The confirmation email came in at 6:47 a.m.

Subject: Application Approved

Body: Congratulations, Ms. Davidson. Your position as Executive Secretary to Mr. Anthony St. Louis begins today. Report to the 41st floor by 8 a.m. sharp. No delays tolerated. – HR Department.

I stared at the screen for a few seconds before letting my lips curl into a smile. It wasn’t joy nor It wasn’t excitement. It was satisfaction, satisfaction that my plan was slowly becoming a reality.

Phase Two: Entry into the enemy lair. Check.

I got ready in silence. My hair slicked into a clean, tight bun, minimal natural like makeup, light foundation to cover acne spots and nude lipstick so not to seem too bold. Black pencil skirt, white blouse, heels that said I walk like I mean it. I didn’t tremble, I didn’t pray, and I sure as hell didn’t whisper wishes into the universe. God wasn’t coming to save me. God didn’t drag some people out of fire no matter how much we pray. Some of us learned to burn and keep walking.

By 7:58am, I was on the 41st floor, badge clipped to my clothes, and heart steady. The office was a wall of glass and sterile perfection, silver accents, minimalist furniture, and the faint smell of espresso coffee and capitalist arrogance in the form of expensive perfume. I approached the sleek desk where a woman sat typing furiously, her brows pinched like someone had offended her ancestors.

“ Good morning. I’m Florence, the new secretary.” I said with a bright smile.

She barely glanced at me before sighing. “Of course. You were supposed to meet with HR but unfortunately I didn’t get the update. There were... texting delays.” She waved vaguely toward her phone and then narrowed her eyes at me. “Word of advice? Mr. St. Louis is very strict, and if you mess up once, you’re out.”

I gave a sweet smile while my brain was screaming profanities.

So strict he destroys families? Frames innocent men? Treats employees like pawns? Yeah, sounds about right.

“Thanks for the warning,” I replied.

She pointed down the hall. “His office is at the end of the corridor. He’s in a meeting right now so you'll have to wait.”

Her system then tinged and she looked at the screen for some seconds before turning back to me.

"His meeting just finished so you can walk right in."

I walked, not too fast, not too slow, just enough to look like I belonged. The hallway was silent, floor-to-ceiling glass on one side, wall art on the other.

Then I saw the door. Anthony St. Louis, CEO.

I didn’t even knock, I just opened it and there he was. Sitting behind a massive black desk, pen in hand, eyes scanning documents like they held the secrets to the universe. His hair was jet black, styled back like it knew it belonged to someone powerful. His jaw was sharp enough to slice through lies, and his suit, midnight gray with black pinstripes, looked custom-made for a king.

I knew he was handsome from the articles, the magazine covers, the corporate propaganda. But nothing prepared me for seeing him in person. He wasn’t just good-looking, he was dangerous-looking. Calm and unreadable.

And somehow, impossibly, more human than I expected.

He finally spoke still without looking at me. “You’re the new secretary?”

His voice was deep, clipped.

“Yes,” I said, stepping forward. “I’m Florence Davidson.”

“Get me the quarterly files from this month. Make sure the red folders are separated from the blue, then Janine to reschedule the call with the Zurich team. And also, I want a black coffee, no sugar, no cream.”

I blinked. “Just like that?”

He gave no response. He just flipped to the next page in his file, like I was background noise.

I turned on my heel and got to work. Even though I got confused and lost a couple of times. Eventually, I found the files, color-coded and sharp-edged. Passed the message to Janine who I found out was the stressed out receptionist, brought the coffee, exactly how he asked. I returned in thirty minutes.

He still didn’t look at me.

He pointed to the right side of his office. A small glass corner partitioned off like a glorified storage unit.

“That’s your office,” he said.

I nodded, said nothing, and went to set up my space. A sleek black desk, one chair, a desktop system, and a frosted glass divider, in the corner of a king’s lair, carved out for the help.

He gave me no further instructions, no welcome, just more work. “Follow up on the digital strategy proposals. Cross-check last month’s numbers. Refile the project briefs by department priority, and I want it on my desk by noon.”

I didn’t argue, I just did it.

He didn’t speak unless he had a task for me. He didn’t ask my name again, didn’t even look at me longer than three seconds. But somehow, I felt his presence like it was wrapped around every breath I took.

By 1 p.m., I was barely keeping up. My feet ached, fingers burned from typing and sorting. Also I forgot to eat lunch.

At 4 p.m., he finally stepped out for a meeting and I sagged in my chair exhausted.

Anthony St. Louis is a workaholic tyrant with the emotional capacity of a paperweight. A capitalist machine with good hair and no soul, basically a monster in a three-piece suit.

By the time I left the building, the sky was darkening and my body felt like it had been flattened by a steamroller and then run over again for good measure. The heels I wore were trying to assassinate me, my eyes were dry and my back, completely broken.

But I didn’t complain, because I had managed to make it in.

When I got home, I found Mom asleep on the couch, an old family album clutched to her chest. I took it from her gently, covered her with a blanket, and went to the kitchen.

I opened the fridge and sighed. It was empty except for half a bottle of water and an expired yogurt. I leaned against the cold counter and let out a long, tired breath.

“Anthony St. Louis,” I muttered, “is a soul sucking, time taking, youth draining capitalist overlord who deserves a slow, painful death.”

I pulled out a notebook and crossed off today’s task.

Step Three: Survive the First Day. Check.

I stared at the blank page beneath it.

Step Four: Make him pay.

And tomorrow, I’d get started.

Florence's POV

It’s been two weeks. Fourteen days of perfectly ironed blouses, multiple rounds of fake smiles, and emotional gymnastics.

I now know the exact time Anthony St. Louis arrives every morning, 8:01 a.m., the number of sugars he doesn’t want in his coffee, and that he reviews contracts with the same emotional warmth as someone reading a soup label or a bland soup recipe.

Every day, I sit in the glass corner of his office, silently judging him while pretending to be buried in spreadsheets. And every day, he hands me work like a machine, never faltering, never hesitating, like I’m just another pawn in his shiny, joyless empire.

It all started last Monday, when one of the interns spilled coffee on herself in the elevator. She looked close to tears in her coffee stained dress.

“Take a break,” I whispered as I passed her. “Go wash up.”

Anthony stepped in seconds later, looked at the stain, and said, “That cup cost $4.20. Get another one and don’t make the client wait next time.”

The girl nodded quickly, face flushed. When we got to the office, I said nothing. Just set his coffee on his desk with a tight smile.

“You’re very consistent,” I said sweetly. “Like a very charming death robot.”

He didn’t respond to me and just handed me a file to type.

He was on a call later that day when a florist arrived with condolence flowers for a business partner who had just unfortunately lost his wife.

Anthony glanced at the bouquet and frowned. “Too sentimental. It is giving the wrong message. Send back something more... neutral.”

I blinked at him. “Ah, yes. Wouldn’t want to remind a grieving man that his wife is dead with nice sentimental flowers.”

He looked up, just briefly. “Handle it.”

I did handle it, but I made sure to include a sympathy note that read ‘Some losses don’t show up on balance sheets.’

Was it petty? Yes it was but also worth it.

By Wednesday, his receptionist, Janine looked like she was one file away from collapsing on the floor. I tried to lighten her load, quietly picking up some of her minor tasks, like proofreading investor emails or organizing the boardroom bookings.

When I mentioned it casually, he just said, “If she’s struggling, she’ll be replaced.”

That was when I muttered under my breath, “So will your soul, when hell finally reclaims it.”

He didn’t respond. He probably didn't hear me.

******

On Thursday, I asked for a one-hour break to take my mother to the clinic. She was having a panic attack again, trying to find the family photo album she swore my dad had taken to work.

“I can spare thirty minutes,” he said without looking at me.

I paused. “Your generosity overwhelms me. Truly.”

“I don’t pay you for flattery.”

No, you pay me for silence. For the illusion that everything here works like clockwork, not because you’ve built a good system but because everyone’s too scared to fall out of it.

The next day, we had a scheduled fire drill. Everyone had stepped outside, laughing, stretching their legs, enjoying the break.

Contrary to Anthony who stood beside me, scrolling through emails.

“Sir,” I said, eyes forward, “this building could be on actual fire, and you’d still be reorganizing your Q4 targets.”

He didn’t even blink. “That’s because deadlines are fireproof.”

I turned away so he wouldn’t see my eye roll.

That afternoon, while reviewing résumés for a new PR officer, he said, “I don’t like emotional types. They’re unstable, business needs clear heads, not bleeding hearts.”

I tilted my head. “So to you empathy is... what? A liability?”

“In this company? Yes.”

I stared at him. “Do you ever cry?”

He looked up for the first time that day. “Do you?”

I smiled. “Only when I run out of wine.”

**********

Janine and I pooled money for the accountant’s impromptu birthday. Nothing fancy, just a small cake in the break room. I didn’t expect Anthony to come over. I didn’t want him to spoil the mood with his gloomy aura.

But he passed by, paused for a second, and said, “You know this will cut into everyone’s work time.”

I offered him a slice of cake. “It’s chocolate. Maybe it’ll melt the ice wall where your heart should be.”

He looked at the cake, then back at me.

“Too sweet,” he said. “Like distractions.”

I laughed, loud enough for people's heads to turn. “Wow. That must be your wedding toast.”

His gaze lingered on me for a beat too long. I turned away, pretending not to care.

That night, as I rode the elevator down to the lobby, my reflection stared back at me. Hair in a tight bun, tired eyes, stiff shoulders.

He made me angry, that was true. But not in the explosive, fiery way I expected.

It was colder than that, quiet and silently gnawing at my chest. It was the weird way he seemed to float above human emotion like it was a distraction, the way he walked past people without looking or feeling anything. Like they were all objects to be used and replaced when faulty.

He was everything I thought he would be, and maybe worse.

And still, I caught myself watching him sometimes. Studying the little frown he wore when reading bad reports, the tension in his jaw when someone wasted time, the briefest flicker of something in his eyes when he thought no one was looking.

Was that... pain? In them?

No, it couldn't be. Not with him.

I shook the thought out of my head.He didn’t care, he was incapable of that.

And if I ever forgot that, I just had to remember what he did to Gabriel, dad and me. How he destroyed my family.

I got off the elevator, heels clicking against marble, and headed home. Tomorrow, I’d be back. With another smile, and another perfectly filed document hiding another hidden plan.

Because I was here for a reason, and no amount of designer suits or quiet brooding would distract me from it. Not even if his eyes were the exact color of the storm I still carried inside me.

Florence's POV

I’ve been staring at this damn zipper for ten minutes.

The dress fits, technically, but it’s the kind of fit that makes breathing optional. It’s black, sleek, off-shoulder, and far too elegant for the occasion. Too elegant for someone who’s supposed to be working her way through vengeance. I shouldn’t care how I look tonight, but a little part of me does and I didn't like it.

I tugged again, twisting my arm backward at an unnatural angle.

“Mum,” I called out, breathless, “can you help me with this?”

No response came. I sighed and step into the living room. Mom was sitting on the couch, eyes fixed on a faded family photo like she’s time-traveling again.

But when she looked and saw me, really saw me, her face lit up, like a sun I haven’t seen in years.

“Oh Florence,” she breathed out. “You look so pretty.”

I blinked. “What?”

She stood, suddenly purposeful, her eyes almost seeming clear-headed. “Wait here.”

She rushed to her bedroom and returned with a small hair brooch, delicate silver, shaped like a leaf. I remember it, she used to wear it on birthdays and anniversaries.

She pinned it to my hair, her hands trembling slightly.

“There,” she said softly, smiling. “You look beautiful. Just like when I married your father…”

And then, as quickly as the light appeared, it disappears. Her face tightens and her hands fall.

“Your father,” she whispered, “he would’ve loved to see you tonight.”

I took a shaky breath. “Mom..”

“He would’ve loved it,” she repeats louder. “He would’ve said you looked like a star! But he’s dead, he’s dead, isn’t he? He didn’t even get to say goodbye, Florence! We just buried him like a stranger...”

I grab her arms. “Mum, It’s okay. I know, I know.”

And then the worst of it came.

She jerked away and stared at me, her eyes wide, panicked. “Wait… where is he? Where’s your father, Florence? He should be back by now.”

I forced a smile adapting to the situation almost immediately and with practiced ease. “He went out, remember? He said he’d meet us there.”

“Really?” she whispered.

“Of course. I’ll send him a picture so he doesn’t miss out.”

I lifted my phone, pretending to snap the photo, and my fingers shook as I pressed the button. My mother clapped softly, nodding like a child.

*******

By the time I stepped into the company’s hotel ballroom, I had rebuilt the mask.

The lights were too bright as the room was flooded with champagne and soft jazz. Men in sleek tuxedos, women in gowns worth more than my mother’s treatment plan. Everyone was laughing, networking, pretending they’re not just hungry wolves in expensive heels and custom shoes.

I spotted Anthony near the stage. In a maroon blue suit, sporting an indifferent expression. As usual, he looks like he owns not just the room but time itself.

I walked past a waiter and snatched a glass of champagne off the tray.

“Florence,” he said when I approached, voice as steady as a metronome.

I raised a brow. “Oh. You can speak outside of giving orders.”

His eyes flickered, but as always, he didn't rise to the bait.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Not particularly. But then again, you wouldn’t know much about enjoyment would you? You probably schedule your joy for every third Thursday between quarterly meetings.”

He sips from his glass and I caught corner of his mouth twitching, like maybe he found that funny but doesn’t have the muscles to show it.

I took another sip. The bubbles burn slightly or maybe that was the ache in my throat from earlier.

We walked through the room together, him composed, me pretending I was not one glass away from combusting into flames. He introduced me to a few clients, barely looking at me when he does, but I smile through it all, like a good little employee.

But the more I drank, the less the mask held. A third glass, then a fourth.

He was speaking to a CFO about quarterly targets. Uninterested, I rolled my eyes and wandered toward the balcony, glass in hand.

I didn't know how long I was out there before I felt him beside me again.

“You’ve had enough,” he said quietly.

I laughed loudly. “You don’t get to tell me when I’ve had enough.”

“Florence..”

“Fuck off,” I snapped, slurring slightly. “You don’t get to act concerned. Not you of all people, traitor.”

His brow lifted slightly. “I beg your pardon?”

I spun to face him, head swimming. “You’re the one who destroyed my family. My father died because of you. My brother rots in a prison in a country we don’t even know. And you, ” I jabbed my finger at his chest. “You walk around in your custom suits and silent stares like none of it matters.”

He said nothing, and so in my drunken state that was akin to silent acceptance and so I pushed harder.

“You think being cold makes you powerful? You think ignoring people makes you strong? No. It makes you heartless. It makes you..”

I stumbled, but he caught my arm just in time.

“Don’t touch me!” I shouted, yanking away.

Guests started to stare. Someone whispers my name, but Anyhow doesn’t flinch. He just leaned in, murmured something to one of the assistants, and escorts me through the ballroom like it’s just a quiet exit.

The elevator ride to the suite was silent. My chest heaves with everything I want to scream, and everything I want to destroy.

We got to a private room and when the door clicked shut behind us, I lost it.

“You want to know why I’m here?” I shouted. “You want to know what your company means to me?”

He watched me with an irritating calmness.

“I came here to destroy you.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You’re drunk.”

“I came here to ruin you, Anthony,” I spat out, voice shaking. “I’ve been planning it for five years. You destroyed my life, so I’m going to destroy yours.”

His expression didn't change.

But his voice, when it finally came, was quieter and much sharper.

“If I destroyed your life… what are you doing to me?"

I stopped in my tracks. Because the way he said it… it wasn't smug, it wasn't dismissive. It was something else and it made my blood boil.

“I’m making it even,” I whisper. “And I haven’t even started. I will ruin your life just the way you ruined mine. And I won't rest until I have achieved it."