This morning, I wake up before the alarm even buzzes. Something about the air feels different crisp, heavy with the weight of expectations. It's my second day at work, and if there's one thing I learned yesterday, it's that this place isn't going to be easy. I can't afford to slip, not even for a second.
I get ready quickly, choosing the better of my two decent outfits. It still doesn't compare to the polished designer looks I saw other girls flaunting, but it's neat and clean, and it will have to do. I style my hair with the focus of a soldier preparing for battle tied back, brushed down flat, not a strand out of place.
By the time I arrive at the office, Dana is already there. She looks up from her computer, her lips curled into something between a smile and a smirk. "Good morning. Just so you know, the boss is already in. So be on your best behavior."
My stomach drops. So soon? I hoped for at least one more day to mentally prepare. But no, today's the day I meet him. The mysterious billionaire. The man with no social media presence and barely any photographs in the press. Damian Duckknight.
I take a deep breath and walk past the glass walls, catching a glimpse of my reflection. I look so plain, so out of place like a coffee stain on a white blouse. But I remind myself that I'm not here to look good; I'm here to work.
Settling behind my desk, I try to immerse myself in the tasks on the screen: typing emails, double-checking the calendar, and ensuring everything is in order. The air is thick with anticipation.
Around tea time, Dana comes to my desk and hands me a cup. "Coffee. The boss likes it extra hot, with no sugar. Take it in. And don't spill."
My heart pounds. My hands are slightly shaking as I carry the cup across the hallway and knock gently before opening the large double doors. And there he is Damian Duckknight.
He looks up briefly from behind his desk, and I swear, for just a second, I forget how to breathe. He's ridiculously handsome. Jet-black hair, a chiseled jaw, and sharp cheekbones like he was carved by the gods themselves. His eyes are cold, glacier blue, scanning me like I'm just another item on his to-do list.
"Set it there," he says, pointing to a spot on the corner of the desk without looking at me again.
I obey and turn to leave, but his voice stops me. "Wait."
I turn slowly.
"There's a protein shake missing. Mango, flax, almonds, oat milk? From Grounded Juice Bar. Why is it not here?"
"I… I didn't know you wanted"
"And is that my problem? I want it. Now go."
He doesn't yell; he doesn't even raise his voice. But the way he speaks? It cuts like ice cold and dismissive. I turn and walk out as quickly as possible, my cheeks burning. The worst part? The girls outside hear every word, and they're giggling.
When I return with the smoothie late and clearly flustered, I'm met with eye rolls and side comments from the mean girls. One girl fake-gasps, "Ooooh, is that mango or shame you're wearing?"
I want to scream. Or run. Or both.
Instead, I walk calmly to the nearest bathroom, lock myself in a stall, and let silent tears fall down my face. Why do I even care what he thinks? Why do I care that I look like a mess next to those other girls? Why do I let him get to me?
Because he's so handsome it hurts.
Because he doesn't even look at me twice.
Because in that moment, I realized just how far removed from this world I really am.
But still, I'm not going to give up.
I wipe my eyes, take a deep breath, and step back out as if nothing happened.
Game on, Mr. Damian Duckknight.