The Office Between Us

The morning Manila air clung to Isabelle Dela Cruz’s skin like a second layer, thick with the humidity of impending rain. She stood outside the towering glass facade of Villareal Holdings, clutching a slightly creased manila folder to her chest. Her watch ticked mercilessly—9:02 a.m.

Late.

Her breath caught in her throat as she jogged across the pristine marble lobby, her black heels clicking a frantic rhythm that matched her heartbeat. The receptionist at the front desk looked up from her computer, blinking with practiced politeness.

“Good morning. I’m here for the—”

“Secretary position?” The receptionist’s red lips barely moved. “You’re the last one. Take the elevator to the top floor. Ms. Romero is expecting you.”

Isabelle gave a breathless nod, her shoulder-length hair already escaping the neat ponytail she had tied that morning. The elevator doors closed behind her with a soft whoosh, reflecting her anxious face back at her.

She whispered to herself. “You need this job. For Mama. For the rent. Just breathe.”

When the doors opened, Isabelle stepped into a floor so quiet it felt like it belonged to another universe. Polished wood paneling. Glass-walled offices. Every detail whispered power. At the far end stood a desk guarded by a sharp-eyed woman in her fifties—Ms. Ana Romero, the infamous assistant of Damian Villareal.

Isabelle walked forward, smoothing her blouse. “Good morning, Ma’am. I’m Isabelle Dela Cruz. I’m here for the interview.”

Ms. Romero looked up, eyes narrowing at the clock.

“Three minutes late.”

“I—I apologize. There was an accident on Ayala Avenue and—”

“Everyone has traffic. Mr. Villareal values punctuality. You’re lucky he hasn’t canceled.”

Isabelle bit her lip, nodding silently.

After a moment, Ms. Romero stood and gave a short, clipped nod toward the frosted glass doors. “Follow me.”

The office of Damian Villareal was like stepping into a different world—cool, minimalistic, and unnervingly quiet. Behind a sleek desk sat the man himself. Sharp suit. Sharper jawline. Dark eyes like tempered steel that lifted from his laptop and landed on Isabelle.

She felt her spine straighten instinctively.

“This is Miss Dela Cruz,” Ms. Romero said. “The final applicant.”

Isabelle stepped forward and offered her folder. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Villareal. I—”

“Late,” he cut in, taking the folder without looking at it. “Do you make a habit of being late to things that matter?”

“No, sir,” she replied, her voice steady. “I miscalculated how much time I needed. I accept responsibility.”

Damian studied her. “Honest,” he said, as if tasting the word. “Most would blame a flat tire or a medical emergency. Sit.”

Isabelle sat.

For a moment, there was only the quiet hum of the city behind the glass walls and the low thrum of the AC.

“Your résumé says you were an executive assistant to the CFO of RMM Logistics.”

“Yes, for three years. Before that, I was with Valencia Legal Services for two.”

“Why did you leave RMM?”

“They downsized. I was part of the final wave of retrenchments.”

He nodded, once. “And Valencia?”

“My mother got sick. I needed a more flexible schedule, and RMM offered that.”

Damian’s gaze didn’t waver. “This job isn’t flexible. It’s demanding. High pressure. Unforgiving hours. Can you handle that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You say that easily.”

“Because it’s true. I know what it’s like to have no choice but to endure.”

The silence between them stretched, becoming taut like a violin string.

Ms. Romero looked uneasy, but Damian was still, almost statuesque. Then, with a small movement, he closed the folder and leaned back.

“You’re not the most qualified applicant I’ve seen today, Miss Dela Cruz.”

“I understand.”

“But you’re the only one who didn’t lie to me during the first five minutes.”

A pause.

“You start Monday. Six a.m. sharp.”

Isabelle’s breath caught. “Thank you. You won’t regret—”

“I will if you're late again. Dismissed.”

Ms. Romero blinked in shock, but said nothing as Isabelle stood, bowed slightly, and exited with quiet dignity.

When the doors closed, Damian turned back to his screen.

“She’s not like the others,” he said aloud, almost to himself.

Ms. Romero hesitated. “She’s inexperienced in handling someone like you.”

“We’ll see,” Damian murmured, typing once more.

The elevator doors closed behind Isabelle, sealing off the top floor’s intimidating silence. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pressed the button for the ground floor. She had done it. Somehow, despite being late, despite the odds, she got the job.

When the elevator opened, she stepped out into the lobby in a daze. Carla’s voice echoed in her mind—her best friend always had a way of making everything sound possible, even when Isabelle didn’t believe it herself.

She pulled out her phone, dialing quickly. Carla answered on the second ring.

“Well?” Carla’s voice buzzed with anticipation.

“I got it.” Isabelle exhaled.

“You’re kidding. The Villareal Holdings job? The same one that pays almost double what you were making before?”

“Yes. I start Monday. Six a.m. sharp.”

Carla squealed. “You’re amazing! I told you—you’re more than capable. What was he like?”

Isabelle paused, picturing Damian Villareal’s expressionless face, the way his eyes pierced through excuses like they were paper. “Intense. Cold. Sharp. Like he sees through everything.”

“Hot?”

“…Also yes.”

Carla laughed. “You’re going to kill it there. But please, do not fall for the brooding CEO. That’s how rom-coms start, and this is your real life.”

“No danger of that. I’m there to work, not… complicate things.”

But even as she said it, the image of Damian Villareal’s unreadable face lingered in her mind.

---

Monday came faster than expected. Isabelle was standing at her desk by 5:45 a.m., dressed in a pressed navy blouse and black slacks, hair pulled back tight. The outer office was still dark, except for the pale glow from the city outside.

At exactly 6:00, she heard the ding of the elevator and stood straighter. Damian stepped out, carrying a coffee tumbler and a tablet. He didn’t acknowledge her presence at first, but his eyes flicked toward the desk.

“Ms. Dela Cruz.”

“Good morning, sir.”

He stopped at his office door. “You're early.”

“Yes, sir.”

He nodded once, then entered his office without another word.

Isabelle released the breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

The rest of the day was a blur. Endless emails. Appointments. Travel bookings. Filing contracts. She moved efficiently, quietly absorbing everything she could about how the company ran—and how Mr. Villareal operated.

He was exacting. Unforgiving. Yet never unreasonable. He didn’t raise his voice, but his tone could slice through steel. By noon, Isabelle already felt the weight of the position. By five, she had memorized the board members’ names, office layout, and meeting protocols.

Ms. Romero observed her like a hawk, offering no feedback except the occasional pursed lips. It didn’t matter. Isabelle wasn’t there to make friends.

She was there to survive.

---

Later that week, an error in a presentation sent the entire department scrambling. One of the slides for a major investor meeting was missing—deleted during a file merge. Panic buzzed through the office. Isabelle stepped in without being asked.

She cross-referenced the original documents, recreated the slide manually, and delivered it to the conference room five minutes before the presentation began.

Afterward, Damian’s voice was even and quiet when he addressed her.

“You fixed the slide.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Without being told.”

“It seemed urgent.”

He studied her. “You’re observant.”

Isabelle didn’t reply. She didn’t need to.

From that day forward, something shifted. She wasn’t just an assistant—she was becoming necessary.

But that didn’t mean it was getting easier.

---

Ms. Romero remained distant. She still insisted on triple-checking Isabelle’s work. Files she had already reviewed were returned with minor corrections. Isabelle took it all in stride, never pushing back, never raising her voice.

But she noticed. And so did Damian.

One evening, well past office hours, as she organized folders from a completed acquisition, Damian emerged from his office. He watched her for a moment.

“You don’t complain,” he said.

She blinked. “Should I?”

“Most people do. About Ms. Romero. About me.”

Isabelle offered a small smile. “Complaining doesn’t solve anything. Doing the work does.”

A pause. Then: “You remind me of someone I used to know.”

And just like that, he returned to his office.

Isabelle stood there, wondering who that person was—and whether it was a good thing or not.

Friday came with a storm. The sky was gray from morning, and by mid-afternoon, the clouds gave way to heavy rain. Most employees hurried out early, umbrellas bobbing as they braved the flooded streets. Isabelle, however, stayed.

Damian had a board presentation Monday morning. His office light still burned while the rest of the floor emptied. Isabelle remained at her desk, finalizing reports, checking presentation binders, and confirming flights for a regional manager.

At 7:40 p.m., Damian exited his office with a furrowed brow, his phone pressed to his ear. Isabelle glanced up only briefly, then back to the screen.

He paced. Then, after a clipped goodbye, turned to her. “Why are you still here?”

“You have the board presentation Monday. I thought you might need help.”

He blinked at her, as if surprised she noticed. “I was going to ask for assistance, but most people left.”

“I’m not most people.”

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips. “Apparently not.”

They worked side by side in silence for the next hour. Isabelle typed notes as he dictated changes to slides. She didn’t speak unless necessary, but her focus never wavered. Occasionally, he looked at her like he was trying to figure out a puzzle no one had solved yet.

When the last document was printed, he leaned back, eyes tired. “That’s enough for today.”

She nodded. “Goodnight, sir.”

But just as she gathered her things, the building gave a strange jolt—then a heavy mechanical groan. The lights flickered. Then the power died completely.

A heartbeat later, emergency lighting kicked in, casting the office in a dim amber glow.

Damian checked his phone. “The elevators will have shut down. They always do during blackouts.”

“I guess we’re stuck for a while.”

A rare chuckle escaped him. “Charming.”

They waited. Twenty minutes passed. The storm raged outside. With nothing else to do, Isabelle finally asked, “May I ask something?”

He gave a slight nod.

“Why did you hire me? Really?”

He looked at her for a long moment. “Because you didn’t try to impress me. You were honest. You handled pressure without theatrics. And because… I was curious what someone like you would do in a place like this.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that.

“Most people try to fit into this world by pretending they belong. You don’t pretend. You adapt.”

“I don’t have a choice,” she said quietly.

He looked down. “Neither did I.”

---

The emergency lights finally blinked back to full power. Isabelle stood first. “I’ll check if the elevators are working again.”

He nodded, watching her go.

By the time they rode down together, the silence between them had shifted. It wasn’t tension. Not quite. But something unspoken lingered. Recognition, maybe. Or respect.

Outside, the rain had calmed. Just drizzle now. She opened her umbrella. Damian, in his expensive suit, had nothing.

Without thinking, Isabelle handed it to him. “You’ll need it more than I will.”

He took it, pausing. “You’re full of surprises, Miss Dela Cruz.”

She smiled faintly. “So are you, sir.”

They parted ways at the curb. Neither said goodbye. But both glanced back, once, before disappearing into the night.

---

The next morning, Carla was waiting at their shared apartment, two mugs of coffee on the table.

“You look like someone who got rained on and interrogated by a Bond villain.”

Isabelle dropped her bag with a groan. “Close.”

“Well? Did you survive?”

Isabelle sipped her coffee. “Barely. But I think I passed.”

Carla grinned. “Welcome to the war zone, Secretary Dela Cruz.”

And Isabelle, for the first time in months, felt something other than anxiety—something almost like hope.