First Day
1763 Words
The door clicked shut behind her with the quiet finality of a secret being sealed.
Caelia stood in the corridor, fingers still curled loosely around the appointment letter Dmitri Volkov had handed her. It felt heavier than it should have. Not because of the paper — but because of what it meant.
She followed the assistant through another wing of the office — this one quieter, more private. The walls were a deep matte grey, broken only by minimalist nameplates beside tall glass doors. Sunlight spilled through wide windows at the far end, illuminating the soft, charcoal-toned carpet underfoot.
“This is yours,” the woman said, stopping in front of a frosted-glass door with a brushed silver handle.
The door had no name on it. Just a thin horizontal strip of black near the center.
Beside it — to the right — was another door. Sleek. Tinted. Marked simply: Luca Volkov.
Her pulse jumped once, hard, then settled.
The assistant pushed her door open.
Caelia stepped inside.
---
The room wasn’t large, but it screamed elegance.
A clean black desk sat in the center, facing the door. Behind it — a tall bookshelf in smoked wood, filled with neatly arranged files, a few hardcover books, and three sculpture pieces in matte stone. There was a light grey velvet chair behind the desk, and two minimalist visitor chairs in front.
To the left, a large window overlooked the city skyline — floor-to-ceiling, filtered by sheer white drapes. Soft sunlight stretched across the pale oak floor, warming the subtle monochrome tones.
On the far right wall was a sliding door. Closed.
She could feel it.
That door led to Luca’s office.
Her heart beat a little louder in her chest.
---
She walked over to the desk and placed her file down.
Ran her hand once over the cool surface.
It was real wood. Not laminate. Not faux.
Her lips twitched. Not quite a smile.
But not far from it either.
She reached for her phone.
---
"Xyz💗" – her brother's name in her contacts – was already at the top.
She tapped call.
“Hello?” came his voice, soft and sleepy.
She smiled.
“Hey,” she said. “Got the job.”
He was quiet for a second. “Wait, seriously? That fast?”
“Yeah.”
“...Is it legit?”
Caelia laughed under her breath. “I knew you’d say that.”
“I mean—come on, Lia. You said it’s Volkov Industries. You’re telling me they just handed you a senior secretary position on day one?”
“They did.”
“...Did you sign something?”
“Yes, Xyz. I signed something. There’s a letter. An office. A desk.”
“A desk?? Brooo—” he whistled low. “Okay, okay. I’m impressed.”
She could hear the grin in his voice now. It loosened something in her chest.
“I’m proud of you,” he said.
Her fingers curled slightly into her palm.
“Thanks.”
“...But it’s still fishy.”
“There it is,” she teased.
“I’m just saying—rich people don’t give away power for free. Watch your back.”
“I always do.”
“...Come home soon, yeah?”
“I will.”
She didn’t sleep easily.
But when sleep came, it was deep.
The kind that drowns you — slow and heavy — in exhaustion you hadn’t realized you were carrying. She hadn’t even changed. Just curled into her blanket with her phone beside her pillow, the faint glow of the city lights painting her ceiling.
---
The next morning.
The alarm rang at 5:47 AM.
She didn’t snooze.
Caelia sat up slowly, rubbing her hands over her face, trying to chase the grogginess from her eyes. The soft mattress creaked under her as she stood and stretched, arms reaching high.
Her apartment was small — just one bedroom, a narrow kitchen, and a living space with a frayed couch and a table that leaned slightly left. But it was hers.
The kitchen smelled faintly of cardamom and soap from the dishes she’d washed last night. She tied her hair up in a loose bun, then reached for the kettle.
Boiled water. Two tea bags. Some leftover flatbread from yesterday.
Simple, but warm.
She made breakfast quietly — eggs, toast, and a cup of tea.
A small photo frame sat on the kitchen ledge. A younger version of her and Xyz, both smiling through cracked teeth and messy hair.
She touched it once. Just a brush of fingers.
Then moved on.
---
The shower water was ice-cold at first.
She didn’t flinch.
She washed her hair, scrubbing the blood and stress from yesterday down the drain.
Let the steam fog up the mirror as she toweled off.
She dressed slowly.
Today mattered.
---
Outfit:
A crisp beige blouse — not too fitted, but structured.
Tucked into high-waisted black trousers. Sharp creases.
Low nude heels.
Silver chain. Simple studs.
Her watch — old but polished.
She pinned her hair into a low twist, then applied soft nude lipstick.
No mascara. No eyeliner.
She didn’t want to look like she was trying.
One last glance in the mirror.
She looked… capable.
She picked up her black handbag, checked for the papers, and walked out.
8:39 AM. Volkov Industries.
She stepped out of the elevator into the executive floor.
And instantly felt it.
Eyes.
Not loud ones — not the dramatic, gasping kind.
But subtle. Pinched. Lingered.
The kind that burn into your shoulder blades with every step.
Her heels clicked softly on the marble.
Two women whispered near the espresso counter. One man from HR looked her up and down too quickly. An assistant straightened her posture the moment Caelia passed.
She didn’t acknowledge any of them.
Her posture stayed perfect. Her expression — unreadable.
She walked to her cabin and unlocked the door.
Inside, it still felt pristine. As if untouched since yesterday.
She placed her bag in the drawer, fixed the cuffs of her blouse, and took a seat.
Power hummed in the walls of this building — and today, she was part of it.
A soft knock at the door broke the quiet.
She looked up.
Viktor.
Sharp suit. Military precision in posture. Cold eyes that flickered with recognition — she’d seen him outside the hospital that night.
“Mr. Volkov requested the quarterly reports. I’ll help you find the archives.”
“Luca or Dmitri?” she asked softly.
He raised a brow. “The son.”
Her pulse flicked once under her skin.
“Understood.”
---
They walked together through a sleek corridor to the internal data archive.
She stayed a step behind, listening to Viktor’s low explanations of the systems — fast, direct, no wasted words.
She took mental notes, repeated figures in her head.
Back at her desk, she began to format the files — spreadsheets, filtered reports, scanned signatures. She moved quickly, fingers flying over the keyboard with focused rhythm.
By the time the clock hit 10:02 AM, she had it printed, filed, clipped, and placed in the silver tray outside Luca’s door.
Not even a minute later, her intercom buzzed.
“Meeting room 9B. Now.”
His voice.
She stood instantly.
She followed the long corridor to Room 9B — one of the highest-clearance conference halls in the entire building.
Two tall glass doors stood at the end, etched with the Volkov Industries crest.
A guard opened it as she approached without a word.
She stepped in—
And paused.
The room was beautiful.
A long obsidian table sat in the center — sleek, polished, reflective like black ice. High-backed chairs lined each side, leather and silver-trimmed. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city skyline, but thick grey drapes filtered the sun just enough to make everything inside glow like velvet.
A touchscreen board covered the far wall. Two assistants prepped presentations quietly. Bottled water and coffee trays were already placed neatly.
And at the head of the table—
Luca Volkov.
---
He was seated.
One arm draped loosely over the back of the chair. The other resting on the table, fingers tapping once every few seconds — slow, controlled, deliberate.
He wore a charcoal black suit, tailored so sharply it could’ve been stitched with precision blades.
The jacket hugged his frame perfectly, lapels smooth, collar sharp. His white shirt was buttoned clean, no tie — just like always — revealing the faint curve of his collarbone.
His watch glinted: silver Rolex, minimal face. Time didn’t control him — he wore it like armor.
His hair was styled back, not stiff with product but sculpted — like he’d run a hand through it and it fell just right. A single strand threatened to fall forward but never did.
His shoes — polished black leather, sleek with no visible stitching. Designer. Dead silent.
And then there was the scent.
She hadn’t even sat down yet, and it already curled in the air.
Amberwood. Leather. A whisper of smoke and frost.
Cold, addictive — the kind of cologne worn by men who never raised their voices because they never had to.
Luca didn’t look at her.
But he knew she’d walked in.
The others did.
They shifted in their seats — barely — but she saw it.
A flicker of surprise. Whispers passed behind hands. Some didn’t even try to hide their glances.
Why is she here?
Is she just a secretary?
She’s sitting beside him?
She didn’t look at them.
She walked straight to the empty chair on Luca’s right — the one already pulled out.
Waiting for her.
She sat, quietly. Back straight. Chin neutral. Heart loud.
---
The meeting began.
Screens lit. Slides clicked.
She didn’t speak. She wasn’t here to speak.
She was here to learn.
To observe.
To be present.
And Luca?
Luca didn’t say much either.
He just watched. Listened. Occasionally leaned forward to tap a finger against a chart. When he did speak — the room froze.
His voice was soft, but every syllable landed like a gavel.
Power didn’t need volume.
It only needed certainty.
---
And the whole time, Caelia took notes.
Not just of the data. Not just of the names.
But of him.
How people looked at him. How they waited for his nod before approving anything.
How he paused before answering questions — not to think, but to control the tempo of the room.
She was used to powerful men.
But not like this.
Not like Luca Volkov.
- Writer
