4. Fractures in the Glass

Aaron King 

My days run like clockwork. No interruptions. No exceptions. Up at five. Gym by six. Espresso at seven sharp. I review three international reports before eight. By nine, I’m seated at the head of a boardroom, surrounded by people who nod before I speak.

It’s not arrogance. Its structure.

Order.

My business depends on precision—and I’ve built an empire out of it. I’ve also kept my personal life in a permanent state of drought. No family. No entanglements. No one with access to my hours, my mind, my time. 

And then there is my stupid assistant, Lena Moore. She gets under my skin. That’s all it is.

She isn’t someone I fancy—God, no. She’s just... irksome. The kind of woman who walks into a room like she owns it, challenges everything with that clipped tone and impassive face, and then leaves before anyone can prove her wrong. It's not attractive. It’s irritating.

I don’t admire her. I notice her because she refuses to blend in—like a static noise you can’t tune out. She's sharp in all the wrong ways, and always too quick to question decisions I’ve spent days calculating. It’s not intriguing. It’s inefficient.

Every time she opens her mouth, I feel my blood pressure rise. She forces me to double-check things I shouldn't have to. She's a distraction—a walking disruption in a perfectly curated routine.

So no, I don’t like her. I’m not drawn to her.

I’m annoyed by her.

.

Twenty years younger and frustratingly unimpressed by everything I’ve achieved.

I first notice it during our third strategy meeting. I am explaining why our software rollout needed to bypass smaller firms for the first wave of deployment. Everyone nods. She frowns.

I don’t forget frowns.

“Something to add, Ms. Moore?” I ask in a polite tone.

She doesn’t flinch. “Just curious why we’re eliminating our most loyal demographic in the name of scale.” Her tone is neutral. Sharp. Almost surgical. The room stiffens. No one interrupts me.

I should’ve shut it down. Redirected. Instead, I lean forward and say, “Enlighten me.”

And she does.

Calm. Polite. A five-minute analysis that identified three weaknesses in our approach and proposed two stronger alternatives. Her fingers don’t tremble. Her voice doesn’t rise. She doesn’t smile.

I do.

This is the moment the fracture begins.

The one she keeps widening every time she walks past my office.

She doesn’t dress to impress—she dresses to work. Clean lines. No frills. Hair pinned up like it’s daring gravity to fight back. She walks like she knows her worth but doesn’t care if you do. It’s infuriating.

And addictive.

Today she’s late. That’s unlike her. The team shuffles in. Chairs scrape. Mugs clink. I glance at the door just as she enters, quietly slipping into a seat opposite me. Her expression is unreadable.

Good.

I need her unpredictable. It keeps me sharp.

We start the meeting. Numbers. Projections. Internal logistics. Then Lena raises a hand—barely—and I already know I’m going to hate what she says.

“Has anyone questioned why user retention dropped 12% after the Q3 update?” The room pauses. I check the data. She’s right. She always is.

“I’ll look into it,” I say.

She smirks. It’s subtle, a twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Of course.” That damn smirk.

Every time she uses it, I find myself forgetting which slide I’m on. After the meeting, I catch up with her near the elevators.

“You enjoy making me look unprepared in front of the team?” I ask. She turns, amused. “If I enjoyed it, I’d do it more often.”

“Noted.” I fall into step beside her. There’s always tension in our interactions—an undercurrent that’s too sharp to ignore but too vague to name. She keeps it professional, but her energy challenges mine. Like she’s not afraid of me. Like she knows she gets under my skin and chooses not to exploit it.

I respect that.

I also hate it.

“I’m surprised you’re still here,” I say as we reach the parking structure. “Most people I work with quit after three weeks of my micromanaging.”

“Maybe I enjoy the challenge.” Her eyes flick to me—briefly. Calculated.

“And you like being right,” I mutter.

“Not as much as I like proving you wrong.”

We’re toeing a line. Both of us feel it. But no one crosses.

“Miss Moore,” I say before I can stop myself. She pauses. “You didn’t speak much during the last client call.” She hesitates—only for a second—but it’s enough. “I didn’t feel like repeating myself. You’ve been ignoring my recommendations.”

“Because I disagree with them,” I say with a proud smile. 

“No,” she says, facing me now. “You disagree with me.” I exhale. “That’s not true.”

“It’s fine, Aaron.” She says my name like it tastes strange in her mouth. “You run your company how you want.” I take a step closer. Too close. Her shoulders tense. This is the closest I’ve ever stood to her. I should step back. But I don’t.

“You frustrate me,” I admit. She tilts her head. “Good. That means I’m doing something right.” And then—for a split second—she looks down. Her eyes land on my hand. Just inches from hers. The air between us tightens like it might snap.

Her phone buzzes. She blinks. Steps back. “Have a good night, Mr. King.” The formality punches me in the chest. She disappears into her car. I stand in the garage, jaw tight, watching her taillights vanish. I should move on. Re-center. Focus on the next task. That’s what I’ve done for years.

But instead… I drive home with her voice in my head. Later, in my penthouse, I pour a glass of scotch and stare out over the city skyline. Even now, at nearly midnight, when I should be asleep or drafting contracts, I’m still thinking about what she said in that damn boardroom. Which only confirms it: she’s a problem. Nothing more. And I don’t get emotionally involved with problems.

And the worst part? It’s not just tension.

It’s something else. Something that makes me question why I ever built a life so meticulously devoid of chaos. Then, my phone dings. A security alert. Office building motion sensor triggered.

Time stamp: 11:39 p.m.

I frown.

I tap into the live security feed. The hallway is empty. But then—movement. A dark figure. Lean. Hooded. They disappear down the corridor leading to the executive floor. My floor. Another notification pings. Mirror Room breached.

The one place I don’t let anyone into. My heart pounds. I grab my keys. And for the first time in years… I feel the chill of uncontrolled disorder slip into my structured world.