Tension In The Air
1365 Words
Emma
I woke up before my alarm again.
It’s becoming a habit now, waking up with a jolt, like my body already knows it’s time to face the pressure. My feet hit the floor before I could even think about crawling back under the covers. There’s no space for hesitation this morning. Not when this job feels like I’m walking a wire with no safety net.
In the mirror, I check my reflection twice. Blush pink blouse tucked into sleek black pants, my hair tied in a low bun, and small gold hoops I borrowed from a thrift store bin months ago. I look... prepared. Calm. Maybe even confident. But underneath the layers, my nerves are twisting themselves into knots.
Noah’s in the kitchen this time, pouring cereal into a chipped bowl.
“You’re up early again,” he says, glancing at me over his spoon.
“Second day. I can’t exactly show up late and give them a reason to fire me.”
“You’re not going to get fired,” he says, mouth half-full. “Unless you tell another CEO he’s a jerk to his face.”
I shot him a look. “Don’t remind me.”
Noah grins. “Just saying, maybe steer clear of insulting any higher-ups today, yeah?”
“I’ll do my best.”
We leave the apartment together, and I watch him hop on his usual bus before heading to the subway. The commute feels faster today, like my legs already know the rhythm of where I’m going. But when I walk into Cross Enterprises, the weight on my chest doesn’t ease.
It returns the moment I pass through security, sharp and invisible, like walking into a building made of eyes. Everyone looks like they belong here. Everyone walks like they’re sure of their place. And I… don’t.
I made it to the elevator and rode up in silence, praying for a normal day.
When I step into my office, the secretary is already waiting.
“Mr. Cross would like you to bring his coffee this morning,” she says, handing me a ceramic travel cup.
I blink. “Me?”
She nods, eyes unreadable. “You.”
I stare at the cup like it’s a ticking bomb. “Does he usually—?”
“No.”
Great.
With a deep breath, I headed toward his office, feeling that familiar tension crawl up my spine. I knock once, twice.
“Come in.”
His voice is even, unreadable. I open the door and step in carefully. He stands by the window, hands tucked into his pockets, gazing out at the city below.
“Your coffee,” I say, placing it on the edge of his desk.
He turns slowly, his eyes landing on me like a quiet storm.
“I didn’t ask for it with cream.”
I stiffen. “It was handed to me that way.”
He raises a brow. “So you followed instructions without checking?”
I met his gaze, jaw tightening. “Isn’t that what assistants are meant to do?”
A tense beat passes.
Then, unexpectedly, he gives a soft, almost amused sound. A breath of a laugh.
“So you do follow orders... selectively.”
I didn’t reply. My fingers twitch at my sides.
He steps forward, closer than necessary.
“I’ll manage,” he says, lifting the cup.
“But next time, ask. Even if the request comes from someone else.”
I nod once. “Understood.”
His gaze lingers on me for a moment too long, like he’s searching for something in my expression.
“Anything else?” I ask, more to break the silence than anything.
“Close the door on your way out.”
And just like that, I’m dismissed.
By midday, the tension from that exchange was still clinging to me. I try to bury myself at work, scheduling calls, replying to emails, coordinating his calendar, but the thought of those sharp eyes watching me, calculating, keeps dragging me under.
Lunchtime arrives, but I’m not hungry. Still, I head to the cafeteria, partly for the break, partly just to breathe somewhere else.
It’s a mistake.
From the second I walk in, I feel the shift. Conversations dip in volume. Heads tilt. The same as yesterday, but worse. Like now, I’m not just the new girl. I’m the new girl who has Damien Cross’s attention. And apparently, that’s enough to paint a target on my back.
I grab a small salad and sit at the far end of the room. Alone. Again.
A group of women, a few tables away, whisper and laugh. I don’t know if it’s about me. Maybe it isn’t. But the glances they toss in my direction are enough to make the food taste like paper.
I eat quickly and leave faster.
Back at my desk, I bury myself in tasks again. But the more I work, the more I feel eyes watching. From the hallway. The open-glass walls. Like every move I make is being silently judged.
At one point, a man in a tailored navy suit stops by to drop off documents. He knocks lightly, flashing a quick, friendly smile.
“You must be the infamous new assistant,” he says, his tone light and teasing.
I blinked, surprised by the friendliness. “That’s me. Emma.”
“Jackson,” he replies, setting the files down gently. I handle legal affairs, but I tend to wander into everyone’s business. Fair warning.”
I let out a small laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He leans casually against the doorframe for a second, as if he has time to spare. “So, how’s the second day treating you?”
I shrug. “A little overwhelming, but I’m hanging in there.”
Jackson nods knowingly. “Yeah, that’s how it starts. Everyone’s polite in the first week. Then they start showing teeth.”
“Comforting,” I deadpan.
He grins. “Just keep doing your job, keep your head down… and maybe keep some chocolate in your desk. Works wonders.”
“I’ll write that down.”
He starts to leave, then pauses and glances over his shoulder. “Let’s see how long you last.”
Before I can ask what he means, he’s gone.
The hours drag after that. Damien doesn’t call me again. Doesn’t send another message. Nothing. It’s like that morning interaction never happened. Still, I feel him everywhere.
When five-thirty hits, I started packing up. Just as I close my laptop, I notice something new on my desk. A plain envelope with my name typed on the front.
Inside is a short note, printed and crisp:
**Tomorrow. 8:30 AM. Bring your ID. Don’t be late. —D.C.**
No explanation. No context.
I stare at it for a full minute.
My heart taps against my ribs.
What is this?
Is it normal for assistants to follow their bosses somewhere on day three? Is this a test? A punishment? A setup?
I have no idea. But I know one thing: I’ll be there.
When I get home, Noah’s curled up on the couch, watching some superhero movie with the sound too loud.
“You’re home early,” he says, muting it.
“It’s after six.”
He grins. “Early for you.”
I kicked off my shoes and collapsed beside him.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I pause. “Work is just… intense.”
He studies me like he wants to ask more, but doesn’t.
“Still not cursing out the boss again, right?”
I smirk faintly. “No promises.”
We eat leftovers for dinner and talk about everything except the job. It’s easier that way. I don’t want to drag the stress of Damien Cross into our little world.
Later, in bed, I stare at the note again.
Tomorrow, 8:30 AM.
No hint of where we’re going. No agenda. No reason. Just instructions. And something about the way he wrote it
Feels intentional. Like he’s pulling strings. I can’t see yet.
I close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t come easily.
Because something tells me tomorrow will change everything.
- Writer
