Chapter 8: Too Close, Too Soon

The hum of the office on Monday morning felt different. There was the usual shuffle of papers, the steady rhythm of keyboards, the muted chime of phones but for me, everything carried an undertone of anticipation. 

Richard D. Morgan had assigned me to a project directly under him. The thought alone was enough to make my pulse stumble every few minutes. 

I adjusted my blazer for what felt like the tenth time as I entered the sleek, glass-walled floor where Richard’s division operated. Here, the air felt colder, sharper, as though success itself demanded precision. People walked briskly, not a step wasted, their conversations clipped and professional. 

Richard’s office sat at the far end, large but not ostentatious. Unlike Damien’s top-floor penthouse suite with its panoramic view, Richard’s space was structured, functional, lined with shelves of reports and thick binders. The man himself stood behind his desk, sleeves rolled neatly at his elbows, reviewing a file. His stern profile softened only slightly when his eyes flicked up to acknowledge me. 

“You’re early,” he said. 

I nodded, clutching my notebook like a lifeline. “I didn’t want to be late on my first day.” 

His lips twitched half a smile, or maybe just the ghost of one. “Good. That’s a habit you’ll need.” 

He gestured for me to sit. I obeyed, my knees brushing the cool edge of the leather chair. The silence stretched until he finally slid a folder across the desk. 

“This is the project. Roth Enterprise is preparing a quarterly report for our hospital branches finances, patient outcomes, innovations we’re investing in. It’s high-stakes. Our competitors read between every line. Investors weigh every word.” 

I flipped the folder open. Rows of charts and numbers blinked up at me. It wasn’t simple data; it was layered, complex, full of implications. 

“I want you to help me compile the narrative section,” he continued. “We have analysts who can crunch numbers, but what we need is clarity. Precision. A story that turns data into confidence.” 

My throat tightened. “But… I’ve never written something for this level before.” 

His gaze held mine. It wasn’t cruel, but it was unyielding. “You impressed me. Don’t let doubt undo that.” 

The words sank into me like stones dropped into still water, rippling outward. He trusted me. Richard D. Morgan, the man known for his brutal standards, trusted me. 

I nodded, straightening. “I’ll do my best.” 

“Not your best,” he said evenly. “The standard required.” 

For a moment, I thought the weight of his words would crush me. But then, strangely, I felt steadier. Clearer. 

The day unfolded in a blur of numbers and terms I scrambled to untangle. Richard worked beside me, his movements precise, his focus unbroken. He didn’t waste words, but when he spoke, they landed like anchors. 

At one point, while reviewing a graph, I asked timidly, “So… when the patient recovery rate dips here, do we explain it as underfunding?” 

He glanced at me, then shook his head. “No. We explain it as resource reallocation. Words matter. Underfunding suggests failure. Reallocation suggests strategy. Same data, different perception. That difference decides whether investors panic or remain calm.” 

I scribbled his words down, the lesson burning into me. 

Around noon, he finally leaned back. “Break.” 

I blinked at him. “Break?” 

He arched a brow. “Yes. Even interns require food. I assume you eat?” 

I almost laughed at his dry tone. “Sometimes.” 

“Go. Return in an hour.” 

The cafeteria was buzzing with chatter, a contrast to Richard’s office. As I scanned for a seat, a familiar hand shot up. 

“Selena!” 

Alia waved me over, her bright smile like sunlight cutting through clouds. I exhaled with relief and slid into the chair across from her. 

“You look like you’ve run ten marathons,” she teased, poking at her salad. 

“I feel like I have,” I admitted. “Richard assigned me to his project. Directly.” 

Her eyes widened. “No way. Mr. Morgan? The man whose stare can kill?” 

“That’s the one.” 

She leaned closer. “And? Is he terrifying?” 

I thought about it. His intensity. His precision. His unshakable calm. “Not terrifying. Just… sharp. Like you can’t afford to be careless around him.” 

Alia whistled low. “Girl, that’s huge. People beg for his mentorship. If he chose you, it means something.” 

Her words warmed me. Then, her tone softened. “Maybe your sister had something to do with it?” 

I blinked. “What do you mean?” 

Alia shrugged casually, but her eyes glittered. “Word around the floor is that she spoke well of you. Said you were dedicated, promising. It reached the right ears.” 

I set my fork down, a wave of gratitude washing over me. My sister had been distant lately, caught in her own whirlwind, but she had still taken the time to vouch for me. 

That evening, back in my apartment, I called her. She answered on the second ring, her voice tired but warm. 

“Selena? Everything okay?” 

“Yes. More than okay. I just… wanted to say thank you.” 

“For what?” 

“I heard you spoke about me at work. Put in a good word. I… really appreciate it.” 

A pause. Then a soft laugh. “You don’t need me to fight your battles, Sel. You’re strong enough on your own. But sometimes, a little nudge helps.” 

My throat tightened. “Still. Thank you.” 

Her voice turned serious. “Just remember Roth Enterprise isn’t easy. Even when people help, you’ll have to stand on your own two feet. Especially with people like Cassandra around.” 

Cassandra. Her name was like a chill draft under the door. 

The next day, I encountered her in the hallway outside Richard’s office. Cassandra, flawless as always, her heels clicking like a countdown. She glanced at the folder in my arms, then at me. 

“So it’s true,” she murmured, lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You’re working with Richard.” 

I swallowed. “Yes.” 

Her gaze sharpened. “Be careful. He doesn’t tolerate mistakes. And when you fail, he won’t shield you. Not everyone’s reputation can be saved by whispers of promise.” 

Her words stung, sharp as glass. But before I could respond, she was already gliding away, her perfume lingering like smoke. 

I stood frozen for a moment, her warning curling around me. Then I straightened my shoulders and pushed into Richard’s office. 

If Cassandra wanted me shaken, she wouldn’t get the satisfaction. 

Over the next week, Richard and I settled into a rhythm. He was demanding, but he explained things when I faltered. He never raised his voice, never mocked my mistakes just corrected, refined, pushed me forward. 

Sometimes, I caught flashes of something softer beneath his stern exterior. The way he adjusted his glasses when deep in thought, or the faint crease of amusement when I muttered under my breath at confusing charts. Once, when I stayed late, he brought me coffee without a word and placed it beside me. Small gestures, but they lingered. 

With Alia, I shared the lighter side of things the stress, the near-disasters, the tiny victories. We laughed in the cafeteria, exchanged knowing glances in meetings, and leaned on each other when whispers swirled. 

And with my sister, I found quiet strength. Her reminder echoed: stand on your own. 

By Friday evening, as I organized the finished section of the report, Richard looked over my shoulder. His eyes scanned the pages, then he gave a single, decisive nod. 

“This will do.” 

My heart soared. Praise, from him, was rare. 

“Thank you,” I breathed. 

He looked at me, his gaze steady. “Don’t thank me yet. This is only the beginning. Keep proving yourself, Selena. Day after day. That’s how you survive here.” 

I nodded, determination coiling in my chest. 

As I left the office, Cassandra’s words still echoed faintly, like distant thunder. But louder, steadier, were Richard’s. 

This is only the beginning. 

And for the first time, I believed it.