CHAPTER 2 — Terms of the Table
1338 Words
Ashcroft Tower did not announce itself.
It didn’t need to.
The building rose from the city like a decision already made—glass and steel cutting cleanly through the morning haze. No banners. No logos screaming importance. Just height, silence, and the unspoken understanding that power lived here.
Aurelia stopped at the curb and looked up once.
Only once.
Then she stepped inside.
The lobby was all marble and restraint. Neutral tones. Soft lighting. People moved with purpose but without urgency, like they trusted time to obey them. Security glanced at her, not suspicious—curious.
She gave her name.
“Aurelia Vale. I’m expected.”
The receptionist didn’t ask questions. She checked the screen, nodded, and handed her a visitor badge.
“Top floor. Private elevator.”
Of course it was.
The elevator ride was silent.
Aurelia watched her reflection in the mirrored walls. Simple black dress. Flat shoes. Hair tied back neatly. She looked… composed.
Not impressive.
Not invisible.
Acceptable.
The doors opened directly into an office that felt less like a workspace and more like a controlled environment.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the room, revealing the city stretched beneath them like a map someone else owned. A long table sat in the center—dark wood, polished, intimidating in its simplicity.
Julian Ashcroft stood near the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest informality without surrendering authority.
He turned when he heard her.
“You’re punctual.”
“So are deadlines,” Aurelia replied.
A corner of his mouth lifted.
“Sit.”
Not a request.
She did.
He didn’t.
Julian circled the table slowly, hands clasped behind his back, studying her the way men studied numbers they hadn’t yet decided to acquire.
“You know who I am,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You know what I do.”
“Yes.”
“You know this meeting isn’t charity.”
“Yes.”
He stopped across from her.
“Good. That saves time.”
He slid a folder onto the table.
No logo. No flourish.
Inside were documents—clean, minimal, legal.
“Six months,” Julian said. “Temporary contract. Personal assistant.”
Aurelia blinked once.
“Assistant,” she repeated. “To you.”
“Yes.”
Her gaze lifted, sharp.
“You don’t hire waitresses to manage your schedule.”
“I don’t,” he agreed calmly. “I hire competence.”
She didn’t open the folder.
“You watched me pour wine and decided I was competent?”
“I watched you handle disrespect without shrinking,” Julian corrected. “I watched you recognize power without begging it to be kind.”
Silence pressed between them.
“You followed me,” she said.
“Yes.”
“That alone disqualifies this from being professional.”
Julian leaned against the table, unbothered.
“Professionalism,” he said, “is a performance. Control is what matters.”
Her fingers curled lightly against her knee.
“And you think I want to work for someone who confuses the two?”
“I think,” he said, eyes steady, “you want a door.”
She exhaled slowly.
“What door?”
“The one you’ve been standing in front of for years without knowing how to open.”
She laughed quietly.
“You’re assuming a lot.”
“I’m observing,” he replied. “You’re educated. Underemployed. You know how to read people. You don’t panic under pressure. And you’re tired of serving tables where men like me talk over you.”
Her smile thinned.
“You don’t know me.”
“No,” Julian agreed. “But I recognize hunger.”
That did it.
Aurelia leaned back in her chair.
“Let’s be clear,” she said evenly. “I won’t be grateful.”
“I don’t need gratitude.”
“I won’t be loyal.”
“Loyalty is earned.”
“And I won’t tolerate disrespect.”
Julian’s eyes darkened—not offended.
Impressed.
“Good,” he said. “Neither do I.”
She finally opened the folder.
The terms were generous. Almost offensive in how easily they could change her life.
Salary that dwarfed her current income. Access. Exposure. Confidentiality clauses thick enough to choke on.
And expectations.
“Personal assistant,” she murmured. “You travel often.”
“Yes.”
“Long hours.”
“Yes.”
“Discretion.”
Always.
Her gaze lifted again.
“And the real reason?”
Julian didn’t answer immediately.
He walked back to the window, city reflecting faintly in the glass.
“Because,” he said slowly, “I don’t surround myself with people who want me.”
She frowned.
“I want results.”
Aurelia closed the folder.
“And if I say no?”
Julian turned.
“Then nothing changes,” he said simply. “You return to your life. I forget your name.”
A lie.
They both knew it.
“And if I say yes?”
“Then you stop waiting to be noticed.”
The silence that followed was not tense.
It was measured.
Aurelia stood.
She walked to the window, standing beside him, looking down at the city that had never bothered to look up at her.
Six months.
Six months of proximity to power.
Six months of learning how men like Julian Ashcroft moved their pieces.
She turned.
“I have conditions.”
Julian nodded once.
“Of course you do.”
“I don’t work after midnight unless I choose to.”
“Agreed.”
“No personal favors.”
“Obviously.”
“And if you ever forget that I’m here because I’m capable—not because I’m convenient—this ends.”
Julian met her gaze fully now.
For the first time, something real surfaced.
Respect.
“Deal,” he said.
She extended her hand.
He took it.
The contact was brief.
Controlled.
But the air shifted anyway.
Aurelia released his hand first.
“I’ll need two days’ notice to resign.”
“You start tomorrow.”
She smiled faintly.
“Of course I do.”
As she walked toward the elevator, Julian watched her back—straight, unhurried, unbowed.
He didn’t smile.
Because some investments didn’t begin with profit.
They began with risk.
And Aurelia Vale—
Was going to be expensive.
The elevator doors closed behind Aurelia with a muted sigh.
Only then did she allow herself to breathe out.
Not relief.
Focus.
Her reflection stared back at her from the mirrored walls—unchanged, composed, unreadable. But something beneath the surface had shifted, like a foundation quietly reinforced while the building above still looked the same.
Six months.
Six months of watching how power negotiated, punished, rewarded.
Six months of proximity to a man who didn’t mistake kindness for weakness.
The elevator descended smoothly, obediently.
Aurelia straightened her shoulders.
She wasn’t naive enough to believe this was opportunity without cost. Men like Julian Ashcroft didn’t open doors without expecting something in return—if not obedience, then excellence. If not loyalty, then results.
Good.
She had results.
When the doors opened onto the lobby, the marble floor felt different beneath her feet. Not because it had changed—but because she had.
Outside, the city roared on, unaware that anything had shifted.
Aurelia stepped onto the sidewalk, the wind tugging lightly at her coat.
Tomorrow, she would walk back into Ashcroft Tower not as a waitress who served tables—but as a woman who would learn how they were owned.
And somewhere on the top floor, Julian Ashcroft stood alone by the window long after she’d left.
He hadn’t moved.
Because in all his years of negotiations, acquisitions, and hostile takeovers, very few people had looked him in the eye and set terms.
Fewer still had walked away first.
Julian exhaled slowly.
“Yes,” he murmured to the empty room. “She’ll do.”
Not because she was easy to control.
But because she wasn’t.
That was the danger.
And the appeal.
- Writer
