Is Today a Win for Miss Assistant?

8:00 p.m. Outside, traffic roared past in an endless stream. Neon lights flickered, the city’s nightlife just beginning to bloom. But for Claire Delaney, who had been working non-stop for forty-eight hours and had only just flown back from the U.S., the only thing she wanted right now was sleep. The moment she stepped inside, Claire peeled off her tight, conservative business dress, leaving only her thin camisole and slip. Under the brilliant chandelier, her long legs looked slender and straight, her curves full and striking. Grabbing her pajamas, she went into the bathroom. After carefully removing her makeup, she studied her reflection: a delicate oval face, flawless and fair without cosmetics. Her slightly upturned eyes carried a trace of sultry charm, her nose was small and pert, lips as red as cherry blossoms. The only flaw was the faint blue shadows beneath her fox-like eyes. She patted her cheeks. If I keep this up, I really will turn into a panda. Applying a sheet mask, she slipped into the steaming bathtub. Warm mist curled in the air, soothing her skin, lulling her toward sleep— Until a sharp, all-too-familiar ringtone shattered the silence. Startled awake, Claire fumbled for her phone. Listening for a moment, she quickly replied, “Yes, Mr. Thorne.” Hanging up, she grimaced, then resignedly climbed out, dressing with quick efficiency. She didn’t dare waste a second. There’s a kind of job, she thought, that looks glamorous from the outside but feels like hell on the inside. In ancient times, it might’ve been called serving the emperor as a eunuch. These days, it is called: assistant. Yes—the pitiful, overworked, underappreciated executive assistant. The kind who followed the CEO around the globe, got yelled at, lost bonuses, and were expected to solve everything from corporate crises to their boss’s personal problems. And Claire Delaney was exactly that poor soul. Her boss? Lucien Thorne—the ruthless, cold-blooded capitalist who worked his people to death without blinking. If Claire could go on TV, she’d shout it to the world: Never become an assistant! Never become a secretary! And above all, never, EVER become Lucien Thorne’s assistant—unless you want to risk your lifetime! As heir to the Thorne Group, Lucien was a double-major graduate from Princeton, who’d returned four years ago and risen swiftly from CFO to CEO. He had slashed and rebuilt the company, acquired media networks, launched the hottest social platform, and even expanded into the U.S. Undeniably, he was an ambitious man. And a complete workaholic. Just two hours earlier, after a nonstop forty-eight-hour stretch, he had landed back in China. Yet instead of resting, he had called a meeting for tonight—dragging tomorrow’s agenda forward by force. Claire could only wonder who would be the unlucky victim this time. She hurriedly prepared documents, dressed, and fixed herself up in under twenty minutes. Because if she was late, she would be the one getting skinned alive. The Thorne Group Headquarters towered in the heart of the city’s financial district, its iconic arched dome designed by the famed architect Petty Li. The gleaming glass façade sparkled under the night sky, a symbol of power and wealth. By 9 p.m., the upper floors were ablaze with light. Tonight’s meeting would announce a new round of executive appointments, and every senior manager was required to attend. Rumors had been swirling for days, and several executives had already tried to pry information from Claire—some even attempting to bribe her. She ignored them all, clutching the sealed appointment letters as she hurried into the building. At the main entrance, the company’s senior staff gathered nervously, their expressions ranging from tense to composed. When Claire appeared, conversations were hushed; as the CEO’s assistant, her presence was always a signal that things were about to begin. The city lights blazed bright, but above, the sky pressed heavy and black—storm clouds brewing. Minutes later, a fleet of sleek black sedans glided up the drive like dragons in formation, engines purring low as they rolled to a perfect stop. Claire’s heart tightened. Time to perform. She strode briskly to the center car, the Maybach, and with practiced ease pulled open the rear door. “Mr. Thorne.” A long leg, clad in tailored trousers, stepped out onto the pavement. Then the man himself emerged—tall, broad-shouldered, every inch exuding control and authority. Lucien Thorne. In his custom suit, with shirt buttoned to perfection, his expression cool and unreadable, he radiated the kind of power that made people instinctively lower their gaze. Even the smallest glance from his sharp, dark eyes carried weight enough to silence a room. Without pause, he strode toward the building. Claire immediately fell in step behind him. Inside, the chorus of executives rose in unison: “Good evening, Mr. Thorne.” The 33rd-floor boardroom was prepared. Lucien entered first, pulling out the head chair. But before sitting, his steps halted. His brow creased slightly. The executives, halfway to their seats, froze in confusion. Those who had already sat down scrambled up again, uneasy under his silence. The room was still. Claire followed his gaze. On the glossy black conference table lay the tiniest speck of paper—barely half a millimeter, invisible unless you looked closely. Damn it. His OCD again. Suppressing a sigh, she pulled a wet wipe from her bag, swept the offending speck away, and said softly, “All set, Mr. Thorne.” Only then did Lucien sit. The rest of the executives exhaled in relief and hurried to follow. Claire rolled her eyes inwardly. The meeting began. She powered up the projector, and one by one, managers presented their quarterly reports. The head of CloudNine Gaming, a man named David Harrison, spoke for nearly twenty minutes, his presentation polished. But when he finished, silence followed. Lucien said nothing. The weight of it pressed down on the room until sweat began to bead on David’s neck. No one could ever read Lucien’s thoughts—his strategies were ruthless, his mind unfathomable. Finally, Lucien spoke, his voice quiet but sharp as a blade. “David Harrison. Ten years with this company. Formerly Deputy Director of Marketing in our South Division. Currently, General Manager of CloudNine Gaming.” He lifted a hand. At once, Claire placed a folder in his grasp. Lucien flipped a few pages, then signaled with a glance. Claire distributed copies of the real data to the executives, ending with one for David himself. “Your report looks impressive,” Claire said evenly, carrying Lucien’s message. “Unfortunately, under your management, CloudNine’s user traffic dropped twenty percent. Ad revenue fell thirty percent. Bugs multiplied. Customer service ratings sank to the bottom. A fabricated report can’t cover incompetence. Data can be hidden. Uselessness cannot.” Faces around the table paled three shades at once. The message was clear: none of them were safe. David’s head bowed, trembling. Lucien leaned back, flicking the papers onto the table with a controlled ease. His tone was almost gentle when he delivered the killing blow: “David Harrison. By tomorrow morning, I want your resignation on my desk. Thank you for your cooperation.” A death sentence, spoken as casually as a greeting. David dared not argue. Silence cloaked the boardroom. Everyone knew what this meant: a new general manager would be named tonight. And Lucien, of course, had already chosen the successor. Several other managers were also reassigned or promoted. When the announcements concluded, polite applause rippled through the room, thin and strained. Claire placed the official appointment letters before Lucien, along with his fountain pen. He took it, poised to sign. But as the nib touched paper—nothing. A clean, blank page. Claire froze. Oh no. No ink. It’s a brand-new pen. Lucien’s lips pressed into a hard line. He lifted his eyes, gazing icy with disdain at her blunder. Claire’s scalp prickled. Heart hammering, she snatched a working pen from the nearest executive and rushed it over. He signed in smooth, elegant strokes. Two strikes in one night: his obsession with cleanliness, and now this mistake. Both, courtesy of her. When the meeting ended, the executives fled the room, exhaling as though escaping torture. Everyone but Claire. ................ President’s Office. Claire Delaney stood with her head bowed, fingers laced neatly in front of her, looking every inch like the obedient assistant. Lucien Thorne lounged on the black leather sofa, one long leg crossed lazily over the other, his gaze calm but razor-sharp. “A year in this position, and you can’t even handle something this simple,” he said. “Tell me, is it my fault for being too lenient with you… or is your brain truly that small, and it can only manage clocking in, eating, sleeping, and solving math problems like one plus one equals two?” The rumors in the industry painted Lucien Thorne as a reserved, elegant man—aloof, composed, untouchable. But after working for him for a year, Claire knew the truth: he was sharp-tongued, obsessive, arrogant, merciless—and his temper could ignite faster than a firecracker. Before she could speak, his lips curved in the faintest of smirks, words as cutting as glass: “Your exceptional performance tonight ensures I’ll be remembered in this industry not as a leader, but as the fool who keeps a decorative vase for an assistant.” Claire: “…” … Did he just call her an airhead? More than once she’d fantasized about sewing his mouth shut. Or unscrewing his perfect head, marching it to the nearest police station, and happily serving a prison sentence for the crime—anything sounded better than this torture. She hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours, had been working nonstop, and when summoned to the last minute, she’d simply grabbed the wrong pen. How was that not understandable? She was his assistant, not an AI. People make mistakes. And all she did was embarrass him for a single second—a tiny, harmless blip. The audacity of this man, calling himself “lenient.” Lenient, her foot. He was a cold-blooded capitalist tyrant. As she silently cursed him, Claire imagined several creative ways to dismember Lucien Thorne. In her mind, she expanded her range of insults to cover his ancestors, his descendants, and every branch of his family tree. And then, with the sweetest, most sincere smile she could muster, she said: “Mr. Thorne, I’m sorry. I’ll improve immediately. I’ll work harder, learn faster, and dedicate myself to becoming the most competent, loyal, twenty-four-seven assistant you could ask for. Please… give me another chance.” Lucien lifted his gaze. A thin, mocking laugh slipped out. “I hope your actions turn out as impressive as your words.” Claire’s face twisted into the dead-eyed look of a salted fish as she left his office and returned to her desk to finalize tomorrow’s schedule. In the assistants’ bullpen, several colleagues still burning the midnight oil leaned in to whisper, their voices dripping with sympathy. “Claire got chewed out again tonight.” “Poor thing. Mr. Thorne is gorgeous, sure, but his tongue is vicious. If I got talked to like that twice, I’d resign on the spot.” “They don’t call him cold and ruthless for nothing. Can you believe it? Claire’s stunning—prettier than half the rising starlets in Hollywood—and he doesn’t spare her an ounce of mercy. Honestly, I think she’s brilliant.” “Of course she is! Don’t forget, she’s a Princeton Master’s graduate—three years behind Mr. Thorne himself. She’s got brains as well as beauty.” “I mean, I love a good ‘CEO falls for his assistant’ fantasy, but if the CEO is the terrifying Lucien Thorne? Yeah… I’ll pass.” “RIP Claire.”