The world did not spin; it curtsied. At least, that was how it felt to be Nia Sterling.
She sat behind a desk made of imported Italian mahogany, a slab of dark wood that cost more than the average employee's annual salary, situated in the anteroom of the CEO's office on the forty-fifth floor of Sterling Industries. The view behind her was a panoramic sweep of the city skyline, a jagged jaw of steel and glass biting into the blue sky. But the most breathtaking thing in the room was not the view, nor the art on the walls. It was Nia.
She was technically the Executive Assistant to the CEO—her elder brother, Julian. In reality, she was the crown jewel of the Sterling empire, placed in a setting where she could be admired but not touched, occupied but not burdened.
On her desk sat a single, unopened file folder, a pristine MacBook that was currently displaying a catalogue for high-end equestrian gear, and a crystal vase containing white peonies that were changed fresh every morning before her arrival.
Nia sighed, a sound that was less an expression of fatigue and more a delicate musical note signaling boredom. She adjusted the cuff of her silk blouse, the fabric shimmering like liquid pearl against her skin.
**The Architecture of Perfection**
To understand Nia's pride, one had to first understand the vessel it inhabited. She was not merely pretty; she was constructed with an unfair geometric precision. Her hair was a cascade of dark chocolate waves, thick and lustrous, falling to her waist in a way that suggested humidity and wind were concepts that applied only to other people. Her skin was the color of cream, flawless and translucent, possessing a natural luminescence that rendered foundation obsolete.
But it was her eyes that arrested people. They were a shade of amber-gold, framed by lashes so long they cast shadows on her high cheekbones. When she looked at you, it felt as though the sun had momentarily decided to focus its entire intensity on your existence.
She checked her reflection in the darkened screen of her phone. Perfect. Always perfect.
Since the moment she was born, twenty-three years ago, Nia had been treated not as a child, but as an event. The Sterlings were old money, the kind of wealth that didn't shout but whispered in buildings named after them and wings of hospitals dedicated in their honor. When Nia arrived, five years after Julian, she was the miracle daughter.
Her childhood was a blur of adoration. Nannies were fired if they raised their voices. Tutors were replaced if they graded her too harshly. Her parents, formidable figures in the business world, turned into puddles of affection the moment she entered the room.
"You are the prize, Nia," her father would say, smoothing her hair before a gala. "Remember that. The world waits for you."
And she had believed him. Why wouldn't she? The evidence was everywhere. When she smiled, she got what she wanted. When she cried, the world stopped to fix the problem. This conditioning had calcified into a spine of pure, unadulterated pride. It wasn't the loud, brash arrogance of the insecure; it was the quiet, terrifying certainty of a goddess who knows her altar is well-stocked.
**The Glass Tower**
The heavy oak doors to the inner office opened, and Julian Sterling stepped out. He was thirty, carrying the weight of the family empire on broad, tailored shoulders. He looked like a sharper, harder version of Nia—the same dark hair, the same bone structure, but where Nia was soft curves and luxury, Julian was angles and efficiency.
He stopped at her desk, holding a stack of documents. He looked at the unopened folder in front of her.
"Nia," he said, his voice a mix of exasperation and indulgence. "Did you call the catering vendor for the shareholder lunch?"
Nia looked up, blinking slowly. "The one with the dreadful salmon puffs? No, Julian. I decided we needed something better. I haven't found a replacement yet. The lighting in here is giving me a headache, and I couldn't focus."
Julian rubbed his temples. Any other employee would have been fired three times over. But this was Nia.
"The lunch is in two days," he said.
"And it will be fabulous," she countered, offering him a dazzling smile that usually ended arguments. "I'll make a call to that place in the West End. They adore me. They'll clear their schedule."
"They're fully booked for months, Nia."
"For *people*," she corrected him gently. "Not for me."
Julian sighed, conceding defeat. He knew she was right. If Nia Sterling called, tables cleared, schedules opened, and salmon puffs vanished. "Fine. Just... try to look like you're working if Father comes by?"
"I am working," she said, picking up a gold fountain pen and holding it poised over a blank sheet of paper. "I'm radiating excellence. It's good for morale."
Julian shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips as he retreated into his office. He protected her, just as their parents did. He knew she was spoiled, perhaps ruined by their affection, but he also saw her as something rare that needed guarding. The world outside was harsh, and Nia was a creature of soft surfaces.
**The Garden of Envy**
Nia's position at the company was, of course, nepotism in its purest form. She didn't know how to use the spreadsheet software, and she frequently forwarded important calls to voicemail if the caller's voice annoyed her. She spent her hours browsing fashion lines, planning vacations, or critiquing the attire of the junior associates who walked past the glass walls of her station.
And yet, she was the center of gravity.
When she walked to the break room—not to get coffee, but to fetch a bottle of imported sparkling water she kept in a private mini-fridge—silence rippled outward from her path.
The men stared. It was a biological imperative. They watched the sway of her hips, the impossible elegance of her movement. They wanted her with a desperation that bordered on pain. To have Nia Sterling would be to win the game of life. It wasn't just her beauty; it was the status. She was the trophy that proved you were a king.
The women stared, too. Their gazes were more complex, a cocktail of admiration and corrosive envy. They critiqued her outfit (Oscar de la Renta, current season), her shoes (Louboutin, custom), and her attitude. They whispered about her incompetence, about how she was nothing more than a pretty decoration.
*"She wouldn't last five minutes in the real world,"* a junior analyst whispered to a receptionist as Nia glided past.
*"She doesn't have to,"* the receptionist replied, unable to tear her eyes away from the diamond tennis bracelet glittering on Nia's wrist.
Nia was aware of the whispers. She could feel the envy radiating off them like heat from a pavement. It didn't bother her; it sustained her. In her mind, envy was simply a form of applause. It was confirmation that she possessed what others lacked. If they didn't envy her, she would have been worried.
She stopped by the window in the hallway, looking at her reflection superimposed over the city.
"You're beautiful," she whispered to the glass. It wasn't vanity, she told herself. It was simply a statement of fact, like saying the sky is blue or water is wet.