Chapter ten
1077 Words
By the third month, I had finally settled into something that almost felt like control.
My schedules were aligned, no hidden files were waiting to ruin my life, and for once, nothing was actively collapsing under my watch.
That was exactly when Adrian called me in.
I stepped into his office with my notebook ready, expecting another scheduling adjustment or a last-minute executive reshuffle.
“I need you to handle a personal task,” he said without preamble.
I paused.
Not work. Not schedules.
Personal.
“…personal?” I repeated, just to be sure I hadn’t misheard.
“Yes.”
That was all the explanation I got.
I waited a second. Nothing.
“…what kind of personal task?” I asked.
Instead of answering directly, he slid a folder toward me. I picked it up and opened it, expecting something simple.
It wasn’t.
It was a full event brief.
Private dinner. Eight guests. High-profile names I recognized immediately from internal reports—investors, a government liaison, two executives from a partner firm, and one name circled twice in pen like it mattered more than the rest.
I scanned faster.
Venue: undecided.
Catering: not confirmed.
Security: required but discreet.
Seating: to be optimized.
Dietary preferences: detailed and specific.
One guest was allergic to shellfish. Another didn’t eat red meat. Someone preferred low sodium meals. Someone else had a note beside their name: sensitive to delays.
I blinked.
“This isn’t just dinner,” I said.
“No.”
I looked up. “This is negotiation.”
“Yes.”
That explained the level of detail.
I looked back at the document, mind already working through it. This wasn’t about food. It was about control. About positioning. About making sure every person in that room felt exactly what they were supposed to feel.
Comfortable. Important. Strategically placed.
“And you want me to handle all of this?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I hesitated.
There were other assistants. Senior ones. People who had been here longer, who understood these dynamics better than I did.
“…why me?”
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
There was a brief pause.
Then—
“Because I like you, Elena.”
My brain… stopped.
Just stopped.
No processing. No reaction. Just silence.
“And I need it done now,” he added calmly, already returning his attention to his desk like he hadn’t just said something that required follow-up.
“…okay,” I said automatically.
I closed the folder, turned, and walked out of the office.
Calm.
Composed.
Professional.
I made it three steps.
Then stopped.
Wait.
I turned slightly, staring at the door like it might explain itself.
“…he said he liked me.”
Pause.
My brain restarted.
Wait.
Wait.
“Like me… like me?” I whispered.
I immediately shook my head.
No.
No, that didn’t make sense.
That was not what he meant.
“He means he likes my work,” I corrected quickly, starting to walk again. “Yes. That’s it. That’s normal. That’s professional.”
Pause.
“…but he didn’t say that.”
I stopped again.
“Oh hell no.”
I resumed walking, faster this time.
“My boss does not have a crush on me,” I muttered under my breath. “That is not happening. That is not real. That is not my life.”
Because first of all—him?
‘ Wait what happened to him?,he is a very handsome man and I'm pretty sure his rod is very efficient’ my conscious spoke back to me
We are not having explicit thoughts today shut up
Second of all—me?
Third of all—no.
Absolutely not.
I reached my desk and dropped into my chair, placing the folder down like it had personally caused this confusion.
“Focus,” I told myself. “Task first. Crisis later.”
I opened the file again.
Eight guests.
Different personalities. Different expectations.
This wasn’t just planning a dinner—it was engineering an outcome.
I grabbed my pen and started breaking it down.
First: venue.
It couldn’t be public. Too much risk. Too many variables. It had to be private, controlled, and quiet—but still impressive. Somewhere that looked effortless but was actually highly managed.
I jotted down options. Private dining suites. Boutique hotels. Even a secured residence.
Second: seating.
That mattered more than anything.
I sketched a rough table layout, placing names carefully. The investor who preferred control needed to sit opposite Adrian, not beside him. The government liaison had to be positioned between two neutral parties to avoid tension. The circled name—I paused—whoever they were, they needed proximity. Close enough for direct engagement.
“Interesting,” I muttered.
Third: food.
I flipped back to the dietary notes. No shellfish. No red meat. Low sodium. Preferences layered on top of restrictions.
This wasn’t a menu. It was a test.
Every plate had to feel personalized without drawing attention to itself.
Fourth: timing.
The dinner couldn’t drag. It couldn’t feel rushed either. Every course needed to align with conversation flow. Heavy discussions before dessert. Lighter ones after.
I tapped my pen against the desk.
“This is insane,” I murmured.
But I was already solving it.
Because this—this level of detail, this kind of structured chaos—this was something I understood.
Unlike—
“…because I like you.”
I stopped writing.
“No,” I said immediately. “We are not doing this again.”
I straightened in my chair.
“Professional interpretation only. He trusts your work. That is all. End of discussion.”
That made sense.
It had to.
Because anything else—
No.
I got back to work.
I drafted a full plan. Venue options with pros and risks. A finalized seating chart with reasoning. A sample menu that met every requirement without feeling restricted. A timeline broken down to the minute.
By the time I finished, everything was precise.
Controlled.
Perfect.
I leaned back slightly, reviewing it one last time.
Satisfied.
“See?” I muttered. “We are focused. We are capable. We are not thinking about—”
Pause.
“…him saying he likes me.”
I closed the file.
Stood up.
“…it didn’t mean anything,” I said firmly.
Then I picked up the folder and headed back to his office.
Because whatever he meant,
the task still had to be done.
- Writer
