Smoke and Mirrors

Zara Harper

Fridays were usually my small slice of heaven.

It meant the weekend was within reach, and for two glorious days,I get to really breathe, I always felt like this even when I worked with Bill, here, I didn’t have to pretend I wasn’t constantly on edge around a man I’d once moaned beneath. But this morning, as I walked into the sleek, glass-walled office of Sterling Holdings, humming under my breath and silently counting down the hours until freedom, I should’ve known peace wouldn’t last.

“Miss Harper,” Alexander’s deep voice came from behind me, sharp and cold. “My office.”

I turned, heart skipping. He wasn’t even looking at me, just walking past, expecting me to follow. I hope I haven't done anything wrong. He was dressed in navy again, tailored to perfection, his back straight, his pace unbothered. I glanced down at my modest beige dress and hurried after him.

He was already seated by the time I entered. I shut the door gently behind me, keeping my hands folded in front of me like a schoolgirl waiting to be scolded.

“I have a meeting this afternoon,” he said, not looking up from his tablet. “You’ll be coming with me.”

I blinked. “Okay sir.”

He finally looked at me, eyes scanning from my hair to my shoes, pausing at my waist in a way that sent heat straight between my thighs. But the words that followed sliced through the tension.

“You can’t wear that.”

I frowned. “Excuse me?”

He leaned back, voice smooth but clipped. “Your office clothes. They’re… underwhelming.”

I stiffened. “This is perfectly appropriate.”

“For an assistant in a small ad firm, maybe,” he said. “Not for someone walking into a negotiation with one of the most reputable companies in Manhattan. I need you to reflect my standards.”

There was a simmer of humiliation building in my chest, but I kept my voice even. “I’d prefer to wear something I’m comfortable in.”

He didn’t blink. “I wasn’t asking.”

And then, with fluid arrogance, he reached into his drawer and slid something black and glossy across the table. I stared.

A black Amex card.

“Go to Reverie or Maison De Lune,” he said. “Get something suitable. Billable to the company.”

My fingers curled at my sides. I wanted to refuse. I wanted to remind him that this wasn’t part of the deal. That I wasn’t a doll to be dressed and paraded. But then I thought about my mother. About the rent. And about the truth I kept pretending didn’t exist. I needed this job.

So I took the card.

And for a brief moment, I saw something flicker in his eyes. Satisfaction? Approval?

I wasn’t sure.

The bell above Maison De Lune’s glass door chimed as I stepped in. A sales associate took one glance at the card in my hand and nearly purred.

“Miss, right this way.”

Soft carpets, floor-length mirrors, and rows of sleek, powerful outfits surrounded me. I tried on a tailored charcoal gray blazer with a matching pencil skirt and another navy sheath dress that hugged me in all the right places. Both made me look like I belonged in boardrooms, not behind someone’s desk fetching coffee.

As I stood before the mirror in the dress, something shifted. I straightened my posture. Smoothed the fabric over my hips. I looked like a woman in control.

A woman who could take care of her mother.

“Wrap this,” I told the associate. “I’ll wear this one.”

Walking back into the office with the shopping bag in hand and heels clicking confidently on the marble floor, I felt like I’d stepped into a different version of myself. A shinier one.

I returned the card with a polite “thank you” at his door. He didn’t reply, but his eyes dragged over the dress. The silence said more than words.

We left ten minutes later.

The elevator ride was unbearably quiet.

The air between us was thick with tension, so charged I could practically hear my heartbeat in my ears. His scent, wood, spice, and something darker, was impossible to ignore. So was the memory of what his hands had done to me days ago.

I didn’t look at him.

And he didn’t look at me.

But his body stood a little too close. His shoulder brushed mine as we stepped into the garage. His car, sleek, obsidian black, and low to the ground, waited like a predator. A driver opened the door for me to go in.

The meeting at Kingsley & Maddox was long, demanding, and meticulous. I watched Alexander dominate the room with quiet authority, and at several points, I caught the eyes of their executives flicking toward me, assessing. My notes were crisp. My summary was sharp. I was no longer just the assistant in a borrowed dress.

Seeing all the men and women in the meeting stirred something in me, they exuded excellence and I made a vow to myself to work really hard and earn my spot at the top. To live the life I want and deserve, and to take care of my mum, to ensure she lives her best life.

When we stepped out of the building, the summer sun was slanting across Manhattan’s skyline. As we approached the car, he turned to me.

“I’ll drop you off.”

“No, thank you. I can—”

“Zara.” His tone brooked no argument. “I insist.”

I didn’t argue again.

The drive back was smoother, warmer. For a brief moment, I let myself believe maybe he wasn’t so cold. That perhaps I could survive here, even thrive. Maybe, just maybe, today marked the beginning of something better.

I stepped out in front of my building with a small, appreciative smile and turned to wave, I didn't even see if he waved back, I doubt he would anyways.

Once I turned to go in, I froze.

Something was wrong.

The apartment door was ajar. The lights were off. My stomach dropped.

“Mum?”

The moment I stepped in, my heart began racing. The living room was quiet, but I heard something, a cough. Then a pained groan.

“Mum!” I rushed into her room.

She was slumped over the edge of the bed, one hand on her chest. Her skin was pale, her lips cracked. Her eyes met mine, full of tears and fear.

“I..I couldn’t breathe properly…”

I knelt beside her, trying to steady her. Her breath rattled. She coughed again, this time with a terrifying wheeze that didn’t sound human.

No. Not now.

I ran to get water to give her then grabbed my phone with shaking fingers and called for a ride.

“It’s coming. Just hold on, Mum. Hold on.”

My mother managed a weak smile. “You look… so pretty today, darling.”

Tears welled in my eyes. “Mum, please. Don’t talk. Just breathe.”

We reached the hospital in minutes that felt like hours.

They rushed her in. I wasn’t allowed to go with her.

“Wait here,” the nurse said, her face sympathetic but distant. The doors closed behind them, swallowing my mother.

I sat in the cold waiting area, tears streaming down my face, the sharp scent of antiseptic making my head swim. I can't live without my mother, why is this happening to me, just when I thought things were starting to get better.

I folded my arms tightly and whispered the only thing I could.

“Please, God. Let her make it. Just let her make it.”