HIS ASSISTANT, HIS TERMS

EXPECTATIONS

Clara’s POV

By mid morning, my desk already looked like a battlefield.

Three meetings had been moved. One cancelled. Two more added without warning. My inbox kept refreshing with subject lines that all carried the same unspoken message: urgent. Being Adrian Blackwood’s assistant meant living in a permanent state of readiness, like everything could shift at any second and usually did.

I was finalizing his afternoon schedule when my phone lit up.

Adrian Blackwood

I didn’t let it ring twice.

“Yes, sir.”

“Come to my office.”

That was it. No explanation. No now or when you’re done. Just the expectation that I would get up and walk there immediately.

“I’m on my way,” I said, already standing.

I grabbed my notebook out of habit and smoothed my blazer as I walked. This was normal. This was routine. I told myself that as my heels clicked down the hallway, even as that familiar tightness settled in my chest.

He’s your boss. You don’t like him. You definitely don’t think he’s—

I stopped that thought before it could finish.

His office door was open, as always.

He didn’t look up when I stepped in. He was standing behind his desk, eyes on his screen, sleeves rolled just enough to show his watch. He didn’t acknowledge me at all for a moment, as if my presence was a given.

“Close the door,” he said finally.

I did.

“Sit.”

I took the chair across from his desk without a word.

Only then did he look at me, his gaze steady and assessing, like he was already five steps ahead of whatever was about to happen.

“There’s something you’ll need to handle for me,” he said. “It came up this morning.”

I flipped my notebook open. “Okay.”

“There’s a client presentation scheduled for later this week,” he continued. “They’re detail oriented to the point of being difficult. If something feels off, they walk. I don’t want that happening.”

I nodded, already mentally rearranging my priorities. “Do you want me to coordinate the departments or—”

“Everything,” he cut in, calm, effortless. “Scheduling, documents, confirmations. I want to see anything that goes out with my name on it.”

“That’s fine.”

“It’s urgent,” he added, leaning back slightly. “This project has a lot to lose if it’s mishandled, so be careful with it. I’ll want constant updates.”

I met his gaze. “How often?”

He considered me for a brief second. “As much as you can fit. If it needs adjusting, I’ll tell you.”

Of course he would.

“I’ll get started immediately,” I said.

“Good.”

That was the end of it. No dismissal, no acknowledgment beyond that single word. He turned back to his screen like the conversation had never required more than thirty seconds of his attention.

I stood and left without being told to.

Back at my desk, I worked.

That was the thing about Adrian Blackwood. He didn’t micromanage in the traditional sense. He didn’t hover. He didn’t explain himself more than necessary. He just assumed things would be done the way he expected and somehow, that expectation carried weight.

I coordinated meetings. Pulled reports. Followed up with legal and finance. Every so often, my phone buzzed with a message from him.

Send me the timeline once it’s clean.

Have you confirmed with legal yet?

Let me see that draft before you send it.

His messages were always so short and direct.

I hated that each message made my pulse jump slightly.

Get a grip, Clara.

He was older. He was arrogant. He was infuriating. And he was absolutely not someone I should be noticing in any way beyond professional necessity.

And yet.

By lunchtime, I couldn’t ignore the pressure sitting in my chest anymore.

Clause seven.

I’d avoided thinking about it all morning, but it was always there, humming beneath everything else. The knowledge that no matter how efficient I was, no matter how well I did my job, there was still something hanging over me that I didn’t control.

I stood, took a breath, and walked back to his office.

I knocked lightly on the doorframe.

“Yes?” he said, without looking up.

“Do you have a moment?” I asked.

He glanced at his screen, then at me. “Come in. Close the door.”

I did.

I sat again, heart beating harder than it should have.

“What is it?” he asked.

I chose my words carefully. “I wanted to talk about the contract.”

That got his attention.

He leaned back slightly, eyes on me now. “What about it?”

I said. “I understand why the clause is there. I just… wanted to know if there’s any flexibility. Any possibility of revisiting it at some point.”

He studied me for a moment, unreadable.

“And why do you want to revisit it?” he asked.

“Because I don’t like not knowing my options,” I said honestly. “And right now, it feels like I don’t have any.”

Silence stretched between us.

Then he spoke. “I won’t make a decision today.”

I nodded. “I didn’t expect you to.”

“I’ll think about it,” he continued. “When I have something to say about it, I’ll let you know.”

That was it. No reassurance. No promise.

But also not refusal.

“Alright,” I said, standing.

As I reached for the door, his voice stopped me.

“Clara.”

I turned back.

“Focus on the project,” he said. “Do that well, and everything else becomes easier.”

For him, maybe.

“I understand,” I said.

I left before he could say anything else.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur.

Work. Calls. Updates. His presence loomed even when he wasn’t speaking to me directly. Every time his office door opened, my attention shifted without permission.

I didn’t like him.

I really didn’t.

And yet, as I shut down my computer at the end of the day, one thought refused to leave me alone:

He hadn’t said no.

And for a man like Adrian Blackwood, that meant more than it should have.