Occasionally making notes in the margin with precise, angular handwriting. Occasionally watching me with that same inscrutable expression.

I could feel his eyes when I wasn't looking.

Could feel the way the atmosphere shifted when I stumbled over a technical term, then recovered.

Could feel the way his energy shifted when I spoke with confidence about a section I actually understood.

And then—barely audible—he said:

"You're different than I expected."

I blinked, losing my place in the document. My finger hovered over a line about projected earnings. "Different how?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, he turned another page, indicating that I should continue with my summary. His profile was sharp against the gathering darkness outside the windows, features set in that familiar mask of concentration.

And I understood.

This wasn't a compliment.

It wasn't an insult either.

It was an observation.

Like everything with him was part of a case study. A silent challenge. A continuous evaluation with shifting criteria that were never fully explained.

He didn't want me to fail.

He wanted to see how long I'd last before I did.

The realization should have bothered me more than it did. Instead, it clarified something. Established parameters. Defined the nature of our working relationship in a way that job descriptions and corporate handbooks never could.

We continued working through the files. My voice grew steadier as we progressed. His notes became more frequent. Once or twice, he asked follow-up questions—not to test me, but to genuinely clarify a point. In those moments, I glimpsed something else beneath the severe exterior. Intelligence, yes, but also a relentless curiosity. A mind that never stopped analyzing, categorizing, searching for patterns.

By the time we finished, the floor was empty. The cleaning staff had come and gone, nodding politely as they passed by our conference table. The windows glowed with the fading light of the city, buildings transformed into constellations of illuminated squares against the darkening sky.

Killian stood, collected his files with methodical precision, and without so much as a goodbye, disappeared into his office. The door closed behind him with a soft click, reestablishing the boundary between us.

I gathered my things, hands steady this time. My reflection in the darkened window looked different somehow—still me, but with shoulders slightly straighter, chin slightly higher.

No praise. No thanks.

But he'd kept me. For now.

And somewhere—deep under all the fear—I felt something strange flicker in my chest.

Not relief.

Not pride.

But curiosity.

About the man behind the closed door. About the mind that operated with such precision. About the tests and challenges that surely lay ahead.

I stepped into the elevator, watching the lights of the office disappear as the doors closed. Tomorrow would bring new tasks. New challenges. New opportunities to fail spectacularly.

But also, perhaps, a chance to understand the enigma that was Killian Vale.