ELIZABETH'S POV
I spend the next hour gathering notes from the meeting. I walk through the hallway with my notebook pressed tight against my chest, collecting comments from each board member one by one. Most were too scared to voice their questions directly to Liam, so they waited until afterward and whispered them to me like secrets.
"Ask him about the revised cost structure," one says.
"Don't mention my doubts about the design timeline," another mutters.
"Is it safe to say we're concerned about the transition period—quietly?" a third asks.
I jot everything down and keep my expression neutral. I'm used to this—people confiding in the assistant instead of the boss. It's easier to speak to someone who won't cut them down or make them sweat.
Still… it bothers me sometimes. How much people hide. How much fear sits under professionalism.
By the time I return to my desk and start typing the summary, my hand aches slightly from writing, and my brain feels like it's juggling too many thoughts at once—my work, Leonard's expectations, Liam's unreadable scrutiny, and the sinking feeling that Becka is planning something petty already.
But work helps. It always has.
I fall into that steady rhythm—typing, checking, revising, organizing. It's almost comforting. I lose track of time until the office lights flicker automatically, signaling noon.
Lunch.
Not for me.
People start drifting toward the break room while I keep typing.
At twelve-fifteen, Leonard steps out of his office. "Elizabeth?"
"Yes, sir?"
"You haven't eaten."
I pause, hands still on the keyboard. "I will. Just need to finish this."
"I'll be in the cafeteria if you need anything."
"Thank you, sir."
He nods and leaves.
My stomach growls quietly the second he's gone.
Great. Even my body is rebellious.
I finish the first half of the summary and finally stand, stretching my back. I walk toward the break room mostly because I know Rose would yell at me if she found out I skipped lunch again.
The room is warm and crowded. People laugh over shared meals, microwaves beep, chairs scrape the floor. I open the fridge, pull out my container of leftover pasta, and place it in the microwave.
I'm staring blankly out the window when a voice cuts through the air beside me.
"You're really dedicated, aren't you?"
I turn.
Becka stands with her arms crossed, leaning against the counter, holding a file in her arms, probably what Liam sent her to deliver to Leonard. Her smile is small. Too small to be friendly.
"I'm just doing my job," I say.
"You always say that."
"It's true."
Her eyes travel over my face carefully—not with admiration, but with assessment. Like she's trying to categorize me, figure out where I fit, and whether I'm worth stepping on.
"You know," she says, picking at the sleeve of her blouse, "Liam prefers a certain type of employee."
I raise an eyebrow. "A certain type?"
"People who stay in their lane." She tilts her head. "Who don't try to do more than they should."
"I'm not trying to do more."
"Really?" Her voice softens but chills as it does. "Because from where I'm standing, you're doing a lot."
"What do you mean?"
"You take initiative," she says, almost mockingly. "You anticipate his needs. You respond quickly. You step forward when most people step back."
"I'm doing my job well. That's all."
"No," she says quietly. "That's not all."
There it is—that edge I felt yesterday. That cold simmering hostility she tries to mask with polite smiles.
The microwave beeps.
The sound breaks the tension, but it doesn't erase it.
I open the microwave, take out my food, and close the door.
"Whatever you're trying to imply," I say calmly, "you're wrong."
She watches me with a look that's far too interested in my reaction.
"Am I?"
"Yes."
She shrugs, flicking her hair over her shoulder. "We'll see."
I walk out before she can say anything else.
But her words cling to me all the way back to my desk.
At two, an email arrives.
From: Liam Smith
Subject: Follow-Up
Send the first half of the summary.
— L. Smith
I blink.
He said six earlier.
I check the time. It's only two fifteen.
He wants it early.
Of course he does.
I attach everything I've finished and hit send.
Four minutes later, my phone vibrates.
Bring the printed copy. Now.
— L. Smith
I inhale slowly.
He's testing me. I don't know why, but deep down I can feel it. Some part of him wants to know if I'll break routine, stress, flinch—anything.
I print the file, slip on my blazer, and walk toward the conference room we used earlier.
He's already there.
The room is empty except for him, he came back for another brief meeting. He stands beside the long table, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, hands resting on the surface as he reviews new projections on the screen.
He looks sharp, focused, intimidating.
I knock lightly. "Mr. Smith?"
He doesn't look up right away.
"Yes?."
I step inside and hold out the papers. He finally turns his head toward me.
His gaze drops to the documents, then to my face.
"You're fast," he says.
"I try to be."
He takes the papers but doesn't start reading them. He presses his thumb against the top page, as if considering something before speaking.
"You didn't rush," he says.
"No," I answer. "I don't rush when I want something done well."
His jaw shifts.
He steps closer. Not enough to be inappropriate, but enough to make the air feel tighter.
"Most people rush when I ask for something 'now.'"
"I'm not most people."
"I've noticed."
The words land between us, heavy.
His eyes flick over my expression, searching for a reaction—fear, discomfort… interest.
I give him nothing.
"Is there anything else?" I ask quietly.
He stares at me for a second more, like he's debating something internally.
Then: "No. You can go."
I nod and turn to leave.
I'm almost at the door when his voice stops me.
"Miss Williams."
I look back.
He's still watching me.
"If I message you after office hours," he says, "will you respond?"
I hesitate—not because I don't know the answer, but because I know how he'll react to the answer.
"Yes," I say. "If it's work-related."
His eyes hold mine.
"Good."
I step out, close the door, and lean against the frame for half a breath—just long enough to steady myself.
What is he doing?
Why is he doing it?
Why me?
I push the questions aside and go back to work.
The afternoon drags, heavy and tense. The board members spread out across the floor to finalize their own tasks.
I finish the full summary at five fifty-eight, attach it to an email, and send it to both Liam and Leonard.
Two minutes before the deadline.
Not that I did it for the deadline. I just like clean corners.
At six oh-five, I pack my bag, shut down my computer, and slip my coat on. The office is already emptying. People rush toward the elevator with the kind of relief I wish I could feel.
I'm heading toward the exit when my phone buzzes again.
Unknown Number
Though I know exactly who it is.
The full summary is thorough.
— L. Smith
I blink at the message.
That… is the closest thing to a compliment I've ever seen him give.
Before I can respond, another text arrives.
Make sure the timeline projections are updated. I will need them for the board meeting.
— L. Smith
I type quickly:
Understood. I'll have them ready.
— Elizabeth
He doesn't reply after that.
Maybe he didn't expect me to answer so directly.
I step outside into the cold evening air. The streetlights glow against the sidewalk, and cars hiss by in wet streaks of noise. My breath curls into the air like fog.
I draw my coat tighter around myself and head toward the bus stop.
My day should end here.
But instead, my thoughts circle him.
His questions.
His stares.
His irritation when I remain calm.
His strange, unwilling… attention.
He's a storm in a tailored suit.
And I'm walking straight into the weather without meaning to.
I shake the thought away as the bus approaches. I climb in, find a seat, and rest my head against the cold window.
Tomorrow will be the same.
The pressure.
The pace.
The unpredictable tension that hangs between us like a pulled string.
I close my eyes.
And in the dark quiet of the bus, I can still hear his voice.
"Most people rush."
I'm not most people.
And I think he knows that now.
I just don't know what he plans to do with that knowledge.