Weight of Expectations

The double glass doors of Villareal Holdings hissed open with a gust of cold, air-conditioned wind, sending Isabelle's already jittery nerves into overdrive. Her heels clicked rhythmically against the polished marble as she stepped into the fortress of power and precision. The building had an oppressive kind of elegance—sleek, clinical, and built to intimidate. She was fifteen minutes early, yet it felt like she was already late.

Her ID badge felt heavy around her neck, a rectangular symbol of the new world she had willingly stepped into. This was not her first job, but it felt like her first true battle. And judging by the expressions of the people gliding past her in tailored suits and expensive perfume, it was a war fought in silence and exactitude.

She reached the executive floor after a quiet elevator ride, half-hoping she’d be alone. Instead, Ms. Ana Romero stood waiting by her desk, arms crossed, her expression as unreadable as the unreadable eye of a hurricane.

"You’re early," Ana said, voice devoid of warmth.

"Yes, ma’am. I wanted to get a head start."

"We don’t hand out gold stars here, Ms. Dela Cruz. Just results."

A curt nod was all Isabelle could manage. She tried to ignore the way Ana’s eyes swept over her outfit—a modest blouse and slacks—and landed on her low-cost handbag with something that might have been judgment.

"Here," Ana said, handing her a thick binder. "Employee Handbook. Read it. Memorize the protocols, especially the formatting standards and communication templates. Mr. Villareal despises sloppiness."

Isabelle took the binder with both hands, her fingers brushing against Ana’s briefly. Cold. Businesslike. She wasn’t going to get a warm welcome, not from the gatekeeper of the company’s most powerful man.

---

The hours blurred into a haze of codes, log-ins, emails, and whispers. No one told her how to do things unless she asked directly, and even then, the answers were clipped. The office layout was open but emotionally closed. Colleagues didn’t make small talk; they sent memos.

Before noon, Isabelle made her first mistake.

She uploaded the wrong draft of a financial forecast Damian was expecting by 11:00 AM. The correct file had been buried in a naming maze on the shared drive, indistinguishable from three others. When she realized it, her stomach sank.

"Ms. Dela Cruz."

His voice. Crisp, unmistakable. A scalpel cutting through the air.

She stood immediately, heart pounding.

"Yes, sir?"

He held up the printed file without a word. One eyebrow raised. "Is this a joke?"

"I—I'm so sorry, Mr. Villareal. That was my fault. I’ll correct it immediately."

"Do so. And double-check before you waste my time again."

A few heads turned. The sting of humiliation was swift and public.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t argue. She simply bowed her head and corrected it.

---

By lunchtime, Isabelle sat alone in the tiny staff pantry, staring at her untouched sandwich. Her appetite was gone, devoured by anxiety.

Her phone vibrated. Carla.

"You sound like someone died," Carla said the moment Isabelle answered.

"I died. At least three times already."

Carla chuckled gently. "Deep breaths. It’s day one. You're not expected to move mountains."

"Here, you are. Or you get replaced."

"And yet, you're still standing. You can do this, Izzy. Just... don’t lose yourself in that place."

"It’s hard not to. Everything is sharp. Precise. Cold."

"Then bring the warmth. In your own way."

---

Back at her desk, Isabelle immersed herself in observing Ana Romero.

Ms. Romero didn’t walk—she glided. Her phone never rang twice. Every answer was instant, every file flawless. She orchestrated Damian’s life like a conductor with a symphony of responsibilities. It was impressive, terrifying.

Isabelle knew she couldn’t compete. But maybe... she could complement.

---

At 3:00 PM, an intern named Kyle was asked to deliver a revised board packet. He slipped and printed the wrong version. By 3:15 PM, Kyle’s desk was cleared. No scene, no yelling. Just... gone.

Isabelle felt her palms sweat. The message was clear: precision was survival.

So she worked harder.

She checked everything twice. She logged every file name, every client code, every recurring meeting. Her handwriting cramped from note-taking, but she didn’t stop.

---

At 5:45 PM, just as she packed up, Damian’s voice echoed again.

"Ms. Dela Cruz. I need a summary of all vendor contracts filtered by Q1-Q2 timeline. Now."

She blinked. "Of course."

It should have taken hours. But she remembered Carla’s spreadsheet trick—conditional formatting and quick filters. Twenty minutes later, she walked into his office, a little breathless, holding a single crisp page.

He read it silently. Paused. Then:

"Hm."

No praise. No comment. Just... acknowledgment.

Marco passed by just then and gave her a casual thumbs-up. "Not bad for a rookie."

Ms. Romero, who had been watching from a distance, said nothing. Her expression was unreadable.

---

Everyone filtered out around 7:00 PM. Isabelle stayed.

She reorganized the shared drive, labeling folders and creating a cross-reference chart for easier searching. It was monotonous, yet oddly satisfying.

While clearing Damian’s inbox, she found an unlabeled file buried in drafts. Out of habit, she checked its contents before deleting.

A photograph loaded: Damian, five years younger, smiling—really smiling—beside a woman in a champagne-colored dress.

Cassandra Reyes.

She’d heard the name mentioned once in passing by a whispering pair of executives in the elevator. The ex-fiancée. The ghost.

She closed the file immediately. It wasn’t hers to see.

She turned around—and nearly jumped.

Damian was at the doorway, jacket over his arm, eyes narrowed.

"Still here?"

"I was organizing the shared folders. It was chaos."

He stepped inside. Looked at the new chart she’d posted.

"Efficient."

A pause. A rare, near-human moment.

"You’re not like the others."

"Sir?"

He shook his head slightly. "Never mind. Go home, Ms. Dela Cruz."

She left, adrenaline still thrumming in her chest.

---

At home, Isabelle collapsed onto her bed. Her legs ached, her shoulders were tight, but her spirit? Still intact.

She pulled out an old notebook from her nightstand. Her mother’s handwriting was on the first page: You are stronger than what the world tries to make you believe.

She turned to a blank page.

Day One: Survived. Made a mistake. Learned fast. Saw a piece of the man behind the title. The war isn’t over—but I’m still standing.

She titled the entry: Notes for Survival.

And then she smiled, faint but real.

Tomorrow was a new round.

And she wasn’t planning to lose.