Under His Rule

Andrea

By Wednesday, I'd learned three things about working at Cole Industries:

One: Damien Cole ran the tightest ship in the entire city. Every process was optimized. Every person knew their role. Every minute was accounted for.

Two: The man himself was exhausting. Demanding. Impossible to please.

Three: I was starting to understand why.

"Ms. Mikaelson?"

I looked up from my laptop to find Trevor Lang, Damien's senior analyst, hovering awkwardly by my desk. He was early thirties, bookish, with glasses that kept sliding down his nose and an expression of permanent mild panic.

"Just Andrea," I said for the third time that week.

"Right. Andrea. Sorry." He adjusted his glasses. "Mr. Cole asked me to walk you through the quarterly financial models. Do you have a few minutes?"

I glanced at my screen. The market research I'd been compiling for Damien could wait. "Sure. Let's do it."

Trevor pulled up a chair, and for the next hour, he walked me through spreadsheets that looked like they were written in a foreign language.

"This column tracks projected revenue against actual," he explained, pointing at numbers that made my eyes cross. "And this one calculates variance as a percentage of—are you following?"

"Barely," I admitted. "My business classes covered this, but not at this level."

"It's a lot," he said sympathetically. "Mr. Cole's standards are... high."

"That's a diplomatic way of putting it."

Trevor almost smiled. "He's brilliant though. Once you understand how his mind works, it's actually fascinating. He sees patterns nobody else catches."

I thought about Damien—the way he could scan a document and immediately identify the weak points, the way he anticipated problems three steps ahead, the way he commanded a room without raising his voice.

"He's also terrifying," I said.

"Only if you're unprepared." Trevor pushed his glasses up. "If you know your material and can defend your reasoning, he respects that."

"Has he ever told you that directly?"

"God, no. But he keeps promoting me, so I assume I'm doing something right."

I laughed, surprising myself. It was the first time I'd laughed at work all week.

Trevor started to explain the next section, but a familiar voice cut through the ambient office noise.

"Ms. Mikaelson."

I turned.

Damien stood ten feet away, expression neutral, but something in his eyes looked sharp. Focused. "My office. Now."

My stomach dropped. "Did I—"

"Now."

He turned and walked away, expecting me to follow.

Trevor gave me a sympathetic look. "Good luck."

I grabbed my tablet and hurried after Damien, heart pounding. What had I done wrong? The market research wasn't due until tomorrow. I'd been on time every morning. I hadn't made any major mistakes.

Had I?

I followed him into his office. He closed the door behind me.

"Sit."

I sat.

He moved behind his desk but didn't sit. Instead, he stood there, arms crossed, looking at me with that unreadable expression he'd perfected.

"How are you finding the work?" he asked.

I blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"The assignments. The pace. The team. How are you adjusting?"

This was a trap. It had to be.

"Fine," I said carefully. "It's challenging, but I'm managing."

"Trevor said you struggled with the financial models."

My face flushed. "I'm learning. He was very helpful."

"You should have come to me."

"You said not to interrupt you unless it was urgent."

"Understanding the foundational structure of how this company operates qualifies as urgent."

I stared at him. "You told me to figure things out on my own."

"I said figure out your assignments. Not the basic tools you need to succeed." He finally sat, leaning back in his chair. "If you don't understand something, ask. I'd rather answer questions than correct mistakes later."

"Okay," I said slowly. "Can I ask you something now?"

"Go ahead."

"Why do you care?"

His expression shifted—just a fraction, but enough that I noticed. "What?"

"Why do you care if I understand financial models? Why check on my progress? Why bother at all?" I leaned forward. "You made it clear Friday that you think I'm going to fail. So why not just let me fail and prove you right?"

Silence stretched between us.

When he spoke, his voice was quieter. "Because proving me right isn't the goal. The goal is running a successful company. And if you're going to be here for twelve months, you're either going to be an asset or a liability. I prefer assets."

"So this is purely practical."

"Everything I do is practical."

I didn't believe him. There was something else underneath–something he wasn't saying.

"The market research you're working on," he said, changing the subject. "How close are you to finishing?"

"I can have it ready by tomorrow."

"I need it today. We have a client meeting at seven tonight, and I want to review your findings before then."

"Seven?" I checked my watch. It was already four-thirty. "That's two and a half hours."

"Is that a problem?"

Yes. It was absolutely a problem. But I thought about what Trevor said—if you know your material and can defend your reasoning, he respects that.

"I'll have it done," I said.

"Good." He turned to his computer, dismissing me.

I stood, then hesitated. "Damien?"

He looked up, surprised. I never used his first name at work.

"Thank you," I said. "For the advice about asking questions."

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Or something softer.

"You're welcome."

I left his office and practically ran back to my desk.

Two and a half hours. I could do this.

I dove into the research, fingers flying across the keyboard, cross-referencing sources, pulling data, building the analysis Damien needed. Jordan offered to help, but I waved him off—this was my assignment, my chance to prove I belonged here.

At six forty-five, I printed the final report, double-checked for typos, and headed back upstairs.

Clara was packing up for the day. "He's expecting you. Go ahead."

I knocked once and entered.

Damien was on the phone, pacing by the windows. He glanced at me, gestured for me to wait, and continued his conversation.

I stood awkwardly, holding the report, trying not to eavesdrop.

"No. The terms are non-negotiable... Because we're offering them the better deal and they know it... Then they can walk.

I'll find another partner in forty-eight hours." He ended the call and turned to me. "The report?"

I handed it over.

He scanned it, flipping through pages quickly, eyes moving with that sharp efficiency that made me nervous. I watched his face for any reaction—approval, disappointment, anything.

Nothing.

Finally, he looked up. "This is excellent work."

I nearly fell over. "Really?"

"The consumer segment analysis is particularly strong. You identified a gap our team missed." He set the report down. "I'm using this in the meeting. I'll credit you."

My chest swelled with something that felt dangerously like pride. "Thank you."

"You earned it." He checked his watch. "The meeting's in ten minutes. You should attend."

"Me?"

"You did the research. You should see how it's applied."

"I don't…I'm not prepared for a client meeting."

"You'll observe. Not participate." He grabbed his jacket. "Consider it part of your education."

The meeting was in the conference room down the hall. Three clients, two of Damien's executives, and me sitting quietly in the corner taking notes.

I watched Damien work.

He was mesmerizing. The way he commanded the room, anticipated objections, guided the conversation exactly where he wanted it. He used my research seamlessly, presenting the findings as if they were his own.

"I should note," he said, "this particular insight came from Andrea Mikaelson, who joined our team this week. She identified a consumer segment we'd overlooked."

Three sets of eyes turned to me.

I managed a professional smile, mind racing, heart pounding.

The lead client nodded. "Impressive work."

Damien didn't smile, but something in his eyes looked almost... proud?

The meeting concluded successfully. The clients left happy, contracts signed.

As everyone filed out, Damien caught my arm. "Stay a moment."

When we were alone, he said, "You did well today."

"I just did the research."

"You did thorough, insightful research and delivered it under pressure. That's the definition of doing well."

I stared at him, this impossible man who'd spent Monday treating me like a burden and was now giving me genuine praise.

"Why did you credit me in there?" I asked. "You could've presented it as your own work."

"Because it wasn't my work. It was yours." He held my gaze. "I don't take credit for what I haven't earned."

Something shifted in that moment. Some understanding clicked into place.

Damien Cole wasn't cruel. He demanded excellence because he demanded it from himself first.

"Thank you," I said quietly. "For the opportunity."

He nodded once. "Tomorrow, nine a.m."

"I know."

I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me.

"Andrea."

I glanced back.

"You might actually

survive here."

It wasn't quite a compliment. But coming from him, it felt like one.

I smiled. "I'm planning on it."