The CEO's vows of deception

"Do you ever get tired of being good at things that don’t make you happy?” The question slips out before I can stop it. It hangs in the air between me and my reflection,a tired young woman with frizzy chestnut hair, wrinkled blazer, and eyes that have forgotten what excitement feels like. The coffee on my desk has gone cold again. Third one today. Outside my tiny apartment window, New York hums with its usual rush,sirens, laughter, horns, and a thousand people chasing something I can’t seem to find. Success, maybe. Or purpose. Or peace. I glance at the clock. 6:37 a.m. Another early start. Another day at the firm. My name is Rose Hart, and at twenty-six, I’ve mastered the art of being almost happy. I grab my briefcase and head out into the hallway that always smells faintly of burnt toast and cleaning spray. My neighbor, Mrs. Keller, waves from her door with her cat wrapped in her robe. “Morning, Rose! Court today?” “Just paperwork,” I answer with a small smile. “The thrilling kind.” She laughs, a soft, wheezing sound that follows me down the stairs. The subway ride is packed as usual. A businessman’s elbow digs into my side while a college student blasts music through cheap headphones. I cling to the pole and rehearse the argument I’ll make for a client who can’t afford a better lawyer, or even me, technically. My phone buzzes with a reminder: “Submit promotion request by noon.” Promotion. Right. The magical word that means longer hours, more pressure, and maybe a slightly bigger paycheck to keep pretending I love this life. When I reach Davis & Cole Law Firm, the receptionist, Tara, waves me in with a sympathetic grin. “Morning, Rose! Coffee’s on your desk. You look… alive.” “Barely.” I grin back and head to my small corner desk, tucked near the copier that never works. My desk plant droops like it’s given up hope, just like me. I power up my computer and scroll through the mountain of emails. Another case dismissed. Another client asking for miracles. Another reminder from my boss, Mr. Davis, about “professional appearance and punctuality.” I open the promotion form, stare at it for a minute, then close it again. I know how this goes. I apply, someone else gets it, and I pretend I’m not disappointed. The elevator dings, and the sharp click of heels echoes across the floor. Everyone straightens. Even the printer seems to behave. “Morning, team,” says Clara Monroe, senior associate and office goddess, sleek black hair, red lipstick, and enough confidence to make mirrors bow. “Meeting in ten. Bring your updates.” I nod politely, though she never looks my way. I’m invisible here, useful but forgettable. By noon, my brain aches from reading contracts. I stretch, glance out the window, and think about what I’d be doing if life were different. Maybe running a small legal aid center. Maybe teaching. Maybe just breathing without this weight in my chest. My phone buzzes again, but this time it’s not a reminder. It’s an unknown number. Unknown: Is this Ms. Rose Hart? Me: Yes. Who’s asking? Unknown: This is Howard, personal assistant to Mr. Charles Steele. Me: Sorry, I think you have the wrong number. Unknown: We do not. Please confirm your address. A confidential delivery requires your signature. I frown. Charles Steele? The name rings faintly, wasn’t he that billionaire who died a few weeks ago? The one whose company dominated half the city? I type back, I think you’re mistaken, but before I can hit send, another message comes through. It concerns your inheritance. My hand freezes midair. Inheritance? That must be a scam. Some rich-old-man-fake-relative nonsense. I almost delete it, but something in the tone feels too specific. Too deliberate. The phone rings this time. I answer out of instinct. “Miss Hart,” a man’s deep voice says, crisp and steady. “My name is Howard. I represent the late Mr. Charles Steele’s estate. It’s vital that you receive and acknowledge a document addressed to you personally. May I confirm your office address?” “I think you’ve got the wrong person,” I stammer. “I don’t know any Charles Steele.” “You may not,” he says calmly, “but he knew you.” And then the line goes dead. I stare at my phone, pulse racing. A soft ping makes me jump, a new email, from howard@steelecorp.com. Real company address. Real corporate logo. The subject line reads: Inheritance Notice: Ms. Rose Hart. It feels like my heart stops. I click it open, half expecting a virus, but instead there’s a short message and an attached letter marked Confidential, Last Will and Testament. The message reads: “Please expect formal documents to be hand-delivered today at 4:00 p.m. You are requested to be present to sign acknowledgment of receipt. Mr. Steele’s instructions were specific and time-sensitive.” I glance around the office like someone might be pranking me, but everyone’s busy. No cameras, no jokes. Just the quiet hum of legal exhaustion. I try to focus on work, but my mind keeps circling back. Why would a billionaire know my name? I’ve never even met anyone that wealthy. My parents died when I was a teenager; I grew up in foster homes. There’s no connection. By 3:50, I’ve convinced myself not to open the door for anyone. At exactly 4:00, a tall man in a gray suit steps into the firm’s lobby. He’s carrying a sleek black envelope sealed with gold wax. Tara buzzes my desk, whispering, “There’s a man here for you. He says it’s urgent.” I hesitate, then walk out. The man’s expression is professional, unreadable. “Miss Hart?” “Yes.” He hands me the envelope. “You are requested to read and acknowledge receipt. Please sign here.” I sign automatically, my hand trembling. When I look up, he’s already walking away. Inside the envelope is a single-page letter on heavy paper. To Miss Rose Hart, You are hereby notified that you are listed as a named beneficiary in the last will and testament of the late Mr. Charles Steele. Details of your inheritance will be disclosed during the formal reading on Friday at Steele Mansion, 10:00 a.m. Attendance is mandatory. Sincerely, Howard Leighton, Executor of the Estate I reread it three times. The words don’t change. Beneficiary. Steele Mansion. Attendance mandatory. The room feels smaller, the air heavier. “Everything okay?” Tara asks softly. “Yeah,” I lie. “Just… weird letter.” The rest of the day drags like a dream that won’t end. My thoughts scatter through every possibility, distant relatives, mistaken identity, elaborate scam. But the letter’s texture, the seal, the signature, all real. Too real. That night, back in my apartment, I toss my keys onto the counter and collapse onto the couch. The letter lies on the coffee table, staring back at me like a challenge. I pick it up again, tracing the embossed Steele crest with my thumb. It feels almost… familiar. A memory flashes, faint, almost forgotten. A man in a gray coat handing me a small silver pendant when I was eight. He’d told the orphanage matron, “She’ll need this someday.” The pendant had a symbol engraved on it, the same crest. I grab my old jewelry box from the drawer, my hands shaking. Inside, tangled between cheap earrings and paper clips, is the pendant. I hold it next to the letter. The symbols match perfectly. My heart pounds so hard it hurts. I whisper, “What is happening?” As if in answer, my phone buzzes again. Unknown number. Same one as before. I hesitate, then answer. “Miss Hart,” Howard’s voice says smoothly, “I trust you’ve received the letter.” “I did,” I say slowly. “But I think you’ve made a mistake. I don’t have any connection to Mr. Steele.” “That will be discussed at the mansion,” he replies. “Friday, ten sharp. Do not be late.” “I’m not sure I should” “Miss Hart,” he interrupts, firm this time, “this concerns your family.” “My family?” “You’ll understand when you see the will.” The line goes dead again. I sit frozen, the hum of my old refrigerator filling the silence. Family. The word feels heavy, almost foreign. I stare at the pendant again. Then at the letter. The same symbol. The same feeling crawling up my spine, curiosity tangled with fear. Maybe it’s a trick. Maybe it’s nothing. But if it’s real… I can’t shake the thought: what if my entire life, the struggle, the loneliness,has been built on a truth I was never meant to find? I fold the letter carefully, set it beside the pendant, and whisper to the empty room, “Friday it is, then.” A knock at the door startles me. Three sharp raps. I glance at the clock. 9:48 p.m. No one visits me at night. I walk to the door, heart racing. “Who is it?” Silence. Another knock, harder this time. I peek through the peephole. A man in a dark suit stands there, motionless. I can’t see his face, but in his hand is something small and metallic, the same silver pendant I’m holding in mine. The lights flicker once. Then he looks directly into the peephole, as if he knows I’m watching. And smiles.