The Forgotten Clan

08 [ Day at Work ]

Monday, AKA “Survival of the Pettiest”

By 8:15 AM, Amica had already dodged a five-car pile-up, shoved past a broken elevator full of interns trying to look useful, and fought a battle with the coffee machine that ended in tragic defeat.

It spilled.

On her favorite folder.

She didn’t scream. She just internalized the rage like a professional.

But not without commentary.

Standing there, holding her soaked folder like it was a dead bird, she muttered under her breath,

“Wonderful. This day’s already sponsored by caffeine and suffering.”

One of the interns from the elevator peeked into the break room, saw the mess, and offered a hesitant,

“Uh… do you need help, Miss Suegereo?”

She slowly turned to him, her smile just barely civil.

“Unless you can rewind time or make this folder waterproof, I think I’m beyond help.”

He gulped. “Right. Okay. Cool.”

As he backed away like she might breathe fire, she crouched and began blotting the folder with the last two napkins in the entire universe, of course.

“Of course this would happen today. Should’ve just let that taxi run me over.”

She stood, tossed the coffee-stained napkins in the trash, and mumbled, “If one more thing explodes, I swear I’m shifting into a full omega meltdown—even though I am not omega."

The vending machine buzzed suspiciously behind her.

She glared at it. “Don’t test me.”

With the grace of someone who’s been sleep-deprived since high school. Amica walked through the glass doors of the company building with the elegance of a swan and the rage of a pressure cooker.

Her heels clicked with authority.

Her soaked folder was clutched like a weapon.

The receptionist, a bubbly twenty-something named Lacey, beamed at her like this was a day worth smiling about.

“Good morning, Miss Suegereo! You look—uh—glowing today!”

Amica raised a brow, not breaking stride.

“That’s not a glow, it’s steam. I’m evaporating out of spite.”

Lacey laughed awkwardly. “Oh, haha! I love your… determination!”

Amica stopped just long enough to place her coffee-stained folder on the counter.

“This folder,” she said calmly, “contains Mr. Fenrir’s quarterly expansion drafts, the legal paperwork for the Bessemer deal, and my will to live. Guess which one took the most damage?”

Lacey blinked. “Um… the paperwork?”

“No, sweetie. It was the will to live.”

She picked the folder back up with two fingers and turned on her heel.

“Do me a favor, will you? Tell the coffee machine it’s fired.”

“Y-Yes, ma’am!”

“And if Mr. Fenrir asks why the documents smell like bitter failure—tell him it's foreshadowing.”

And with that, Amica swept past the front desk and disappeared into the elevator, already halfway through composing a mental list of who she wanted to throat-punch before noon.

The elevator dinged open, revealing a small cluster of wide-eyed interns huddled like penguins in a snowstorm. All of them wearing visitor badges. All of them terrified of pressing the wrong button.

Amica stepped in with the slow, ominous grace of someone who had absolutely no time for social interaction or shared oxygen.

One intern attempted a smile.

“G-Good morning, Miss Suegereo.”

She didn’t reply. She just turned her head slowly, looked at the floor panel, and raised one brow.

“Are we… stopping on all the floors?” she asked coolly, eyeing the five glowing buttons.

Another intern coughed. “Uh—sorry. I didn’t mean to hit—”

“Don’t apologize to me,” she said, expression blank. “Apologize to your future.”

There was an uncomfortable chuckle.

As the doors slid closed, one brave intern tried to make small talk.

“So, like, um, what’s it like being the executive assistant to Mr. Fenrir? Is it… cool?”

Amica turned her head so slowly, the motion was nearly cinematic.

“It’s like babysitting a golden retriever with a god complex,” she replied dryly. “Cool enough for you?”

The intern nodded furiously. “Yeah, totally. I—I love golden retrievers.”

“I don’t.”

Silence fell again, except for the faint jazz music playing from the elevator speakers.

Amica closed her eyes, just for a second.

And then—ding. The doors slid open at floor 12, she stepped out, she made a beeline for the source of all her migraines.

Mr. Fenrir’s office.

Dark.

Unoccupied.

Again.

She flipped the lights on with a sigh, dropped her bag on the couch, and sat behind his desk like it belonged to her.

Honestly, it should.

If Amica were paid for the number of times she did his work, she’d be a billionaire. Instead, she was a glorified babysitter with premium office access and chronic eye strain.

She updated the day’s schedule, fixed a slide deck for an upcoming partnership proposal, and answered emails under Mr. Fenrir’s name with frightening accuracy. A few of the board members couldn’t even tell the difference anymore.

At exactly 8:54 AM, the door creaked open.

In strolled the bane of her existence—Mr. Fenrir—looking like he’d just won a modeling contest for disheveled CEOs. Shirt slightly wrinkled, tie undone, hair damp like he’d either showered in a rush or transformed mid-run. Typical.

“You’re in my chair,” he said.

“You’re three hours late for a 9 AM meeting,” Amica replied without looking up. “Which was supposed to be at 8, but I knew you’d pull this, so I pushed it.”

He dropped a folder on the desk and leaned against it like this was a casual Tuesday.

“I was handling field matters.”

“Translation: you got distracted doing wolfy things and forgot humans run on schedules.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You always this cranky in the morning?”

“I’m always this cranky around people who forget how clocks work.”

He smirked. “You should really take some time to unwind. Go to the spa. Get a facial. Something human.”

She glared at him. “I don’t have time to ‘unwind’ when someone treats the company like a part-time hobby.”

“Touché,” he muttered.

She tossed a stapled report at him. “You have ten minutes to memorize this before you pretend to be informed on the call.”

He caught it with one hand, flipping through like it didn’t matter.

“You’re really good at this, you know.”

Amica rolled her eyes. “Don’t butter me up. It’s not working. I still want to throw you into oncoming traffic.”

“You’d miss me.”

“I’d make a PowerPoint at your funeral.”

He chuckled. But then… the smile faded, and he looked at her—really looked at her. Like he was seeing something beyond the caffeine-deprived sarcasm and barely restrained homicidal energy.

“You ever think about doing something else?”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I mean,” he said, suddenly serious, “you’re clearly overqualified. You don’t just manage me—you manage the board, the projects, the people. Why this job? Why stay?”

Her expression didn’t shift, but her spine tensed.

“That sounds dangerously close to an insult,” she said.

“It’s not,” he replied. “It’s a question.”

“And one you don’t have the clearance to ask.”

A beat of silence.

Then she sighed, closing her tablet with a soft click.

“I stay,” she said, “because it gives me control. Because the chaos here is predictable. Because being here means I know what my manipulative family isn’t doing behind my back.”

Mr. Fenrir’s eyes flickered.

Not with surprise.

With recognition.

She narrowed hers. “You knew.”

He didn’t deny it.

She stood, slowly. “How long?”

“A while.”

“And you didn’t say anything?”

“I figured if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me. And if I told you I knew, you’d run.”

Amica hated how accurate that was.

Her voice stayed cool. “And yet, here you are. Poking where you shouldn’t.”

“I’m not trying to pry.”

“Then stop acting like you care.”

“I do care.”

She stared at him. Unmoving. Unblinking.

“That’s not your job.”

“Neither is protecting you. But I’ve done it anyway.”

Her breath caught, just once. But it was enough.

“…Don’t,” she said finally, tone tight. “Don’t play the concerned alpha card. You’re late to every meeting, but now you want to be on time for my trauma?”

He didn’t flinch. “I’m not asking you to trust me. I’m just telling you I see you.”

She clenched her jaw. “Well stop. I don’t need your eyes on me. I need you to act like a real CEO.”

“…Noted.”

She grabbed her tablet and headed for the door.

“Oh, and one more thing,” she added over her shoulder. “If you ever bring up my designation again in that tone, I will write a scathing resignation letter so poetic it’ll be printed in the Wall Street Journal.”

“Understood.”

The door shut behind her with a satisfying click.

By 9:30 AM sharp, Amica sat at the long glass conference table, expression calm, hair immaculate, and her notes opened in front of her like holy scripture. The boardroom was filled with people in sleek suits and artificially friendly smiles, buzzing about sales trends and market trajectories.

Mr. Fenrir arrived three minutes late—but this time, with the decency to look like he was trying. His shirt was finally tucked in, tie passable, and a pen in his hand that he definitely didn’t know how to use. Amica could tell by the way he held it like a knife.

“Morning,” he greeted with that effortless charm that fooled everyone except her.

She didn’t look up from her notes. “Act like you belong here.”

He sat beside her, close enough for their arms to brush—accidentally, probably, though it didn’t stop the static that zipped through her shoulder. She ignored it. Viciously.

The board members quieted down as the CFO began presenting projections.

“As you can see here,” he said confidently, laser pointer wobbling over the numbers, “we’ve projected a 12.3% increase in Q2 revenue due to regional branch performance and adjusted seasonal trends—”

Amica’s brow furrowed slightly.

Without lifting her head, she raised a finger. “That’s incorrect.”

The CFO blinked. “Excuse me?”

She slid her tablet forward, tapped the corrected figures, and said evenly, “It’s 9.7%, not 12.3. You used last year’s holiday spike instead of the adjusted baseline from post-regulation enforcement. You also didn’t account for the temporary shutdown in the west region’s logistics hub.”

Silence.

She didn’t even flinch.

Mr. Graye narrowed his eyes with interest. “Miss Suegereo, are you sure?”

Amica didn’t look at him. She looked at the CFO.

“You left the data tab open on your shared drive this morning. I corrected the formulas.”

The CFO gave a small cough, fumbling his clicker. “Right. Thank you. Uh, good catch, Miss Suegereo.”

Fenrir leaned over. “How’d you even catch that?”

Amica whispered, “I use my eyes. You should try it sometime.”

“Is that why yours are always judging me?”

“Someone has to.”

The COO cleared his throat. “Mr. Fenrir, would you care to elaborate on the Q2 expansion strategy?”

Amica passed him a highlighted page under the table without even glancing up.

Fenrir took it, scanned it in record time, and spoke like he’d written it himself. “We’re prioritizing sustainable partnerships—local vendors with scalable potential, reduced logistics pressure, and an improved community reputation. Our long-term gain will be in stability, not just speed.”

The room nodded, impressed.

Amica leaned in slightly, tone soft but surgical. “You didn’t even read that part when I gave it to you.”

“I was waiting for the right audience,” he murmured. “Now you’re all starstruck.”

“You mean they are. I’m just watching a trained parrot do tricks.”

“I like it when you’re mean to me.”

“Good. It’s the only language you understand.”

The meeting went on, filled with graphs, too many buzzwords, and the constant background hum of egos trying to out-shine one another.

The meeting had just settled into its rhythm when the first pointed question came across the room.

“Mr. Fenrir, can you elaborate on how the forecast accounts for Q1’s unspent R&D budget?”

Mr. Fenrir looked up, composed, thoughtful. Amica could tell he was about to speak—but she was already there.

“They were reallocated to infrastructure upgrades in the southern branches,” Amica said, her tone even and unreadable. “The updated figures are reflected in the Q2 projections, slide eleven.”

She didn’t even glance up from her tablet. No need. She knew she was right.

There was a small pause, followed by a murmur of approval as executives turned to the slide.

Mr. Fenrir nodded, picking up without missing a beat. “Exactly. We made a strategic call to redirect the funds toward long-term operational efficiency. Infrastructure now means fewer delays later.”

Of course, he sounded smooth. He always did. But it was her who had red-lined that allocation in the first place, after catching procurement’s half-baked budget adjustments at 1:17 a.m. the night before.

Another exec—Graye, naturally—leaned forward with a frown. “And the vendor consolidation? Procurement’s report doesn’t match the timeline outlined in the expansion brief.”

Amica didn’t even wait.

“That’s because procurement is working off outdated delivery cycles,” she said. “I updated the report yesterday. The correct timeline is in the shared folder—slide fifteen.”

There was a beat of silence, followed by the faint tapping of someone adjusting their notes.

Amica caught the smirk that tugged briefly at Mr. Fenrir’s lips. He didn’t correct her. He didn’t need to.

He just looked across the room and said, “She catches these things before they ever reach my desk.”

That was as close to a public compliment as it got.

Then, as if summoned by the gods of malfunction, the animation on the next graph hiccupped and jittered on the screen. A less prepared team would’ve let it derail the entire presentation.

Amica tapped twice on her tablet, adjusted the live feed, and recalibrated the slideshow. The animation smoothed out immediately, the bar graph sliding into place like a well-trained soldier.

“Presentation’s fixed,” she announced in a neutral voice, like she hadn’t just performed tech CPR in real time.

She felt Mr. Fenrir lean slightly closer beside her. He kept his voice low.

“I didn’t even notice it glitched.”

Amica didn’t look at him. “I know. That’s why I’m the one with a tablet and you’re the one with a nice suit.”

He chuckled softly but didn’t argue.

As the conversation shifted to the next agenda item, Amica opened a side window on her screen and typed a short message—fingers flying with bored precision.

To: HR

Subject: Intern Behavior

The intern in the gray suit is currently trying to flirt with the marketing director. Might want to remind him this is a boardroom, not a rooftop bar. Thank you.

She hit send just as Mr. Fenrir leaned toward her again.

“You writing novels over there?” he asked, tone dry.

“Just sending love notes to HR,” she replied without missing a beat.

“Should I be concerned?”

Amica finally looked up, her expression as flat as ever.

“You should be grateful. I haven’t buried anyone this week.”

That earned a quiet laugh from him. Not too loud—just enough to show he appreciated the edge beneath her deadpan.

He turned his attention back to the presentation, but the smile lingered for a few more seconds.

Then he said quietly, “Remind me again why I haven’t promoted you above me yet?”

“Because you enjoy breathing.”

“Touche.”

Amica returned to her screen. Crisis neutralized. Presentation salvaged. Interns stunned into silence.

Professional chaos. Her specialty.

Then came the kicker.

One of the board members, a sharp-jawed man named Mr. Graye, spoke up.

“There’s been some talk among investors about internal hierarchy. Rumors that certain departments aren’t clear on the chain of command. Some have asked whether our leadership is... stable.”

Fenrir’s jaw twitched.

Amica spoke before he could. “The chain of command is very clear. Mr. Fenrir makes the final decisions, and I execute them. No confusion. No conflict.”

Graye smiled. “And yet, most executive decisions appear to come from your email address, Miss Suegereo.”

Mr. Fenrir’s voice came low and confident. “Because I trust her more than I trust myself on paperwork. I’m the Alpha of the company. She’s the right hand that ensures the pack survives.”

That earned a few intrigued glances.

Amica’s brows rose slightly.

Under the table, Fenrir tapped his pen against her notepad once, lightly.

“Nice metaphor?” he whispered.

“Don’t get cocky.”

“I thought I sounded cool.”

“You sounded like a werewolf cosplaying as a TED Talk.”

He smothered a laugh into a cough.

The rest of the meeting wound down, slowly but efficiently, and when the room finally cleared, leaving only the two of them and the echo of expensive shoes, Amica shut her tablet with a clean snap.

“You didn’t totally embarrass yourself,” she admitted.

“High praise from my personal assassin.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

He stood, grabbing his now-marked-up copy of the report.

“You know, we make a good team.”

She slung her bag over her shoulder. “You mean I’m the team, and you show up for the trophy.”

“I’d still win Best Dressed.”

“You showed up with mismatched socks.”

He paused, looked down, and blinked. “Damn. You’re right.”

Amica rolled her eyes and started toward the door.

Behind her, Fenrir called out, “Hey—thanks. Seriously.”

She stopped at the doorway, glanced back.

“Don’t thank me,” she said coolly. “Just remember next time—I'm not your shadow. I’m your insurance policy.”