HATED FIRST

Chapter 2: 7AM Sharp

The alarm on my cracked iPhone screamed at 5:30am.

I’d slept 3 hours on Mom’s couch in our Bronx apartment. Her chemo pump beeped in the background like a countdown. The eviction notice was still stuck to our fridge with a magnet shaped like an apple. $2,400 due Friday.

All that was on my mind was Sterling Tower, 7am sharp. Break one rule, you’re fired.

I ran. Subway delay on the 4th train. Bus missed on 42nd. Heels dying in my tote bag. I burst through the revolving doors at 6:59am, hair wild, blazer wrinkled, coffee stain on my cuff that wasn’t there yesterday.

“Esther Cole. Assistant to Mr. Sterling,” I told security, out of breath.

The guard checked his list. “Floor 50. Conference Room A. Don’t be late again, Ms. Cole.”

I wasn’t late. I was surviving.

The elevator took forever. When the doors opened on 50, his assistant desk was already there. Black glass. Empty. Cold. Like him.

A white card sat on it. Black ink. His handwriting. Sharp and angry.

`7:00:01. You’re 1 second late.

Report to conference Room A. Now. - A.S.`

My stomach dropped. I hadn’t even sat down.

Conference Room A was all glass. Manhattan spread out behind him like he owned every building. He probably did.

Adrian Sterling stood at the window. Black suit again. Coffee in his hand. Steam rising. He didn’t turn when I entered.

“You’re late,” he said to the glass.

“I’m not,” I said. Voice sharper than I meant. “Your note says 7:00:01. I arrived at 6:59:58. Check the security logs.”

He turned. Slow. Gray eyes locked on the coffee stain on my cuff. Then my wrinkled blazer. Then my face. Like he was calculating my net worth and finding it zero.

“Excuses,” he said. “I don’t hire excuses, Ms. Cole. I hire results.”

“I wasn’t making one. I was stating a fact.” Hatred simmered under my skin already. “You said 7am sharp. I’m here before 7.”

He set his coffee down on the table. Didn’t drink it. “Pick it up.”

“What?”

“The coffee. The cup I just set down. Pick it up and throw it away.”

I stared. “That’s the janitor’s job.”

“Not anymore. It’s yours.” He crossed his arms. Tom Ford suit cost more than my rent. “You want to be my assistant? Assistants do what I say. When I say. How I say.”

Something hot rose in my chest. “I have a degree in Business Admin. I’m not here to be your maid, Mr. Sterling.”

“Then you’re in the wrong building, Ms. Cole.” He walked past me. Close enough I felt the air move and smelled Creed Aventus. “Room 12. Janitor’s closet. Mop, bucket, coffee cups. Clean my office before 8am meeting. Or leave.”

Hate. Pure, white-hot hate.

He thought I’d cry. He thought I’d quit. He thought desperation meant I had no pride left.

He was wrong.

I picked up the cup. Black coffee, still hot. Walked out without a word.

Room 12 smelled like bleach and defeat. I mopped. I scrubbed toilets. I emptied his trash and found photos of him in it - Forbes covers, “Youngest Billionaire,” “Most Eligible Bachelor.” He threw them away like they were nothing.

At 7:58am I stood in his office. Spotless. Coffee cup gone. Desk wiped. Floor shining.

He looked up from his MacBook. “Took you long enough.”

“Took me exactly 58 minutes,” I said. “Your board meeting is at 8.”

He stood. Walked to me. Stopped too close again. That cologne. That cold. That power.

“Move your hand,” he said.

“What?”

He reached past me. Took a file from the shelf behind my head. His chest brushed my arm. His breath hit my hair.

“Your hand was blocking the file, Ms. Cole,” he said, like I was an i***t. “Pay attention. In my world, 1 inch costs millions.”

He pulled back. No apology. No thanks. Just that look. Like I was dirt on his Italian leather shoes.

I hated him. I hated his suit. I hated his gray eyes that saw right through me. I hated that he made me feel small and broke and desperate.

But most of all, I hated that when he was that close, my hands shook for a different reason. Not fear. Something else.

The door opened. His board members walked in. 8am sharp. $2B company.

“Ms. Cole,” Adrian said without looking at me. “Coffee. Black. No sugar. No cream. If you get it wrong, you’re fired.”

I grabbed my bag. “Yes, Mr. Sterling.”

As I left, I heard him say to his board: “She’ll last a week. Tops. They always do.”

I shut the door.

I’d show him. I’d last longer than a week.

I’d last long enough to hate him properly. To make him hate me back.