C6

CHAPTER 6

​The digital clock on my new desk reads 8:45 AM. I have been sitting for exactly half an hour in an ergonomic chair that probably costs more than three months of my rent. The silence on the 49th floor of Apex Ink is strangely peaceful at this hour, broken only by the typing of a few coworkers in the north area and the distant hum of the city traffic far below.

​In front of me, the three assigned folders sit open. They are international merger documents written in a complex technical jargon, but the challenge feels oddly comforting. I immerse myself in the texts, focused on correcting clauses and scanning signatures. For a few minutes, the buzz of my own anxiety quietens down, returning me to the familiar security of knowing how to do my job well.

​At 9:15 AM, the intercom on my desk emits a sharp beep that abruptly cuts through the calm.

​“Ms. Contreras, to my office. Now.”

​Amy’s voice filters through the speaker, sounding deep and flat. I rise immediately, smoothing down my skirt out of pure reflex as I walk, and make sure my ponytail is still in place before pushing open the dark wood door.

​Upon entering, I find her standing by the massive window, looking out at the skyline of skyscrapers. She has left her gray jacket on the leather sofa and is wearing only a white silk shirt with the sleeves subtly rolled up. For a brief instant, I catch her rubbing her temple—an unusual gesture of fatigue that vanishes the moment she notices my presence. She straightens up immediately, reclaiming her relentless posture.

​“My coffee has gone cold,” she tells me without turning around. “There is a French press in the small kitchenette. I want a Sumatra bean blend, medium-coarse grind. The water must be at exactly 92 degrees; if it boils, the bean burns; if it’s lukewarm, the flavor isn't released.”

​I blink, perplexed, trying to retain all the technical details.

​“92 degrees?” I ask her, keeping my voice neutral. “Ms. Murphy, I doubt there is a precision thermometer in the kitchenette.”

​Amy turns around slowly. Her blue eyes scan me with a mixture of boredom and a slight spark of anticipation. She walks toward me, stopping at a distance that deliberately invades my personal space. She holds my gaze in silence for a few seconds that feel eternal, her eyes lingering for a moment on the line of my jawline before returning to my eyes.

​“Learn to improvise, Camila. A good assistant brings results, not questions. You have five minutes. And after that, cancel the London dinner with the editor-in-chief of The Guardian. Tell him my schedule has become complicated.”

​“But... the schedule indicates that it is an international priority,” I counter, holding her gaze a millisecond longer than I should. My professional pride resists being so easy.

​She takes one more step, which forces me to tilt my head back. The scent of sandalwood and crisp new paper hits me dead-on.

​“A priority is whatever I decide is a priority,” she whispers, and this time her tone isn't a sharp command, but an almost inaudible warning. “Move, the clock is ticking.”

​I walk out of the office clenching my fists, angrier at her arrogance than scared. Is she always such a bitch, or is it just with me? In the kitchenette, I find with relief that the electric kettle has a digital display. I watch the numbers in silence: 85... 88... 90... 92. I stop the process at the exact right moment.

​While I wait for the coffee to steep, I look at myself in the stainless-steel reflection of the coffee maker. My reflection looks like that of a stranger. I remember Carlos, my college boyfriend; the predictable dates to the calm rhythm of a life where everything fit within the margins of what was proper. Not a single word from a man had ever managed to accelerate my pulse this way and provoke this mixture of irritation and a baffling curiosity that I find hard to admit. I rub my temples, trying to reclaim my logic. “It’s just first-day stress,” I lie to myself. “She's just a difficult boss,” I try to convince myself.

​I return and place the tray with the porcelain cup on her desk. Amy, submerged once again in her computer, takes a sip without looking at me. She holds the liquid in her mouth for an instant and then sets the cup down with a sharp thud.

​“Acceptable. Now, the folders.”

​“They will be ready in an hour, Ms. Murphy. I am reviewing the legal addendums.”

​“I want them in my inbox in forty minutes,” she interrupts, pinning her eyes on me. “When you finish, you will go down to the basement archives. There are some unsorted boxes from the 'Nocturna' series from a decade ago; organize them by date and author.”