Chapter 23

AMARA’S POV

I stood outside the secretary’s office for a second longer than necessary.

The door was slightly open. I knocked anyway.

“Come in.”

The woman inside didn’t look up immediately. She was typing fast, like whatever she was doing mattered more than whoever was standing in front of her.

“Yes?” she asked.

“I— Dorian sent me. He said I should come here.”

She finally looked at me. Her eyes moved from my face to my shoes, then back up again.

“You’re Amara.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

She nodded once. “Sit.”

I sat.

“I’m Clara,” she said, turning her screen slightly so I could see a schedule filled with blocks of colour. “I’m the senior secretary. I’ll be briefing you.”

“Okay.”

She slid a thin file across the desk. My name was already on it.

“You’re his personal assistant,” she said. “Which means you work directly under him. You take calls he doesn’t want to take. You schedule meetings. You travel when he travels.”

“Travel?” I asked.

“Yes.”

She said it like I’d asked if the sky was blue.

“You’ll be reachable at all times,” she continued. “If he calls, you answer. If he texts, you reply. If he asks for something, you do it.”

I swallowed. “Do I get… days off?”

She paused. Just briefly.

“That depends on him.”

Right.

She kept going. “You have forty-eight hours to learn his preferences. Coffee. Meetings. Contacts. Habits.”

“Habits?” I repeated.

She gave me a look. “You’ll understand.”

She tapped the file. “Read everything. Memorise what you can. Ask questions now.”

“And, he doesn't like mistakes. You could be fired.”

I hesitated. “Germany… is that confirmed?”

“Yes,” she said. “Three days.”

My stomach tightened.

“Any other questions?” she asked.

I thought of a hundred but I asked none.

“No.”

“Good,” she said, already turning back to her computer. “You can go. You begin tomorrow.”

That was it.

No welcome. No encouragement. 

I left the building with the file pressed to my chest like it might run away.

—-

The bell above the café door rang when I walked in. Same sound as always.

The place smelled like burnt coffee and vanilla syrup. Someone had spilled sugar near the counter again. The espresso machine was already screaming like it hated its life.

Normal.

Too normal for a day like this.

“Amara!” one of the girls called from behind the counter. “You’re late.”

“I know,” I said, tying my apron anyway. The morning rush had started. Orders were flying.

“Large cappuccino!” “Two americanos!” “Oat milk, not regular!”

I moved on autopilot. Cups. Lids. Foam. Wiping the counter. Apologising when I messed up an order.

At one point, I spilled coffee on my wrist.

“Damn it,” I muttered.

“You okay?” the manager asked.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

I wasn’t.

Every time I handed a cup to a customer, I kept thinking, this might be the last one.

That thought sat heavy in my chest.

When the rush slowed, I wiped the counter slowly, buying time. My manager leaned against the espresso machine, scrolling through her phone.

“Can I talk to you?” I asked.

She looked up. “Now?”

“Yeah.”

She sighed but nodded. “Alright. Back room.”

The back room smelled like milk cartons and cleaning supplies. It was quieter there.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

I took a breath. Then another.

“I’m resigning.”

She frowned. “Resigning?”

“I got another job,” I said. “It came suddenly.”

She crossed her arms. “That's sad, you just started.”

“Yeah, I know. I'm sorry.”

“Oh no, don't apologize,” she smiled. “When’s your last day?”

“Today.”

She exhaled slowly. “Wow. Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t plan it like this.”

She waved it off. “You’ve been reliable. I can’t be mad.”

She paused, softer now. “You sure about this?”

No. But I nodded anyway.

“Alright,” she said. “Go hang your apron.”

I walked back into the café, untied the apron, and folded it carefully. My throat tightened for no reason that made sense.

“Leaving already?” one of the girls asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m done.”

“What? Since when?”

“Since five minutes ago.”

They stared at me.

“Wow,” she said. “Good luck, though.”

“Thanks.”

I stepped outside, the bell ringing behind me one last time.

The noise of the café kept going without me. Orders. Laughter. Coffee grinding.

Everything had changed in less than twenty-four hours, and I wasn't sure if I was moving forward or just stepping into something I wouldn't know how to leave.