THE BEGINNING
INDIRA "Indira Miles? Where's Indira Miles?" I was buried under a mountain of spreadsheets, my third coffee of the morning going cold beside my keyboard, when I heard my name cut through the usual office noise. I raised my hand without looking up, the way you do when you're too exhausted to care who's calling for you. I cared the moment I saw who it was. Janie. The inter-office communicator. For those who don't know — and I didn't, until I started at Worthington Corp a year and a half ago — an inter-office communicator is essentially a human memo. A living, breathing message delivery system in a company so large and so particular that apparently a standard intercom just wouldn't do. When Janie reached my desk, she looked me over once. "Indira Miles?" "Yes," I said slowly. "You're wanted on the top floor." She said it loudly. Deliberately loudly. Every head in the office swiveled in my direction like a synchronized performance. The room went dead silent for exactly three seconds before the whispers broke loose like a dam giving way. My heart didn't just stop. It sank. "Why?" I asked, hating how small my voice sounded. "I don't know." She shrugged, already turning away, already done with me — as if she hadn't just detonated a grenade at my desk and walked off without a backward glance. I sat there for a moment, frozen. The top floor. In all my time at Worthington Corp, those two words had carried the same weight as a death sentence. The top floor was where Ms. Emilia Worthington — CEO, legend, and someone I had never once laid eyes on in person — ran her empire. It was off limits to everyone below a certain pay grade. You didn't go up there unless you were summoned. And I had just been summoned. I stood on shaking legs and made my way across the office, feeling every single pair of eyes follow me to the elevator. I kept my chin up. I would not give them the satisfaction. The ride up was the longest of my life. What did I do? I turned the question over and over. In eighteen months at this company, I had never been reprimanded. Never arrived late, never missed a deadline, never so much as taken an extra five minutes on my lunch break. I was the first in and often the last to leave. Everyone on my floor knew it. I couldn't lose this job. I hadn't finished paying off my student loans, my rent was due in two weeks, and my savings account was laughable at best. Please. Whatever this is — please don't let it be that. The elevator doors opened and I stepped out onto the top floor. And forgot, just briefly, that I was terrified. It was stunning. There's no other word for it. The hallway stretched ahead of me like something out of a five-star hotel — all warm lighting, dark mahogany panels, and floors swallowed up by the kind of plush cream carpet that probably cost more than two years of my salary. To the far right, there was a sleek, fully stocked bar adjoining what looked like a private restaurant. The air even smelled different up here. Expensive. I swallowed and moved forward. I hadn't thought to ask Janie for directions before she vanished, so I made the sensible choice and knocked on the Administrative Assistant's office door. No answer. I knocked again. Then a third time. Nothing. As I stepped back, the door beside it swung open. A middle-aged brunette with sharp eyes peered out at me, and I recognized her immediately from the company newsletter. Althea Walker. Executive Assistant to the CEO. "Who are you?" she asked, one eyebrow arched. "I'm Indira Miles. I was told the CEO wanted to—" "Oh." She cut me off cleanly. "You're the new girl. Go right ahead. Ms. Emilia is expecting you." The door shut in my face before I could open my mouth. I stood there for a second, blinking. The new girl. I have been here for a year and a half. I had a performance review on file. I knew the names of every person on my floor, their coffee orders, their children's birthdays. I was not “the new girl”. So what exactly was happening right now? I walked to the end of the hall where the CEO's office waited. Though technically, the first stop was her Personal Assistant's office — a room that functioned more like an upscale reception area, with deep cushioned sofas, a gleaming coffee machine, a neat fan of magazines and, interestingly, a small shelf of novels. The PA looked up when I entered. She was poised and unhurried, the kind of woman who never seemed flustered by anything. She waited until I had taken in the room before she spoke. "Indira Miles, I presume." "Yes." "Go on in. Ms. Emilia is expecting you." She dropped her gaze back to her work before I'd even turned around. I pushed open the inner door. The office beyond was exactly what I should have expected and still somehow wasn't prepared for. It was grand without being ostentatious — floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the London skyline, a desk that anchored the room like a throne. And behind that desk sat Emilia Worthington. CEO of Worthington Corporation — the largest company in Britain and its Isles. She was a stately, silver-haired woman with the kind of presence that made you want to stand straighter just by being in the same room. A British Meryl Streep. Composed. Formidable. Utterly unreadable. "Come in, Indira. Sit down," she said, her tone even and unbothered, as if she summoned terrified junior employees every Tuesday. I sat. She folded her hands on the desk and looked at me with calm, assessing eyes. "I suspect no one has told you yet," she said. "So I'll tell you now." She paused — just long enough for my pulse to spike. "You are Worthington Corporation's new Administrative Assistant to the CEO." The words landed like a thunderclap. My world didn't just rock. It tilted completely off its axis.
