Disposable
643 Words
The clatter of dishes and muffled laughter from the dining room filtered through the cracked kitchen door.
Amira stood by the sink, her fingers raw from scrubbing the last set of wine glasses Cassandra had used for some friends the night before. They hadn’t even bothered to clean up after themselves—not that anyone expected them to.
She glanced at the clock. 8:07 a.m. She hadn’t slept. Not really. After getting home from the hotel, she’d laid in bed with her arms wrapped around her knees, staring at the ceiling until the sky turned gray.
Now here she was, cleaning up after people who didn’t want her there.
“You’re still not done?” a voice drawled behind her.
Amira turned. Cassandra leaned against the doorframe in a silk robe, a phone in hand, one brow raised.
“You’re lucky we let you stay here. Don’t start slacking,” she added, eyes narrowing. “Or maybe Dad should finally hear how lazy you really are.”
Amira turned back to the sink without a word.
“Oh right,” Cassandra added, “I forgot. You actually have a job too. Delivering pizza, or champagne, or something pitiful. I can’t keep up. Either way, it’s not exactly daughter-of-the-household behavior, is it?”
“I never claimed to be anyone’s daughter,” Amira said quietly.
Cassandra didn’t respond. She didn’t need to.
⸻
By noon, the house had emptied. Cassandra went to the spa. Her father had long left for the office. The silence should’ve felt peaceful, but all it did was remind Amira she didn’t belong.
She changed into jeans and a hoodie, then sat at the edge of her bed, scrolling through her work app. But when she logged in, a red banner flashed across the screen.
“SwiftDrop has ceased operations in your area. We’re sorry for the inconvenience.”
Her stomach sank.
This had to be a glitch. She refreshed the page. Tried again.
Same message.
No job. No money. Nothing.
Her throat tightened.
This job might have been beneath everyone else in the house, but it had been her only escape. Her only way to feel some control. And now, even that was gone.
She stood up, pacing the room, then grabbed her laptop and pulled up a job search site. Most listings were for nannies, call center reps, baristas. She applied to five without thinking, but paused when one caught her eye.
Position: Personal Secretary to CEO of Orion Tech Group
Competitive pay. Strict screening. Discretion required.
Her heart skipped. Orion Tech?
It was the city’s biggest conglomerate. The CEO—Killian Cross—was young, reclusive, and feared. Some people whispered that he ran his company like a fortress. Others claimed he was untouchable, a genius with zero tolerance for incompetence.
It was probably a long shot.
But something about the listing pulled at her.
Discretion required.
She clicked apply.
⸻
The Next Morning
Amira stood outside the glass skyscraper that housed Orion Tech, clutching her resume in a manila folder, her heart hammering in her chest.
The building stretched high into the clouds, wrapped in dark steel and blue-tinted windows. It looked like it had been carved out of power itself.
She wasn’t sure what scared her more—being rejected, or being accepted.
The receptionist led her to the 39th floor. “You’ll be called in shortly,” she said without looking up.
Amira sat, smoothing the wrinkles in her skirt. Her eyes scanned the modern decor—sleek furniture, bold lines, quiet power.
Then the door to the inner office opened.
A man stepped out, tall and dressed in black, his presence like a sudden drop in temperature.
Her breath caught.
It was him.
The man from the hotel.
The one who had taken everything from her… and left without a word.
Killian Cross.
- Writer
