The coffee tastes like lukewarm disappointment.
I stare into the murky depths of my cup, watching the steam curl into nothingness. The executive lounge's ambient lighting casts harsh shadows across the marble countertop, making the dark liquid appear even more unappealing. Did I forget to add sugar? Another tentative sip confirms it—this is just bitter, overpriced bean water masquerading as caffeine, the kind of brew that makes me question why I bother drinking coffee at all.
With a sigh that comes from deep within my sleep-deprived soul, I reach across the gleaming glass counter of Blackwood Industries' executive lounge—a space so aggressively luxurious it makes airport business-class lounges look like bus stations.
The sugar packets are nestled in an actual silver dish, because God forbid Damien's employees use plastic like common peasants. The tiny crystals catch the light as I tear open the packet, scattering across the polished surface like miniature diamonds.
As I stir, my mind drifts back to that text—the one that's been haunting me for two straight days. Just two words, but they'd sent my heart racing.
Hi, Jen.
Who can this person be?
"Ms. Cole."
The voice snaps me back to reality with the force of a rubber band against skin. Liam from Marketing leans against the counter beside me, his boyish grin as easy as his posture.
At twenty-five, three years my junior, he still has that fresh-out-of-college energy—all crisp polos and playful banter. His tie is slightly askew, the top button of his shirt undone in quiet rebellion against corporate dress code.
"Even daydreaming looks intense when you do it," he teases, stealing a sugar packet for his own coffee. The movement makes his cufflinks—tiny silver sharks—catch the light.
I force a chuckle, the sound strained even to my own ears. "Just contemplating whether HR would notice if I spiked this with whiskey."
Liam laughs, the sound bright and unguarded against the lounge's muted tones. "Pretty sure Blackwood would smell it on your breath before you reached the elevator."
He's not wrong. Damien has the olfactory senses of a bloodhound and the disapproval of a Victorian schoolmarm. I've seen him detect a subordinate's cigarette break from three offices away, his nose wrinkling like he'd caught wind of something rotting.
The thought makes me glance at my watch.
"What project has Marketing doomed you to this week?" I ask, leaning against the counter. The marble is cool against my elbows, a stark contrast to the warmth spreading through my palms from the coffee cup.
Liam's eyes light up. He recently got promoted to Junior Campaign Manager, and the pride still radiates off him in waves. "The Singapore launch is killing me, but in a good way? Like, the kind of stress where you know you're not getting sleep but also kind of loving it?" He takes a sip of his coffee, leaving a faint smudge on the rim.
I smile despite myself. "That's called Stockholm Syndrome, Liam."
He shrugs, unbothered. "Hey, did you hear about Rachel from Accounting and Mark from IT?" His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper as he leans in closer. I catch a whiff of his cologne. "Rumor is they've been hooking up in the supply closet on the 12th floor. Apparently Janet from HR walked in on them last Thursday."
My eyes widen. "No way."
"If office gossip were an Olympic sport, you'd be the spectator eating nachos in the nosebleed seats," Liam says, shaking his head. His hair flops into his eyes with the movement, and he absently pushes it back. "They've been sneaking around for weeks. How have you not noticed?"
I groan, stirring my coffee absently. The spoon clinks against the porcelain with a sound that echoes through the nearly empty lounge. "Why am I always the last to know these things?"
I'm literally the executive secretary. I should have insider information.
For the next few minutes, Liam regales me with the building's latest romantic entanglements—who's dating, who's cheating, who got caught making out in the stairwell. It's frivolous, meaningless gossip, but for the first time in days, I feel my shoulders unclench slightly. The tension that's been coiling between my shoulder blades since that damn text eases just a fraction.
A glance at my watch tells me I've lingered too long. The digital display reads 10:47 AM—Damien's morning meeting with the Shanghai investors should be wrapping up soon, which means he'll be expecting his usual post-meeting espresso on his desk within fifteen minutes.
"I should get back before His Majesty sends out a search party," I say, dumping my now-too-sweet coffee in the sink. The liquid swirls down the drain, taking with it my brief moment of respite.
Liam waves me off with a dramatic flourish. "Go forth and serve our dark overlord. May the odds be ever in your favor."
The walk back to the bullpen feels longer than usual, my heels clicking a staccato rhythm against the marble floors. The cubicle beside mine sits empty now, Gloria's hastily cleared-out desk a stark reminder of how quickly people flee Damien's orbit.
One month was all she could take before declaring corporate life "an existential nightmare" and fleeing back to her home country, London. A Post-it note still clings to her monitor—"Good luck! You'll need it!"—the exclamation point a little too enthusiastic.
I can't blame her for running. There are days—more than I'd care to admit—when I'm tempted to do the same.
Settling into my chair, I pull up today's schedule on my tablet—a minefield of meetings and deadlines. The quarterly financial report from Marcus sits in my inbox, its subject line screaming urgency in all caps: "Q3 PROJECTIONS - FINAL REVIEW NEEDED BY EOD." The attachment thumbnail shows pages of dense spreadsheets, the numbers blurring together into an incomprehensible mess.
I'm halfway through reviewing the first page when—
Buzz.
My intercom lights up like a warning beacon, the red light blinking ominously against the sleek black device.
I snatch it up before the second ring, my professional mask sliding into place with practiced ease. "Yes, sir?"
"Come to my office."
The command is sharp, final. The line goes dead before I can even form a response.
I rise from my desk, my fingers tightening around my tablet until the edges bite into my palms. The walk to Damien's office feels longer than usual, each step measured and deliberate. The glass walls of his office loom ahead, the blinds partially drawn like a half-lidded eye.
When I enter, he's exactly where I expected him to be—behind his massive obsidian desk, sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms dusted with dark hair. His brows are furrowed in that perpetual scowl that somehow makes him look more devastatingly handsome than any man has a right to be. The polished CEO plaque glints under the office lights.
"Yes, sir?" I keep my voice steady, professional. The words taste like ash on my tongue.
Damien glances up from his laptop, those ice-blue eyes pinning me in place with the precision of a predator sighting its prey. "I have something to announce."
My mind races through possibilities—a new merger? Another impossible deadline? A sudden urge to fire me for no discernible reason?
Then he drops the bomb.
"We're going to Greece."
My carefully maintained smile falters. "We?"
"Yes, we," he deadpans, as if I'm being deliberately obtuse. His fingers tap against the keyboard. "As in, myself and my personal secretary. You."
The words land like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs.
He continues, oblivious to the way my stomach plummets into an abyss. "The trip will be two weeks. We'll be finalizing the Athinaios acquisition and meeting with their board. I'll need you to prepare the presentation materials, coordinate with their executive team, and…"
His voice fades into white noise as the implications sink in.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days.
Three hundred and thirty-six hours away from Lily.
The thought alone is enough to make my hands tremble where they're clasped behind my sides. I can't leave her. Not for that long. Not when she will be starting her kindergarten, when she still cries sometimes at drop-off, when she needs me to tuck her in at night with her favorite lullaby.
"I can't go," I blurt out before I can stop myself.
The room goes deathly quiet. The only sound is the faint hum of the air conditioning and the distant chatter of the bullpen outside.
Damien's fingers freeze mid-type. Slowly, dangerously, he lifts his gaze to mine. The intensity in his stare makes my skin prickle. "What did you just say?"
Every instinct screams at me to backtrack, to grovel, to fold like I always do. But the image of Lily's face—her wide green eyes, her tiny hands clutching her stuffed bunny—steadies me.
"I said I can't go." My voice doesn't waver, and for that small mercy, I'm grateful.
His expression darkens, the lines around his mouth tightening. "Explain."
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. My mind scrambles for an excuse he might actually accept. "I have prior commitments. Family obligations. I—"
"Cancel them." His tone leaves no room for negotiation. "This isn't optional, Jennifer. The Athinaios deal is worth billions. I need you there."
"Then take Marcus!" The suggestion bursts out of me, desperate. I grasp at straws, at anything that might get me out of this. "He's the CFO. He knows the numbers better than I do!"
Damien scoffs, leaning back in his chair with the casual arrogance of a man who's never been told no. The leather creaks under his weight. "Are you seriously suggesting I replace you with Marcus?"
"Yes!" The word comes out louder than I intended, echoing slightly in the spacious office.
"No." The single syllable is a whip-crack, final and unyielding. "Whatever your plans are, cancel them. You're going to Greece. End of discussion."
The finality in his voice ignites something inside me—a spark of defiance I didn't know I still had. It burns through the fear, through the years of conditioned obedience, until all that's left is a quiet, simmering rage.
"Or what?" I challenge, my voice low but steady. "You'll fire me?"
His eyes flash with something dangerous, the blue darkening to the color of a storm-lashed sea. "If that's what it takes."
And there it is. The threat he knows I've never been able to withstand. The one card he always plays when he wants to break me. The sword he's held over my head for five long years.
But not this time.
I straighten my shoulders, meeting his gaze head-on. The air between us crackles with tension, thick enough to choke on. "Then I quit."
The words hang between us, seismic.
For the first time in five years, Damien Blackwood looks genuinely stunned.