Chapter 03

Emery Quinn

By 9:00 a.m., my hands were already starting to ache.

I had typed four memos, drafted two reports, updated the executive calendar, and reorganized the meeting itinerary for a board member I'd never heard of until this morning. Each document required meticulous attention to detail, with margins precisely measured and formatting executed to perfection. The memos alone had taken nearly an hour—corporate language is its own peculiar dialect, with veiled meanings and subtle implications hidden beneath innocuous phrases. I'd triple-checked my work, terrified of making even the smallest error.

There were color codes—blue for immediate action, yellow for pending approval, red for urgent executive attention. There were abbreviations I had to G****e under the desk like a criminal, fingers dancing across my phone screen while glancing nervously at the closed office door across from me. EOCQ (End of Current Quarter), BFMA (Budget for Marketing Allocation), SVP-CD (Senior Vice President of Corporate Development). A language designed to exclude outsiders. People like me.

I hadn't eaten. I hadn't blinked. My stomach had growled twice, but I ignored it. There was no time for weakness here.

And I had not heard a single word from Killian Vale.

Not a knock. Not a buzz. Not a cough. Not even the slightest indication that the man was alive behind his frosted glass door with his name etched in severe, angular letters. The silence was almost worse than confrontation. It stretched between us like a live wire, dangerous and unpredictable.

His office door remained closed, and I got the distinct impression that opening it without cause would be a career-ending offense. So I hadn't. Instead, I maintained my distance, respecting the invisible boundary that seemed to surround him like a force field.

Instead, I sat at my sleek, modern desk—feeling like a street kid shoved into a museum exhibit—while trying to pretend I belonged here. The surface gleamed with a pristine sheen, reflecting my uncertain expression back at me. The chair was ergonomic, calibrated to a perfect height, yet somehow I still felt off-balance. Every time I shifted, it made a soft sound that seemed deafening in the quiet office suite.

The illusion worked for approximately three seconds.

Then I misclicked and accidentally closed an entire file without saving. The quarterly budget report—fourteen pages of meticulously organized data—vanished into digital oblivion.

"Shit," I whispered, staring at the blank document like I could will it back into existence. The word escaped before I could stop it, hanging in the sterile air. I froze, listening for any reaction from behind that closed door. Nothing.

I scrambled. Reopened folders. Scoured autosaves. My fingertips tingled with panic as windows flashed across my screen. The pounding of my heart seemed to echo in the cavernous space around me. This couldn't be happening. Not on day one. Not with Killian Vale mere feet away, surely waiting for the first sign of incompetence.

When the doc finally reappeared, my breath left my body in a sharp, ugly burst. I closed my eyes and took a second to recover before diving back in. The screen flickered, displaying all fourteen pages, intact and unharmed. My shoulders slumped with relief.

It was going to be a long day.

The morning stretched on like an endless highway. Minutes crawled by with excruciating slowness, marked only by the elegant ticking of the wall clock—undoubtedly expensive, like everything else in this office. I worked methodically, checking emails, routing calls, updating spreadsheets. All while acutely aware of the space between me and that closed door.

The office itself was a masterpiece of modern design. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city, glass and steel stretching toward the horizon. The furniture was minimalist, all clean lines and neutral tones. Even the plants looked expensive—tall, architectural specimens in matte black containers. Everything conveyed the same message: precision, power, perfection.

I had no business being here.

My résumé had been impressive enough on paper—magna cum laude graduate, relevant internships, glowing recommendations—but sitting here, surrounded by this cathedral to corporate success, I felt like an impostor in borrowed clothes. My blouse, purchased specifically for this job, already felt slightly wrong against my skin. Too stiff. Too new. Too obvious.

At exactly 10:06 a.m., the intercom on my desk phone buzzed.

I nearly jumped out of my chair. The sound cut through the silence like a knife, sharp and unexpected. My elbow knocked against a stack of papers, sending them sliding toward the edge of the desk. I caught them with one hand while reaching for the phone with the other.

I stared at it for a full second before fumbling to answer. The button glowed red beneath my fingertip as I pressed it.

"Yes?" My voice sounded too high, too uncertain.

There was a pause—so brief I almost missed it. Just a heartbeat of silence that somehow conveyed volumes.

Then came his voice.

Cool. Clipped. Bored. Like winter air compressed into sound.

"Coffee. One sugar. No cream."

Click.

That was it.

No please. No thank you. No clarification. No acknowledgment that he was addressing another human being.

Just a command, like I was an Alexa device with anxiety. Four words, delivered with the casual indifference of someone who had never heard the word "no" in response to a request.

I stared at the phone in stunned silence for a beat too long before jumping to my feet. The chair rolled back with a soft whisper against the carpet. Coffee. Right. I could do coffee. I knew coffee. I was practically raised on it. My mother had worked three jobs, and caffeine had been her religion. I'd learned to make a perfect cup by the age of twelve.

But somehow, I doubted Killian Vale would be impressed by that particular skill set.

The breakroom was down the hall, past three other glass-walled offices occupied by executives whose names I'd memorized but whose faces remained unfamiliar. I walked briskly, shoulders back, chin up—faking a confidence I didn't feel. My heels clicked against the polished floor, marking my progress with rhythmic precision.

I got strange looks as I walked—probably because I still looked too new, too unsure. The other assistants moved with practiced ease, carrying tablets and folders, speaking in low, efficient tones. They belonged here. I was still an outsider, learning the terrain.

I offered a tight smile to no one in particular and stepped inside the coffee lounge.

The room was a testament to luxury disguised as utility. Marble countertops. Brushed steel appliances. A refrigerator stocked with premium beverages and organic snacks. And in the center of it all, the coffee machine.

The machine looked like it had been forged in a NASA lab.

Touch screen. Customizable settings. Temperature controls. Grind options. It had more buttons than my first car and probably cost more than three months of my rent. I approached it cautiously, aware that mishandling it might be another career-ending offense.

Killian wanted it black, one sugar, no cream. Easy. I found a mug from the cabinet—all matching, all elegant in their simplicity—and selected the correct options on the digital display. The machine hummed to life, grinding beans with a soft whirring sound. The aroma of fresh coffee filled the air as dark liquid streamed into the cup.

I added a single packet of sugar, stirring three times to ensure it dissolved completely.

But then I hesitated.

Would he notice the brand of sugar? The cup design? The temperature? Did he have a preference for the angle at which the handle faced when placed on his desk? Did the sugar need to be stirred precisely clockwise?

Was he that kind of man?

Yes. He probably was.

Everyone knew Killian Vale's reputation. Brilliant. Exacting. Merciless. The kind of man who could make or break careers with a single email. The kind who noticed everything—especially mistakes. Especially weakness.

I found a plain black mug. Rinsed it twice to ensure it was immaculate. Poured the coffee carefully, watching the level rise with mathematical precision. Then I carried it with both hands like a sacred object all the way back to my desk, focused on not spilling a single drop.

The walk back seemed longer somehow. More treacherous. Each step carefully measured.

Once at my desk, I placed the coffee on a small tray I'd found in a drawer. I checked my reflection in my phone screen—smoothed a stray hair, straightened my collar, took a deep breath to steady my nerves.

Then I took a deep breath, knocked once on his office door, and stepped inside.