The Assignment
1189 Words
I didn't sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in that elevator. His cologne. His voice. The way he looked at me like I was something he intended to figure out whether I wanted him to or not.
I don't know yet. But I intend to find out.
What the hell did that even mean?
By the time my alarm went off at five-thirty, I had already been awake for two hours, staring at the ceiling.
I dragged myself out of bed. Showered. Got dressed in my second-best work outfit because my best one was already wrinkled from yesterday. Made coffee and burned it because I wasn't paying attention.
Natalie was still asleep when I left. Good. I couldn't handle her questions right now. She had texted me three times last night asking what was going on with me, and I had ignored every single one.
The subway was packed. I held onto the overhead rail and tried to focus on what mattered.
You are a junior analyst at one of the biggest companies in the country. You worked your ass off to get here. You are not going to let one stupid mistake ruin everything.
The train lurched. Someone stepped on my foot.
One stupid mistake that you can still feel between your—
Stop. Stop it right now.
I got off at my stop and walked the three blocks to Kane Industries.
My department was on the fourteenth floor. Analytics. Twelve cubicles arranged in a grid, a conference room in the corner, and a corner office that belonged to my new manager.
Her name was Patricia Vance. Mid-forties, sharp eyes, salt-and-pepper hair cut short. She shook my hand when I introduced myself and gestured for me to sit.
"Emma Carter. Northwestern. Top of your class. Three internships, two of them at Fortune 500 companies." She was reading from a file on her desk. "Impressive."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. Impressive resumes don't mean anything here. Results do." She closed the file. "I'm going to be honest with you. I didn't pick you for this position."
My stomach tightened. "I'm sorry?"
"Your assignment came from above. Way above." She leaned back in her chair. "Someone on the executive floor specifically requested that you be placed on the Whitmore account."
Someone on the executive floor??
"The Whitmore account is our biggest client," Patricia continued. "We've been working on their data restructure for eight months. It's high-profile, high-pressure, and high-risk. Not exactly a typical assignment for a first-day analyst."
I couldn't speak.
"Do you have any idea why someone upstairs would take a personal interest in your placement?"
Yes. Because I slept with him two nights ago and now he's playing some kind of game with me, I thought
"No," I said. "I have no idea."
Patricia studied me for a long moment. I couldn't tell if she believed me or not.
"Well," she said finally, "whatever the reason, you're on the account. Don't make me regret it."
She handed me a thick folder and pointed me toward my cubicle.
I sat down at my desk and stared at the Whitmore file. My hands were shaking.
He did this. He put me on this account on purpose.
But why? To keep me close? To watch me fail? To remind me that he had power over my entire career?
I opened the folder. Tried to focus on the numbers. Revenue projections, client history, data analysis requirements.
Focus. Just focus.
The morning passed slowly. I read through the file twice, made notes, tried to learn the company's data systems. My cubicle neighbor, a guy named Derek who had been with the company for three years, stopped by to introduce himself.
"There's a coffee machine on the sixteenth floor that actually works," he said. "Executive perk, but nobody checks badges."
"Thanks." I managed a smile. "I'll remember that."
By noon, I had almost convinced myself that everything was fine. So what if Alexander Kane had pulled some strings? It could be a good thing. A chance to prove myself.
Or a way to destroy you when you screw up because you can't stop thinking about what he looks like without that suit on.
My desk phone rang.
I stared at it. Desk phones didn't ring for first-day analysts.
I picked up. "Emma Carter."
"Miss Carter." Helen March's voice. "Mr. Kane would like to see you in his office. Immediately."
My throat went dry. "Right now?"
"His office is on the thirty-second floor. The elevator on the far right goes directly there. He's expecting you."
She hung up.
I sat there for a full thirty seconds, my phone still in my hand.
This is fine. He probably just wants to discuss the account. Professional reasons. Nothing else.
I stood up. Smoothed down my skirt. Walked toward the elevators.
The ride to the thirty-second floor felt endless. Just me and the hum of the machinery and the floor numbers climbing higher.
The doors opened.
Helen March was at a desk halfway down the hall. She looked at me over her glasses.
"Go ahead. He's expecting you."
I walked to the doors at the end and knocked.
"Come in."
He was behind his desk when I walked in, flipping through some papers. Didn't look up.
I just stood there, feeling stupid.
"Close the door."
I closed it.
He finally looked at me. Put the papers down. Leaned back.
For a few seconds, neither of us said anything. He just watched me. I didn't know what to do with my hands.
"You're on the Whitmore account," he said.
"I know."
"There's a dinner tonight. Eight o'clock. Client meeting."
My throat tightened. "Okay."
"You'll be there."
"I just started officially today. I don't know anything about—"
"You'll learn." He stood up and walked around the desk. "A car will pick you up at seven-thirty. Dress appropriately."
He stopped a few feet away from me. Too close. Not close enough.
Stop. Don't think like that.
"Is this really about the account?" The words came out before I could stop them.
His expression didn't change. "What else would it be about?"
I didn't answer.
He stepped closer. "Seven-thirty, Emma. Don't be late."
I turned and left before I said something stupid.
The elevator doors closed and I let out a breath.
Seven-thirty. A car. Dress appropriately.
I looked down at my reflection in the elevator doors. Pencil skirt. Blouse I'd ironed twice this morning. This was appropriate. This was professional.
But that's not what he meant, was it?
My phone buzzed. Natalie.
Drinks tonight?
I stared at the screen for a second, then typed back.
Can't. Work thing. I replied.
"Already?? It's your second day." She responded
I know.
You okay?
No. Not really. Not even a little bit.
I'm fine. Talk later.
I shoved my phone back in my pocket.
The elevator hit the fourteenth floor. The doors opened. I walked back to my desk, sat down, and stared at the Whitmore folder without seeing it.
Seven-thirty.
I had six hours to figure out how I was going to survive tonight.
- Writer
