Chapter 2
934 Words
Nathaniel’s POV
I can always tell the mood of the office from the silence that greets me.
Today, it’s suffocating.
The moment I walk through the glass doors of Blackwood Tower, conversations screech to a halt. Shoes shuffle. Throats clear. No one dares meet my eyes, which is just the way I like it. Respect, after all, is built on a foundation of fear.
Lena, my executive assistant, falls into step beside me as I stride through the marble lobby.
“Your nine o’clock finance meeting is on the schedule, sir. Olivia will be waiting upstairs.”
“She better have answers.”
I don’t stop walking. I don’t need to. They move for me.
In the elevator, I adjust the cuffs of my suit jacket. Black. Tailored. Italian. It fits like a second skin. I catch my reflection in the mirrored panel—sharp cheekbones, colder eyes. I look like a man who doesn't tolerate bullshit. Good. Because I don’t.
When the doors part on the thirty-fifth floor, my domain opens up before me—floor-to-ceiling windows, black marble, glass walls that reflect the Manhattan skyline and my empire with equal clarity.
Olivia’s already inside my office, gripping a file like a lifeline.
“Talk,” I say.
“Good morning, Mr. Blackwood,” she offers weakly, stepping forward. “I’ve brought the projections you asked for.”
“And the explanation for the quarter-million-dollar discrepancy in logistics?”
She flinches.
“We… we ran into customs issues with the overseas vendors. There were penalties due to delayed clearance—”
“Which I warned your team about two months ago,” I snap, crossing to the desk. “Why am I repeating myself, Olivia?”
“We tried to reroute through Singapore—”
“‘Tried’ is the language of failure.”
I lean forward, placing my hands flat on the desk. The silence between us stretches taut. I want her to sweat. I want her to feel the pressure of my expectations like a weight on her lungs.
“You’ve been with this company three years. I trusted you with oversight. If you can’t follow through on something this fundamental, why are you still here?”
Her throat bobs. “I can fix it, sir. Just give me until—”
“No.”
One word. Sharp. Final.
“Peterson’s out,” I say. “Garcia takes over supply chain immediately. She actually listens.”
“Yes, sir,” she whispers, eyes cast down.
“Get out.”
She leaves without another word.
I sink into my chair and roll my shoulders once, letting the anger ebb. I don’t enjoy reprimanding people—but I didn’t build this empire by letting mediocrity slide.
I press the intercom. “Lena.”
“Yes, Mr. Blackwood.”
“Start the interviews.”
She pauses. “For the assistant position?”
“Let’s see if there’s anyone in this city who actually knows what they’re doing.”
Because God knows, I’m done cleaning up everyone else’s messes.
---
Camille’s POV
The mirror in my budget hotel bathroom is cracked in the corner, which somehow feels metaphorically appropriate.
I smooth down the lapels of the borrowed blazer—Natalie’s, a little tight across the shoulders—and whisper a pep talk that barely sounds convincing even to me.
“You’ve got this.”
My reflection doesn’t argue, but she doesn’t look sure either.
I haven’t slept. My stomach is a twisted knot of anxiety and last night’s vending machine dinner. But I’m here. In New York. In the city that promises a thousand second chances if you’ve got the guts to grab one.
Today’s the day.
I grab my small folder—resume, ID, a printed copy of the ad I found—and sling my purse over my shoulder.
The streets outside are a blur of noise and motion. Cabs honk. Strangers brush past me. The whole city feels like it’s moving at double speed, and I’m just trying not to fall behind.
When I finally reach the address, I stop dead.
Blackwood Tower.
I tilt my head back and gape.
It’s… enormous. Like it pierces the clouds. All glass, steel, and intimidation. The kind of building where you walk in one way and come out changed.
Or not at all.
“Breathe,” I whisper.
The revolving door nearly swallows me, but I push through. Inside, the lobby is a cavern of polished marble, hushed voices, and people who look like they belong on Forbes covers. The receptionist barely glances at me.
“Name?”
“Camille West. I’m here for the executive assistant interview.”
She hands me a visitor badge. “Thirty-fourth floor. Check in with Ms. Reyes.”
The elevator ride is pure anxiety. Every passing floor makes my heart climb higher into my throat.
When the doors open, I’m greeted by a waiting room that might as well be a runway.
Everyone here looks polished. Perfect. Confident.
I suddenly feel like I’m wearing a paper bag.
But I force myself to walk in, chin high. Sit down. Cross my legs and pretend like I’ve done this a thousand times before.
Ms. Reyes calls out a name. Another candidate disappears through the frosted glass doors. The rest of us wait. I keep my hands tightly clasped in my lap, hoping they don’t shake.
Minutes pass. Then more.
Another name. Another sleek suit gliding toward destiny.
My mouth is dry. My palms damp.
Then finally—
“Camille West?”
I bolt upright.
“You can go in now.”
- Writer
