TWO

The confirmation email came in at 6:47 a.m.

Subject: Application Approved

Body: Congratulations, Ms. Davidson. Your position as Executive Secretary to Mr. Anthony St. Louis begins today. Report to the 41st floor by 8 a.m. sharp. No delays tolerated. – HR Department.

I stared at the screen for a few seconds before letting my lips curl into a smile. It wasn’t joy nor It wasn’t excitement. It was satisfaction, satisfaction that my plan was slowly becoming a reality.

Phase Two: Entry into the enemy lair. Check.

I got ready in silence. My hair slicked into a clean, tight bun, minimal natural like makeup, light foundation to cover acne spots and nude lipstick so not to seem too bold. Black pencil skirt, white blouse, heels that said I walk like I mean it. I didn’t tremble, I didn’t pray, and I sure as hell didn’t whisper wishes into the universe. God wasn’t coming to save me. God didn’t drag some people out of fire no matter how much we pray. Some of us learned to burn and keep walking.

By 7:58am, I was on the 41st floor, badge clipped to my clothes, and heart steady. The office was a wall of glass and sterile perfection, silver accents, minimalist furniture, and the faint smell of espresso coffee and capitalist arrogance in the form of expensive perfume. I approached the sleek desk where a woman sat typing furiously, her brows pinched like someone had offended her ancestors.

“ Good morning. I’m Florence, the new secretary.” I said with a bright smile.

She barely glanced at me before sighing. “Of course. You were supposed to meet with HR but unfortunately I didn’t get the update. There were... texting delays.” She waved vaguely toward her phone and then narrowed her eyes at me. “Word of advice? Mr. St. Louis is very strict, and if you mess up once, you’re out.”

I gave a sweet smile while my brain was screaming profanities.

So strict he destroys families? Frames innocent men? Treats employees like pawns? Yeah, sounds about right.

“Thanks for the warning,” I replied.

She pointed down the hall. “His office is at the end of the corridor. He’s in a meeting right now so you'll have to wait.”

Her system then tinged and she looked at the screen for some seconds before turning back to me.

"His meeting just finished so you can walk right in."

I walked, not too fast, not too slow, just enough to look like I belonged. The hallway was silent, floor-to-ceiling glass on one side, wall art on the other.

Then I saw the door. Anthony St. Louis, CEO.

I didn’t even knock, I just opened it and there he was. Sitting behind a massive black desk, pen in hand, eyes scanning documents like they held the secrets to the universe. His hair was jet black, styled back like it knew it belonged to someone powerful. His jaw was sharp enough to slice through lies, and his suit, midnight gray with black pinstripes, looked custom-made for a king.

I knew he was handsome from the articles, the magazine covers, the corporate propaganda. But nothing prepared me for seeing him in person. He wasn’t just good-looking, he was dangerous-looking. Calm and unreadable.

And somehow, impossibly, more human than I expected.

He finally spoke still without looking at me. “You’re the new secretary?”

His voice was deep, clipped.

“Yes,” I said, stepping forward. “I’m Florence Davidson.”

“Get me the quarterly files from this month. Make sure the red folders are separated from the blue, then Janine to reschedule the call with the Zurich team. And also, I want a black coffee, no sugar, no cream.”

I blinked. “Just like that?”

He gave no response. He just flipped to the next page in his file, like I was background noise.

I turned on my heel and got to work. Even though I got confused and lost a couple of times. Eventually, I found the files, color-coded and sharp-edged. Passed the message to Janine who I found out was the stressed out receptionist, brought the coffee, exactly how he asked. I returned in thirty minutes.

He still didn’t look at me.

He pointed to the right side of his office. A small glass corner partitioned off like a glorified storage unit.

“That’s your office,” he said.

I nodded, said nothing, and went to set up my space. A sleek black desk, one chair, a desktop system, and a frosted glass divider, in the corner of a king’s lair, carved out for the help.

He gave me no further instructions, no welcome, just more work. “Follow up on the digital strategy proposals. Cross-check last month’s numbers. Refile the project briefs by department priority, and I want it on my desk by noon.”

I didn’t argue, I just did it.

He didn’t speak unless he had a task for me. He didn’t ask my name again, didn’t even look at me longer than three seconds. But somehow, I felt his presence like it was wrapped around every breath I took.

By 1 p.m., I was barely keeping up. My feet ached, fingers burned from typing and sorting. Also I forgot to eat lunch.

At 4 p.m., he finally stepped out for a meeting and I sagged in my chair exhausted.

Anthony St. Louis is a workaholic tyrant with the emotional capacity of a paperweight. A capitalist machine with good hair and no soul, basically a monster in a three-piece suit.

By the time I left the building, the sky was darkening and my body felt like it had been flattened by a steamroller and then run over again for good measure. The heels I wore were trying to assassinate me, my eyes were dry and my back, completely broken.

But I didn’t complain, because I had managed to make it in.

When I got home, I found Mom asleep on the couch, an old family album clutched to her chest. I took it from her gently, covered her with a blanket, and went to the kitchen.

I opened the fridge and sighed. It was empty except for half a bottle of water and an expired yogurt. I leaned against the cold counter and let out a long, tired breath.

“Anthony St. Louis,” I muttered, “is a soul sucking, time taking, youth draining capitalist overlord who deserves a slow, painful death.”

I pulled out a notebook and crossed off today’s task.

Step Three: Survive the First Day. Check.

I stared at the blank page beneath it.

Step Four: Make him pay.

And tomorrow, I’d get started.