HIS ASSISTANT, HIS TERMS

HUMANLY UNAWARE

Clara’s POV

I arrived at the office the next day, expecting Adrian to already be at his desk, scanning emails, barking orders. But the top floor was quiet. Too quiet. My chest tightened slightly, though I forced myself to stay calm.

I checked his schedule, his emails, and notes. Nothing unusual except one urgent client issue flagged in red, meaning the junior assistant found it urgent. I reached for my phone and called him as I read through the email confirming my suspicion.

No answer.

I tried again. Still nothing.

By nine, I'd left three messages, polite and firm, emphasizing urgency. By ten, I'd called five more times. By eleven, I'd left another two messages on his voicemail, explaining the client's issue, marking it urgent, asking for his direction. My frustration grew, but I kept my voice calm and professional.

"He needs an answer soon, sir."

By noon, I'd run out of options. I glanced at the office clock, tapping my pen against my notebook, and finally made a decision. The client issue couldn’t wait any longer. I gathered my things and headed to my car, all thoughts of hesitation pushed aside.

The drive through the city gave me a brief moment to breathe, though my mind remained focused. Tree lined streets, sleek driveways, luxury cars. The kind of wealth that only seemed ordinary around him. Every detail reminded me that this was his world, one I only got occasional glimpses of, yet I’m trusted to step into it when necessary. Adrian’s world, I think, and the shiver that runs through me was impossible to ignore.

I arrived at the hotel, passing the valet with a nod, and stepped inside. I headed straight for the hidden elevator, the floor number for his penthouse burned into my memory. The doors slid shut, and I pressed the button. My pulse quickened slightly. I’d never entered his personal space alone before without his permission or him accompanying me, and the idea of doing so now made my stomach tighten.

The penthouse door opened, revealing a scene that stopped me for a second. Bottles littered the floor, a half drunk glass of scotch rests abandoned on the table beside him, and there, sprawled on the couch, was Adrian, Sleeping.

I freeze. I’ve seen him tired, exhausted, even irritated beyond reason, but never like this. Vulnerable, so humanly unaware. My eyes traced the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his shoulders, the slight crease in his brow softened by sleep. He looked… fragile.

I stepped carefully, moving around the mess. I started tidying, picking up bottles, setting the glass aside, straightening cushions. All the while stealing glances at him. My mind wandered, unbidden. What would mornings with him be like? Coffee. Breakfast. Quiet moments together. The thought was dangerous, impossible, and yet, I allowed it to linger just long enough to make my heart beat faster. Adrian…

Next, I head to the kitchen. I grind the coffee, the aroma filling the space, carrying with it a small sense of accomplishment. I boil water, measure, pour, and stir. Each motion is precise, deliberate, almost meditative. All the while, my mind drifts back to him. How his hair catches the light. The way his lips curve slightly when he’s unaware. The faint scent he carries, subtle but undeniable. No, Clara, I remind myself. He’s your boss. Just your boss.

Finally, the coffee was ready, steaming and perfect. I set it on the table, my hand brushing lightly against the mug, resisting the urge to linger longer. Then I bend slightly, gently shaking his shoulder.

“Sir…” I murmured softly, insistent but careful.

His eyelids fluttered, groggy. Confused. His head lifted slightly, trying to reconcile sleep with reality. His eyes locked on mine. For a heartbeat, everything froze: sunlight spilling through the windows, the aroma of coffee, the quiet of the penthouse, and the undeniable tension between us.

He blinked slowly. Groggy, uncertain. I straightened and held the mug of coffee toward him.

“What… what are you doing here this early, Ms Lane?” His voice was rough, still half in dream.

I couldn’t help the small smile tugging at my lips. “It’s noon, sir. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. I called, messaged, everything. Since I wasn’t getting a reply, I had to come.” I gestured toward the now clean living room. “I took care of the mess, made coffee, and… well, now I’m here.”

He blinked, processing, still lying back slightly on the couch. His gaze roamed over the room, lingering on the neatness, then back to me. “I see,” he muttered, voice low, almost uncertain.

I set the coffee on the table again, this time closer to him, careful not to lean too far over. My fingers brushed briefly against the cup’s handle as I pushed it toward him. The warmth of it, the smell, the quiet intimacy of being in his space, it made my heart beat faster than I care to admit.

He sat up slowly, still groggy, rubbing the back of his neck. “Clara… you didn’t have to do all this,” he says, a mix of irritation and something softer almost like acknowledgment.

I straightened, keeping my tone calm and professional. “Sir, the client issue needed your attention. I wasn’t getting through, so I had to come. It made sense to handle things while I was here.”

He studied me for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly, then tilted his head back toward the couch. “And the coffee?”

“I made it for you,” I replied simply, resisting the urge to say more.

He finally took the mug, holding it in his hands like it was both a reward and a confirmation. I stepped back, giving him space, letting him adjust, still lingering in the penthouse silently, quietly observing. My eyes traced the familiar angles of his face, the way his hair fell slightly over his forehead, the sharpness softened by sleep.

I remind myself: he’s my boss. Only my boss. And yet, as he sipped the coffee, eyes closing briefly in appreciation, the thought flitted across my mind that mornings like this… could feel different. Dangerous. Intriguing. And impossible.

I glanced around once more, the room tidy, coffee ready, as he stood up and lazily walked to his room upstairs.

And even as I took out my laptop to finish organizing a few last things, my mind began to wander again.

This is going to be a problem.