Expectations

IRIS'S POV

By 9:00 a.m., I understood one thing very clearly:

Blackwood Systems did not run on chaos.

It ran on anticipation.

Every meeting flowed into the next without friction. Calendars updated themselves. Emails were sorted before I finished reading them. People appeared when they were needed and vanished just as smoothly. It felt less like an office and more like a living organism—one that reacted instantly to Adrian Blackwood’s will.

And somehow, I was now a nerve ending in it.

“Miss Hale.”

I looked up from the tablet just as a man stopped at my desk. Mid-thirties. Expensive suit. The kind of confidence that came from knowing people usually said yes to him.

“I’m Daniel Reeves,” he said. “Senior acquisitions. I need five minutes with Adrian before the board call.”

I checked the calendar. Adrian had blocked the next hour.

“I’m sorry,” I said carefully. “Mr. Blackwood isn’t available right now.”

Daniel’s smile tightened. “He’ll want to see me.”

I met his gaze. “He’ll let me know if that changes.”

There was a beat of silence. A subtle power test.

Then Daniel chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re new.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll learn,” he said, lowering his voice. “Access here isn’t really your call.”

Before I could respond, the glass wall behind me dimmed—then cleared.

Adrian stood inside his office, jacket off now, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t even looked irritated.

“Daniel,” he said.

Daniel turned instantly. “Adrian—”

“You’re late for the board call,” Adrian continued. “And you don’t interrupt my assistant.”

Assistant.

The word landed heavier than it should have.

Daniel’s expression flickered. Surprise. Annoyance. Something else—calculation.

“My mistake,” he said smoothly, glancing at me. “Didn’t realize the rules had changed.”

“They haven’t,” Adrian replied. “They’re just enforced now.”

Daniel held his gaze for a moment too long, then nodded and walked away.

The glass dimmed again.

I sat there, pulse racing.

Adrian stepped out a moment later, eyes on me.

“You handled that correctly,” he said.

“Thank you.”

He studied my face, like he was measuring something internal. Then his gaze dropped to the tablet.

“You didn’t hesitate.”

“I followed the schedule.”

A pause.

“Good,” he said. “Schedules exist to prevent interference.”

Interference.

He turned back toward his office, then stopped.

“Cancel my lunch.”

I frowned. “You don’t have one scheduled.”

“I do now,” he said calmly. “Cancel it.”

“Yes, sir.”

He disappeared into his office.

I stared at the closed door, a strange unease curling in my stomach.

By midday, I noticed patterns.

Adrian never repeated himself. Not once.

If he asked for something, it was because he already expected it to be done. If I hesitated, he waited—never impatient, never rushed—like he had all the time in the world and knew I would eventually catch up.

He didn’t micromanage.

He observed.

At 12:47 p.m., my phone buzzed.

Unknown Number

Have you eaten?

I stared at the message.

No context. No greeting.

I hesitated before replying.

Not yet.

The response came immediately.

Fix that.

A minute later, Lila appeared at my desk with a neatly packed meal.

“Kitchen sent this up,” she said, setting it down. “You should eat.”

“I didn’t order—”

She shrugged. “You’ll get used to it.”

I wasn’t hungry anymore.

Still, I opened the container. The food was warm. Fresh. Exactly the kind of thing I would choose if I had the luxury to choose.

That unsettled me more than if it had been wrong.

I took a few bites, my appetite dulled by the creeping sense that my day was no longer entirely mine.

In the afternoon, Adrian summoned me into his office.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk.

I did.

He slid a folder toward me. “These are upcoming travel schedules. You’ll review them.”

“Travel?” I echoed.

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t aware—”

“You will be,” he said calmly. “In time.”

I flipped through the pages. Destinations. Dates. Tight turnarounds. Private flights.

“Am I expected to—”

“Be available,” he finished.

The word again.

Unrestricted.

I swallowed. “I have responsibilities outside of work.”

He leaned back slightly, folding his hands together. That familiar, measured movement.

“I’m aware.”

My chest tightened. “You are?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t elaborate.

Silence stretched between us, heavy and deliberate.

“I value efficiency,” Adrian continued. “And consistency. You provide both.”

“That’s my job.”

A pause.

“No,” he said softly. “It’s your role.”

Something about the distinction made my skin prickle.

“I don’t like surprises,” he added. “And I don’t like divided attention.”

I straightened. “I assure you, my work—”

“I’m not questioning your performance,” he said. “I’m setting expectations.”

There it was again.

Expectations.

“Do you understand?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

He studied me, eyes sharp, searching for something beneath my compliance.

“We’ll see,” he repeated, like a refrain.

He dismissed me with a nod.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of tasks and quiet observations.

I noticed how people deferred to Adrian without question. How conversations stopped when he entered a room. How his presence recalibrated everything around him.

And I noticed something else.

He noticed me.

Not constantly. Not obviously.

But enough.

He corrected someone when they spoke over me. He deferred questions to me that others assumed he would answer. He positioned me—not beside him, but within his orbit.

By 6:00 p.m., my head throbbed.

I gathered my things, checking the calendar one last time.

No meetings scheduled. No notes.

I stood, relief blooming faintly in my chest.

As I reached for my coat, my phone buzzed.

Unknown Number

You’re not done yet.

I froze.

I turned toward his office. The glass was clear.

Adrian stood inside, watching me.

I stepped back to my desk, heart pounding.

A moment later, he emerged.

“Follow me,” he said.

“Where?”

“Dinner.”

I blinked. “You canceled lunch.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t realize—”

“You didn’t ask,” he said.

I hesitated. “Is this… required?”

He looked at me then. Really looked.

“Everything here is required,” he said quietly. “Eventually.”

The words settled into me like a warning.

We rode the elevator down in silence.

Outside, the same black sedan waited.

As I slid into the seat beside him, the city lights blurring past, a thought lodged itself firmly in my mind—cold and undeniable.

This wasn’t about work.

This was about access.

And somehow, without noticing the moment it happened, I had given him mine.