Be Professional

June

I’m not breathing.

Or maybe I am, it's just so shallow it doesn’t count. The type of breathing people do when they’re trying not to panic, not to sweat, not to scream.

Because he hasn’t said a word.

Just a nod, barely — like I’m the delivery girl dropping off his lunch.

"Close the door," he says, voice dipped in frost.

I flinch, shouldn't I?

The door shuts behind me with a final, unforgiving click. And for a second, there’s nothing but silence.

I don’t know where to look. I don’t know who he is anymore.

He stares at me like I’m… new. Like I didn’t have his teeth in my neck two nights ago. Like I didn’t fall apart beneath him with his hand gripping my thigh and his voice dragging moans out of me I didn’t even know I had. He looks through me.

I want to believe he’s pretending. That this is a game. That this is part of some bigger...thing. But if it is, I don’t know the rules. And I’m already losing.

Then he says it:

"Sit."

It’s not a suggestion. It lands like a slap.

I lower myself into the chair like it might bite me, every inch of me tight and trembling. My skirt rides up a little when I sit, and I feel his eyes drop — just for a pulse beat — before snapping away.

I don’t speak. I don’t ask questions. What the hell would I say, anyway?

"Hi, remember me? You ruined me in the best way possible and then ghosted like a coward?" No.

So, I sit quietly, matching his cold gaze. I pretend I don’t notice the tension thickening the air like fog. I pretend I’m fine. That he’s just another boss. That I’m just another intern.

But my stomach is in knots. Because why is he pretending?

No — that’s not right.

He remembers. I saw it. That flicker in his jaw, the way he blinked too hard. He’s pretending it didn’t matter.

Shit–

He walks to his desk, smoothly and controlled, and picks up a sleek black folder. His fingers are precise and cold, and he drops it on the small desk in front of me.

"You’ll be working off my schedule. Here’s the weekly agenda. You’ll be expected to memorize it,” he says, tone flat and efficient. “Meetings, calls, events. If I’m there, you’re there. You do not get to ask questions about what I do, where I go, or who I speak to."

My fingers freeze on the folder.

"There are rules," he continues, stepping back with the full gauge of stillness. "You do not speak unless spoken to. You do not linger. You do not initiate personal conversation. You do not comment on my mood, my voice, or my body language."

My head starts spinning. What did hell kind of rules are these?

He turns fully to face me, and it hits harder than it should. He’s taller than I remember. Broader in this lighting. Like the hotel softened him and the office weaponized him.

"And above all," he says sharply, "you do not look me in the eyes unless I’ve permitted it."

My breath catches. It’s not the words — it’s the way he says them. Like they cost him something.

I nod, slowly. "Understood. Sir."

Sir. The word tastes sour.

His eyes linger on me for one full dangerous second, and then he looks away, as if I’ve burned him. He pulls a printed itinerary from his desk and lays it next to the folder.

"Today, you’ll accompany me to a press conference at 11:30. Then a lunch meeting with regional heads at 1:00. You’ll stay outside the rooms unless otherwise instructed. Make yourself useful. If you’re confused, figure it out."

The click of his pen is the only sound for a beat.

"I expect my assistant to anticipate needs before I have to voice them,” he adds. “Don’t disappoint me."

I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood.

He finally sits behind his desk and pulls his tablet toward him, dismissing me without a single glance.

I swallow. "Where... where should I sit?"

He pauses. His eyes flicking toward me, sharp and cutting, then he lifts one hand without looking, gesturing to the small secretary desk by the wall. It’s isolated. Far from his own.

"There," he says. "Obviously."

Obviously.

I nod quickly. "Right."

The silence in the room vibrated like tension on ice. My chest feels like it’s splintering under the pressure of not reacting.

Then, a knock. The door opens slightly, and a familiar face pops in.

"Mr. Grande?" It’s Mr. Paul — the man who placed me in this situation. "Just got off the call with logistics. Everything’s prepped for the press floor."

Hermes or should I say Mr. Grande doesn't look at me.

"Good," he mutters. "I’m ready when you are."

Mr. Paul glances at me, offers a polite little nod. "Miss Alexander. Settling in okay?"

I force a smile. "Yes, thank you."

You've not idea, Paul. No idea.

Mr. Grande is already gathering his things briskly, so I take the hint. I rise from the chair and leave the office quietly.

I make my way back to the little secretary desk, my desk now, apparently, and sit. I try to focus, try to breathe, try not to feel like a kicked dog. I feel the minutes crawl. The silence of the outer office feels colder than his voice.

Then I hear footsteps.

They walk out from his office, discussing, more like gossiping, 'cause I can't hear a word.

They walk past the hallway leading to the elevators. I keep my head down, but I heard him stop mid-stride. He turns his head and looks directly at me.

"What are you doing?" he snaps.

My head jerks up. "Sir?"

"You’re sitting," he says, like I’ve committed a sin. "You’re supposed to be shadowing me. Do you not understand what assist means?"

The words slice deeper than they should.

I shoot up from the chair, nearly knocking it backward. "Yes, sir. Sorry."

He’s already turning again, walking away without a second glance. Mr. Paul gives me a tiny, pitying look, and I hate that even more.

I hurry after them, and right there, halfway to the elevator, something sharp blooms in my chest.

So this is it.

I’m not being ignored.

I’m being punished.

For what? For letting him touch me? For moaning at his touch, in a hotel bed when I didn’t even know he was a goddamn CEO?

For thinking, even for a moment, that it might’ve meant something?

Fine.

If he wants professional, I’ll give him professional.

I square my shoulders, open my folders and follow, but my hands won’t stop trembling.