The Secret of Secretary

The elevators chimed on the twenty-second floor of Apex Global Solutions, and Jack Stonehaven stepped out as though he owned the corridor. Not in arrogance, though some whispered that about him, but with a sort of effortless polish born from routine. His navy suit jacket was pressed within an inch of perfection, his silver-white blond hair—unusual, striking—was swept back neatly, not a strand out of place. His tie was knotted with a precision that suggested he'd done it not once, but twice that morning just to make sure. He walked with clipped confidence, a leather folio tucked under one arm, the faint sound of his polished shoes tapping against the floor. To anyone watching—and plenty did—Jack was the picture of order in a world that constantly bent toward chaos. He had become the man who straightened crooked stacks of reports, who aligned pens on desks without realizing he was doing it, who arrived five minutes early to every meeting but never fidgeted when others came late. The open-plan office buzzed with its usual morning energy. Phones rang, keyboards clattered, and half-drained mugs of coffee littered desks like ritual sacrifices to productivity. The glow of monitors cast pale blue across tired faces. And yet, when Jack passed, conversations often softened. Heads turned just slightly. It wasn't that he tried to draw attention. He carried himself too seriously for that. But attention followed him anyway, as if his sharp profile and startling eyes—one shade lighter than ice, the other deeper than winter sky—demanded it. Two junior associates who were still older than him at the marketing desk whispered hurriedly as he passed. "Did you see how fast he handled the Carter file yesterday?" one murmured. "Handled it? He reorganized the entire proposal overnight," the other replied, not bothering to lower her voice much. Jack heard, but pretended not to. He offered a polite nod as he passed them, the kind of acknowledgment that looked effortless but was carefully measured. Not too warm, not too cold. He couldn't afford to be too much. His desk sat in a corner near the glass wall, where the skyline opened into a stretch of steel and glass towers. Neat stacks of documents, organized by priority and color-coded tabs, greeted him like loyal soldiers awaiting orders. His monitor was spotless, his keyboard wiped down. Even his stapler had a designated angle, aligned with the edge of his desk. Jack set down his folio, slid into his chair, and exhaled. For a moment, his eyes drifted beyond the skyline. The memory of bridge and sprawling shelter stirred in his chest—the place he was forced to stay in. Now he opened doors with ID cards. He flexed his fingers and pulled the first report toward him, banishing the thought. He was not going to ruin his morning with ghosts. "Good morning, Head-Manager-Almost." The teasing voice belonged to Harry Hadson sliding into the cubicle next to Jack's with a steaming cup of coffee in hand. His tie was crooked, his shirt sleeves already wrinkled though the day had barely begun. He leaned against the partition with a grin that made him look younger than his twenty-four years. Jack arched a brow without looking up. "It's eight-thirty. I've barely had my first cup of coffee. Try again in an hour." "Fair," Harry said, sipping dramatically from his cup. "But you have to admit, the rumors are circling. Word is the board is impressed. You've got at least three directors singing your praises." Jack carefully straightened the corner of a file before replying. "Rumors don't sign contracts. Results do." Harry grinned wider. "You mean like reorganizing the Carter proposal overnight? Don't think I didn't notice you stayed till one a.m." "I like things done properly," Jack said simply. "You like things alphabetized, color-coded, and cross-referenced until even the janitors know which mop belongs where," Harry shot back. Jack finally glanced at him, lips twitching in the faintest ghost of a smile. "And yet, who was it that borrowed my stapler yesterday and returned it upside down?" Harry raised his hands in mock surrender. "Guilty. But in my defense, I knew you'd notice immediately." The banter softened the edges of Jack's morning. Harry had that effect—easy, grounding. They had started at Apex Global around the same time, despite the age difference, they had same degrees, since Jack skipped grades. Both clawing their way upward. Where Jack exuded polish, Harry was all unpolished charm. Somehow, it worked. As Harry wandered back to his desk, Jack returned to his files, his mind drifting for a moment. The sound of laughter that wasn't genuine. He remembered being twenty-one, his father's voice harsh in his memory: "You think life is all drinks and music? One day, you'll find out it's not. And when that day comes, don't come running back to me." Jack's jaw tightened. He pressed his focus into the pages before him, highlighting a key section in neat strokes. The past was gone. He would not come running back. Not anymore. ⸻ As the morning deepened, Jack moved through his tasks with clinical precision. Emails sorted into folders, meetings scheduled down to the minute, reports annotated with sharp clarity. His desk looked exactly the same at ten a.m. as it had at eight: immaculate. The whispers continued around him. A junior analyst dropped a pen near his desk, glancing up through her lashes when he bent to pick it up. Another lingered a little too long when delivering documents, offering a smile Jack returned politely but coolly. He was aware of it—the admiration, the subtle glances—but he neither encouraged nor rejected it. Attention was dangerous. Too much, and someone might start digging. And the last thing Jack Stonehaven wanted was anyone at Apex Global discovering who he really was, and why he worked like a man perpetually one step from drowning. At precisely eleven, his phone buzzed with a meeting reminder. Jack straightened his jacket, collected his folio, and rose. Every movement precise. Every gesture controlled. The conference room gleamed with glass walls and steel fixtures. Executives filled the seats, papers rustling, screens flickering to life. Jack took his usual spot near the middle, unfolding his notes with deliberate care. As the meeting began, he listened, annotated, and spoke only when necessary. His comments were sharp, efficient, and left no room for wasted words. The directors nodded, impressed. Even those who doubted his young age found it hard to argue with his clarity. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Harry grinning at him, mouthing: future Head Manager. Jack allowed himself the smallest exhale of satisfaction. When the meeting ended and the room emptied, Jack lingered, tidying the scattered papers into a neat pile though none of them were his. Old habits. Old discipline. His reflection stared back at him in the glass wall—sharp suit, perfect posture, silver hair glowing faintly under the office lights. A stranger and yet not. For a moment, he almost believed this was enough. That he could build a new life brick by brick, clean line by clean line. That if he polished the surface well enough, no one would see the cracks beneath. Then his father's voice came back again, faint but sharp as ever. "You'll never last without us, Jack." Jack closed his eyes. Straightened his tie. Walked back into the buzzing office like nothing haunted him at all. The cafeteria on the fifteenth floor smelled faintly of roasted beans, sugar, and something less appealing—microwaved leftovers someone had forgotten to cover. The space was modern enough—chrome tables, bright lighting, a wall of tall windows—but at this hour it buzzed with half the company. Suits lined up at the espresso machine, interns clutched paper cups like lifelines, and conversations overlapped in a low tide of corporate chatter. Jack stepped into the room with his usual poise, carrying a folder tucked neatly under one arm even though lunch was supposed to be a reprieve. His shirt sleeves were rolled exactly to his elbows, no higher, no lower, and his tie remained perfectly straight despite the heat of the crowd. "Jack! Over here." Harry waved him down from a corner table, already halfway through a croissant that flaked more onto the table than into his mouth. His tie was still crooked, his brown hair an untamed mess that made him look like he'd lost a fight with the elevator doors. Jack shook his head with a faint smile and threaded through the tables. As he passed, a group of junior analysts glanced up, and one nudged the other not-so-subtly. Their voices carried just enough. "—he's always so put-together and pretty cute too." "Even his coffee cup matches his suit." Jack pretended not to hear, but the corners of his mouth twitched. He reached Harry's table and set his folder down, sliding into the seat with quiet grace. "Your fan club grows louder every day," Harry said through a mouthful of croissant. "Pretty soon they're going to start a petition to have your picture framed in the lobby." Jack picked up a napkin and slid it across to him. "Pretty sure they'd prefer someone who eats without crumbs falling everywhere." Harry grinned, brushing his hands. "Touché. But admit it—you hear them. You could at least throw a smile their way. Might brighten their morning." Jack stirred his coffee, slow, deliberate. "I smile enough." "Not their kind of smile. Yours is the polite 'thank you for attending my TED talk' smile. They want something warmer. You know, human." Jack chuckled softly, the sound low but genuine. "So what—you want me to charm the entire department? Invite them all for drinks after work?" "That'd do it," Harry said. "Except, let's be real, half the office would think you were proposing marriage." They both laughed, the sound standing out against the murmur of the cafeteria. It wasn't loud, but it was unguarded, and people noticed. Jack leaned back in his chair, finally allowing himself to relax into the banter. "Speaking of marriage," Harry said, leaning in conspiratorially, "did you know Angela from accounting has referred to you as 'Mr. Perfect' three times this week?" Jack raised a brow, sipping his coffee. "Angela. Dark hair, sharp glasses, edits budgets like a surgeon?" "That's the one." "She once lectured me for using the wrong shade of blue in a presentation slide." Harry grinned. "Sounds like love to me." Jack shook his head, but his smile widened. He set his coffee down with the same precision he gave to everything, aligning the cup with the napkin beneath it. "I don't encourage that kind of talk," Jack said. "You don't discourage it either." Jack tilted his head. "I'm friendly. That's all." "Friendly, organized, good-looking, ambitious. You're a walking cliché. Half the office probably has daydreams about you sweeping them off their feet after a late meeting." Jack leaned forward, elbows resting neatly on the table, his tone dropping into playful seriousness. "And the other half?" "They just want your hair-care routine," Harry said without hesitation. Jack laughed again, this time loud enough to turn a few more heads. His laughter wasn't rare, but when it came, it filled a room with unexpected warmth. He'd been told before that it didn't suit his cold appearance, silver blue eyes, white-blonde haired that it was too bright for someone so sharply composed. But he liked that contrast. It reminded him he could still be more than the shadow of his father's warnings. A shadow flickered across his memory: his father's voice echoing in a hall, "Charm doesn't build our family’s name, Jackson. Discipline does. You waste too much time trying to be liked." Jack pressed the thought down like a wrinkle on a suit. He focused instead on the here and now, on the way Harry's crooked grin pulled him back from places he didn't want to wander. "You know," Jack said, changing the subject, "you could try organizing your desk for once. It might even improve your productivity." Harry groaned dramatically. "Not everyone thrives on alphabetized chaos. Some of us like to live a little." "Living a little doesn't mean losing track of which client you emailed yesterday," Jack said, smiling as he sipped his coffee. "I found three drafts in your folder labeled 'Final.'" "They were all final... at the time," Harry defended. Jack chuckled, shaking his head. "One day, they're going to put you in charge of a project, and you'll call it 'Final_FINAL2_ThisOneForReal.'" "Don't act like you wouldn't rename it yourself just to add color-coded tags." Their banter drew subtle glances from coworkers at nearby tables. Jack noticed a few stares but didn't mind. He wasn't one to shrink from attention—not anymore. If anything, he leaned into the balance: precise posture, neat attire, but warm, approachable when spoken to. He never dismissed anyone, never brushed off a greeting. If someone stopped him in the hallway, he'd pause to listen, no matter their title. That friendliness—combined with his obsessive neatness—made him memorable. Admired, even. But Jack wore it like a tailored jacket: comfortable enough, but always a little too tight. "Speaking of promotions," Harry said, breaking into his thoughts, "you know the board's talking about you, right?" Jack arched a brow. "You sound like a broken record." "Because it's true. People notice how you handle things. The way you reorganized Carter's proposal? That was insane. Who else would've color-coded a three-hundred-page mess overnight and made it actually readable?" "Anyone who cared enough," Jack said modestly. "No," Harry countered. "Anyone who cared enough and stayed awake with coffee and an obsessive streak that borders on terrifying." Jack smirked. "I'll take that as a compliment." "It was." Harry leaned back. "Look, all I'm saying is, you're not just good at this. You're... good to people. Even the interns adore you. I've seen you help them without making them feel stupid." Jack's expression softened, though he didn't say anything at first. He fiddled with his cufflink, adjusting it into perfect alignment. "It doesn't cost anything to be decent," he said finally. For a moment, the cafeteria noise blurred into background hum. Jack's gaze drifted to the window, where the city spread below in a mess of glass towers and endless streets. He remembered another view—higher, grander, from his father's mansion balcony. That world had been colder, emptier, despite its riches. He turned back to Harry, forcing a lighter smile. "Besides, if I didn't treat people well, you'd be out of a friend." "True," Harry said with mock seriousness. "I'd have to join your fan club instead. Imagine the horror." Jack laughed again, shaking his head. "Pretty sure you'd get kicked out in five minutes." The break stretched, their conversation drifting between light jokes and casual talk about upcoming projects. Jack remained meticulous even in small things—wiping a stray crumb from the table, stacking their trays neatly when they finished. But his friendliness balanced it: the easy way he thanked the cafeteria staff, the polite nods he gave to passing coworkers, the way he engaged without arrogance. By the time they returned to their floor, Harry sighed dramatically. "I swear, one day I'm going to catch you off-guard with a crooked tie or a coffee stain. Just to prove you're human." Jack smirked, straightening his already perfect tie. "Keep dreaming, Hadson." And with that, he slipped back into the rhythm of the office, precise as ever, but leaving behind the faint echo of laughter that lingered longer than he knew.