Chapter 2
1086 Words
The silence in his office was so thick I could hear the hum of the air conditioner.
Adrian Hayes because of course that was his name leaned back in his leather chair, arms folded across his chest, studying me like I was some puzzle he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve.
My brain was screaming: Of all the jobs in New York, I had to end up here?
“You’re late,” he said finally. His voice was sharp, clipped, the kind of tone that made you want to stand straighter whether you wanted to or not.
I swallowed. “I’m not late. The receptionist said..
“You’re late,” he repeated, cutting me off. “In my world, ten minutes early is on time. On the dot is late. And you—” his eyes flicked over me, from my braids to my scuffed shoes “—you’re very late.”
Heat crawled up my neck, but I forced my chin higher. “Well, in my world, surviving immigration lines, dragging a broken suitcase across Manhattan, and still showing up counts as a miracle. So maybe cut me some slack, boss.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost. But he caught it before it could escape.
“You’re Nigerian?” he asked, like he already knew but wanted to hear me confirm it.
“Yes. Problem?”
His brows lifted slightly, like he wasn’t expecting me to be so blunt. “Not at all,” he said smoothly. “I like Nigerians. They work hard.”
That sounded suspiciously like a stereotype, but I kept my mouth shut. Barely.
He gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit.”
I sat, clutching my bag to my chest like a shield.
“This position requires discretion, loyalty, and the ability to handle pressure. Why do you think you can handle it?” he asked.
Because I had survived a Nigerian stepmother who believed shouting was a love language, because I had hustled through rejection after rejection in publishing, because I had crossed an ocean with nothing but my notebooks and stubbornness.
But I didn’t say all that.
Instead, I said, “Because I don’t scare easily.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, like he was testing me. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “Don’t mistake working for me as a regular job, Miss…?”
“Okafor,” I supplied. “Chinelo Okafor.”
“Miss Okafor.” His voice wrapped around my name like silk laced with steel. “Working for me means sleepless nights, last-minute demands, and dealing with people who think tearing you apart is a sport. Can you handle that?”
I met his gaze head-on. “Can you handle me handling that?”
Silence. His lips parted slightly, then pressed into a firm line. Something flickered in his eyes—surprise? amusement? attraction?—before disappearing behind that cold billionaire mask again.
“You’ll do,” he said finally, leaning back.
Just like that. No smile, no handshake.
“You’re hiring me?” I asked, blinking.
“You’re not the worst candidate I’ve seen.” His tone was almost insulting, but after weeks of rejection emails, it felt like a win.
“Wow,” I muttered. “Don’t flatter me too much. My ego can’t take it.”
His mouth twitched again. For the briefest moment, I wondered what his real laugh would sound like.
The next hour was a blur of instructions. Passwords to memorize, schedules to manage, coffee preferences that sounded more like a science experiment than a drink order. I scribbled notes as fast as my hand could move.
At one point, he leaned over my desk to correct something on my laptop. His cologne clean, expensive, with a hint of something dark wrapped around me. My pulse betrayed me, skipping faster, and I hated it.
Focus, Chinelo. He’s your boss. He’s arrogant. He’s—okay, yes, he’s hot, but still.
“Something wrong?” he asked, too close.
I jerked back. “No. Perfect. Everything’s… perfect.”
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t push.
By lunchtime, my brain was fried. I escaped to the break room, clutching a sad tuna sandwich I’d bought from the deli downstairs.
I barely took two bites before a voice cut through the room.
“So you’re the new assistant.”
I looked up. A tall, blonde woman in a pencil skirt leaned against the counter, sipping her green juice. Her smile was too sweet to be genuine.
“Yep,” I said, chewing. “That’s me.”
“I’m Melissa,” she said. “Executive assistant to Mr. Hayes Senior. You know, the actual boss of this company.”
I nodded politely, even though her tone made my teeth itch.
“Just a word of advice,” she continued, lowering her voice. “Don’t get too comfortable. Adrian Hayes chews through assistants like gum. You’ll last maybe a week.”
I swallowed my bite slowly, meeting her gaze. “Thanks for the pep talk, Melissa. Very motivational.”
Her smile faltered. She gave me one last up-and-down look before walking off.
Great. Office politics already.
Back at my desk, Adrian was waiting. His eyes flicked to my sandwich wrapper.
“You’re eating that?” he asked.
“Yes?” I said, confused.
“You’ll need more fuel if you’re keeping up with me. Order something decent next time.”
I bristled. “Not all of us can afford to dine at five-star restaurants every day.”
His lips curved into that almost-smile again. “Then maybe you should stick around long enough to earn it.”
My chest tightened, heat rising for reasons I refused to analyze.
I turned back to my computer, forcing my voice to stay steady. “I didn’t come to New York to be anyone’s assistant forever. This is temporary.”
He leaned back in his chair, studying me again. “Then why did you come?”
I hesitated. Saying it out loud felt too vulnerable. But something in his gaze made me answer anyway.
“To write. To prove I can.”
For a second, something softened in his expression. Then it was gone.
“Ambition,” he said. “I like that. Just don’t let it distract you.”
I bit back the retort that burned on my tongue.
Because the truth was, I couldn’t decide if Adrian Hayes was going to ruin me… or inspire me.
Maybe both.
- Writer
