The elevator ride down from the 60th floor felt entirely different from the one that had taken her up. As the doors of the executive lift hissed shut, Smiling Peters leaned her forehead against the cool, mirrored wall. She was still clutching the silver folder—the project files that had almost been her final act at Brights Global Tech—against her chest. Her breath was coming in shaky, relieved hitches, and her heart was slowly finding its regular rhythm after the frantic percussion of the last twenty minutes.
A small, watery giggle escaped her lips, sounding loud in the tiny, luxurious space. "He is not that bad," she thought, a sense of wonder blooming in her chest despite the dried salt of tears on her cheeks. "I actually melted that iceberg! I could actually melt his heart with my tears... haha, what a man. Seeing me so emotional... it really did something to him."
But then, she caught her reflection in the mirror. Her mascara had migrated to her cheekbones, her eyes were the color of overripe cherries, and her hair looked like she had walked through a wind tunnel. The reality of how close she had come to the abyss hit her.
"But hey... Smiling, stay focused. You saw what happened. He wasn't joking. He was ready to toss you out like yesterday's newspaper. I almost lost everything. It's okay now, baby... he gave you a second chance. Don't mess it up again, darling. You might not be able to melt that iron heart a second time. Next time, he'll just call security and have you dragged out by the ankles."
She straightened her blazer, though it did little to fix the wrinkles earned from rolling on the floor. When the doors opened on the 42nd floor, she stepped out with as much dignity as a woman with raccoon eyes could muster.
The moment she stepped onto the floor, the heavy, disciplined silence of the Junior Analyst pool didn't just break—it shattered.
Usually, the staff moved like ghosts, afraid of making a sound that might drift up to the CEO's ears. But seeing Smiling Peters walk back from the lion's den looking like she had been through a car wash was too much for even the most stoic employees.
A girl named Tamara, who sat three desks away and usually spent her day hidden behind three monitors, poked her head out. Her eyes went wide, and then she burst into a fit of poorly suppressed giggles.
"Hey... sweetie?" Tamara asked, her voice trembling with laughter. "What's that on your face? Is it a new comic book aesthetic? Or... are you doing a special makeover for a very sad dinner?"
Smiling stopped in her tracks, her hand going to her face. She felt the crusty residue of her "mercy-pleading" session. The surrounding desks erupted in muffled snickers. Even the department manager, who was usually a stone-faced veteran of corporate warfare, had to turn away and pretend to be very interested in a potted plant.
"Such a cutie," Smiling murmured to herself, a defiant little spark in her eye. She wasn't embarrassed; she was just happy to be there. She looked at Tamara and gave a theatrical, messy wink. "It's called 'The CEO's Mercy' collection. Very exclusive. Very hard to pull off."
She realized, however, that she still hadn't actually given him the files. In her panic and subsequent hugging of the Boss, she had walked out with the very thing she was supposed to deliver.
"You have to turn around, dear. Go submit your files properly and then for heaven's sake, clean up," Smiling lectured herself.
She turned on her heel and headed back to the elevators. She ignored the whispers behind her. She had a job. She had a family to support. She had a brother's tuition to pay. A little bit of smeared makeup wasn't going to stop her now.
When the doors to the 60th floor opened for the third time that day, the executive reception area was empty. Xavier's door was slightly ajar. Smiling approached tentatively, knocking softly before poking her head in.
Xavier Brights was back at his desk, his silhouette framed against the darkening London sky. The white roses sat between them, a silent testament to the morning's peace before the afternoon's storm. He didn't look up when she entered, but his hand gestured toward a specific spot on his obsidian desk—the exact center, away from his keyboard.
"Place them there, Miss Peters," he said. His voice was back to its low, rumbling baritone, but the jagged edge of the "firing" tone was gone.
Smiling walked forward, her steps light. She placed the silver folder exactly where he pointed. She stood there for a second, waiting for a lecture or perhaps a formal warning.
Xavier finally looked up. He took one look at her—the red nose, the tangled curls, the tear-stained cheeks—and he leaned back in his chair. A shadow of a smirk, so subtle it was almost invisible, touched the corner of his mouth.
"Now, go clean up," he said, his voice dropping to a tone that was almost... gentle? "You look like a scarecrow after all that crying. It's bad for the company's image to have a Junior Analyst looking like she's just survived a shipwreck."
Smiling only stared for a heartbeat. Her heart did a strange, light little hop. Scarecrow? She didn't argue. She didn't crack a joke. She simply bent her head in a deep, respectful bow. "Yes, Mr. Brights. Thank you, Mr. Brights."
As she turned to leave, she caught him watching her. Not with the cold gaze of a predator, but with the curious, confused look of a man who had just seen a miracle and didn't know whether to believe his eyes or his logic.
By the time she got back to her desk and spent ten minutes in the restroom scrubbing her face with paper towels and cold water, the clock on the wall read 05:45 PM.
The office was beginning to thin out. In Brights Global, "6:00 PM" was the official end of the shift, but most stayed until 8:00 PM just to prove their loyalty. Today, however, Smiling was drained. Her emotional reserves were at zero.
"It's almost 6:00 PM, Smiling. Time to go home. You can't go home looking like this," she told her reflection. She looked at her eyes—still a bit puffy, but the "scarecrow" look was mostly gone. "A scarecrow, I guess."
She let out a genuine, bubbly laugh that echoed in the tiled restroom. "After all, he called you that. The Ghost of London has a sense of humor. Who would have thought?"
She gathered her things, making sure her badge was tucked safely in her bag. She felt a newfound sense of determination. She had seen the man behind the machine. He was strict, he was disciplinarian, and he was undeniably cold—but he wasn't heartless. He had listened to her. He had seen her pain and, for a brief moment, he had stepped down from his throne to let her stay.
"That young man is not going to tempt me into losing my job again," she vowed as she walked toward the exit. "From now on, it's 100% professional Smiling. No talking to myself. No blowing kisses. Just work."
But as she passed the security desk and stepped out into the crisp London evening, she looked up at the 60th floor. A single light was burning in the penthouse.
"Goodnight, Mr. Scarecrow-maker," she whispered with a grin.
She walked toward the tube station, her step light and her heart full of hope. She had survived day two. And in the world of Xavier Brights, that was the greatest victory of all.
Will Smiling be able to keep her "professional" vow, or will her warm nature continue to clash with the cold world of Brights Global? And how will Xavier react when he realizes the "scarecrow" is the only thing making his office feel like home?