The second day starts the way the first one ended—with my stomach in knots and my alarm clock mocking me.
I overslept. Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes that feel like a crime when I think about the man waiting on the thirty‑seventh floor, the man who told me my time starts when he arrives. I throw on a navy blazer, shove my feet into heels, and run out the door with a piece of toast clamped between my teeth.
The subway is crowded. The train is delayed. By the time I burst through the glass doors of Blackwood Resorts International, my heart is already pounding, a headache forming behind my eyes.
Dread, I think, swiping my temp card. That's what this feeling is. Pure dread.
The elevator lifts me too slowly. I check my phone. 8:42. He's been here for at least twelve minutes, by his clock. Twelve minutes of him knowing I'm not at my desk.
I step off the elevator and into the waiting room. The tablet with my schedule is exactly where I left it. The orchid hasn't moved. Everything is pristine, untouched, waiting.
I set my bag down, power on the computer at the small desk that is now mine, and wait for the inevitable.
It comes faster than I expect.
---
"Ms. Santos."
His voice cuts through the quiet, sharp and cold. He's standing in his doorway, and for a moment, I register the details against my will. The maroon suit—Italian, clearly, from the cut, the way it fits his shoulders like it was painted on. Darker cufflinks, something sleek and probably worth more than my rent. A watch that catches the light, thin and elegant. And beneath it all, a scent that drifts toward me—clean, something woody and expensive, the kind of smell that belongs in boardrooms and penthouses.
I hate that I noticed.
"You're late," he says.
"I'm aware. It won't happen again."
His eyes hold mine for a beat too long. Then he turns back into his office, leaving the door open. I follow.
Is not like he can fire me, we both know that. I smirk.
---
The next eight hours become a masterclass in being broken down without a single raised voice.
He hands me a stack of files—travel logistics for six properties across three countries. Flights, ground transportation, hotel accommodations for executives I've never met. I've done this work before. I know the systems. But when I bring him the completed itineraries an hour later, he doesn't even look at them.
"This is wrong," he says.
"What part?"
"All of it." He pushes the papers back across his desk without a glance. "Do it again."
No explanation. No guidance. Just the quiet certainty that I will figure it out or I will fail.
I take the files back to my desk and start over.
---
The summons come at random intervals, each one a fresh cut.
"Ms. Santos. Coffee. Black. Two sugars."
I bring it. He doesn't thank me.
"Ms. Santos. Call the Four Seasons in Paris. Tell them Mr. Blackwood's suite needs the lavender pillows, not the down."
I make the call. He doesn't acknowledge it.
"Ms. Santos. The flowers in my office are wrong. Fix them."
I stand in his doorway, looking at the same arrangement that was there yesterday. White orchids. Exactly like the one in the waiting room. "What would you prefer?"
He looks up then, something sharp in his gaze. "If I wanted to tell you, I wouldn't need an assistant."
I order new flowers. He sends them back. I order again. He says nothing.
---
The floor is silent. I notice it more today—the way people move through the hallway with their eyes down, the way conversations stop when Damon's door opens. A man in a gray suit passes my desk and offers a tight smile, nothing more. An executive from accounting comes to deliver a report and leaves it on the corner of my desk like touching anything connected to Damon might burn him.
This is his world. A kingdom built on silence and fear.
I answer his calls, filter his emails, reschedule two meetings he never intended to keep. I learn the names of his most important clients—the ones he takes personally, the ones he delegates. I listen to him on the phone with a resort owner in St. Bart's, his voice smooth and dangerous, extracting concessions with the ease of a man who has never heard the word no.
"You have until Friday to sign," he says into the receiver, leaning back in his chair, the watch catching the light. "If you don't, I'll find someone who will."
He hangs up. Looks at me standing in the doorway with another folder. "What?"
"The Aspen itinerary. You wanted confirmation on the private car."
"Did I ask for it?"
"You said to confirm before—"
"I'll let you know when I need it."
I turn to leave.
"And Ms. Santos?"
I stop.
"Close the door this time."
I close it. And behind the wood and glass, I let my eyes close for one second.
"I don't know what it's like to feel normal
But I know what it's like to be lonely."
The lyrics float through my mind, unbidden. I press them down and walk back to my desk.
---
At noon, my head is pounding. I haven't eaten. I haven't drunk anything except the half cup of coffee I grabbed at 7:00 this morning. The screen in front of me is starting to blur.
I push back from my desk, ready to find the break room, maybe grab a few minutes of quiet—
"Ms. Santos."
His voice. Again.
I turn. He's standing in his doorway, a file in his hand. "I need the St. Bart's acquisition summaries. All of them. I want them in an hour."
An hour. There are at least forty pages of legal and financial documents in that file.
"An hour," I repeat, to make sure I heard correctly.
"You heard me." He drops the file on my desk. "And when you're done, I need the Aspen schedule finalized. And the flowers. Still wrong."
He walks back into his office. The door closes.
I stare at the file. My headache throbs behind my eyes. My stomach is hollow.
An hour.
I sit down and open the first page.
---
I don't know how long I've been working when a voice pulls me out of the numbers.
"You look like you could use this."
I look up. A man is standing in front of my desk, holding two paper cups. He's tall, with warm brown eyes and the kind of smile that belongs in a different building, a different world. He's my age, maybe a year older. And he's holding coffee.
"I'm Leo," he says, setting one cup on my desk. "From marketing. Third floor. I've seen you running around like a ghost up here, figured you might need a lifeline."
I open my mouth to say something—thank you, I'm fine, I can't—but the smell of coffee hits me, and my body makes the decision before my pride can stop it. My hand closes around the cup.
"You're a lifesaver," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended.
Leo's smile widens. "That bad, huh?"
I glance at Damon's closed door. "Let's just say I'm learning a lot."
"About the job, or about how to survive a man who eats assistants for breakfast?"
Despite everything, I laugh. It's small, tired, but real. "Both."
Leo leans against the edge of my desk, lowering his voice. "For what it's worth, you've lasted two days. That's longer than the last three combined."
"That's not comforting."
"It's supposed to be. You're made of tougher stuff than you think."
I want to believe him. I want to sit here and drink this coffee and pretend I'm not counting the minutes until the next summons. But Damon's door could open at any second, and I don't know what he'd do if he found me sitting here, laughing, making a friend.
"I should get back to work," I say, already regretting it.
Leo straightens, understanding in his eyes. "Yeah, of course. But if you ever need a break—or another coffee—I'm in the third‑floor break room. Usually around this time."
He starts to walk away, then turns back. "Hey. What's your name?"
"Maya."
"Maya," he repeats, like it's something worth remembering. "Hang in there."
He disappears down the hallway, and I'm alone again.
I drink the coffee. It's warm, perfect, the first kind thing that's happened to me in this building.
And then Damon's door opens.
---
He doesn't say anything about the coffee cup on my desk. But his eyes linger on it for a fraction of a second before he turns to me.
"St. Bart's summaries."
I hand him the file. My fingers are steady. My voice is calm.
"The Aspen schedule is finalized. The car will be at your hotel at 6:00 AM Friday. I've confirmed the client dinner for Saturday night and arranged the private tasting at the resort."
He flips through the summaries without looking at me. "The flowers?"
"New arrangement will arrive tomorrow. I spoke with the florist directly. If you don't like them, I'll handle it personally."
A pause. He closes the file.
"Acceptable."
It's the closest thing to approval I've heard from him. I don't let myself feel relieved.
He walks back into his office. The door doesn't close. I take that as permission to return to my desk and finish the work that's piled up while I was drowning in acquisition summaries.
---
The hours crawl. The light outside the windows shifts from white to gold to the deep blue of evening. One by one, the lights in the building go out. The floor empties. By 7:00, I'm the only one left except for the man behind the frosted glass doors.
My head is a steady drumbeat of pain. I haven't eaten since yesterday. My eyes burn when I blink.
I finish the Aspen details. I review the client list for next week. I organize the files for the St. Bart's deal, color‑coded, indexed, ready for his review. I do it because it needs to be done. I do it because I won't give him a reason to say I failed.
At 7:45, his door opens.
He's wearing the same suit, but the tie is loosened. His sleeves are rolled up now, revealing forearms, the watch still there, the cufflinks set aside somewhere. He looks almost human in the dim light of the empty floor.
"You're still here," he says. Not a question.
"There was more to finish."
He walks to my desk, picks up the Aspen file, scans it. Then he looks at me—really looks, the way he hasn't done since the first day.
"I pay for results, Ms. Santos. Not charity cases. If you can't handle the workload, say so now."
I can handle it, I want to say. I've handled worse than you. I've handled men who yell, men who throw things, men who make you feel small because it's the only power they have. You're not special.
But I don't say any of that. I keep my face still, my hands folded.
"I can handle it."
He studies me for a long moment. Then he pulls a check from his inner jacket pocket and sets it on my desk.
"For the late hours. I don't expect anyone to work for free."
The number on the check is more than I made in a week at my last job.
"I'll be here at 8:00 tomorrow," he says, walking toward the elevator. "Don't be late."
The elevator doors close. The floor is silent.
I pick up the check. Look at it. Fold it carefully and tuck it into my bag.
---
The commute home is a blur of fluorescent lights and the rumble of the subway. I find a seat by the window and let my head rest against the glass, the vibration of the train rattling through my bones.
My phone buzzes. A text from Leo: Survived day two? Coffee's on me tomorrow if you need it.
I type back: Barely. And yes, please.
I put the phone away and close my eyes.
The train moves beneath me, carrying me away from the glass tower, away from the cold voice and the impossible demands, away from the man who looks at me like I'm already broken.
But tomorrow, I'll go back. Tomorrow, I'll sit at that desk and answer his summons and rewrite the work he says is wrong. I'll do it because I have to. I'll do it because there's no other choice.
"I'm looking for an exit
But I'm lost inside my head."
I open my eyes. The train screeches to a stop. My station.
I stand, my body heavy, my head still aching, and I walk toward the stairs.
Three months, I remind myself. Three months of this. And then I'm out.
But as I climb the steps into the cool night air, I wonder—if I survive three months of Damon Blackwood, what will be left of me to walk away?
I don't have an answer. Only the exhaustion, and the road ahead.