The Secret of Secretary

07. Elisa : Workload or Burden

The hospital had discharged her with a neat stack of papers clipped together, each page stamped with orders she had no intention of following. Rest. Balanced diet. Limited screen time. Delegate work wherever possible.

Elisa tucked the folder into her bag, smiled tightly at the doctor, and said she understood.

But understanding and obeying were two different things.

By the following Monday, she was back in her office at Glacier Media Group, the blinds pulled open to let the morning light flood across her desk. The same desk that had nearly swallowed her weeks earlier now bore fresh stacks of paper, half-drunk coffee, and sticky notes curling at the edges.

She told herself she felt better. Her skin wasn't as pale, her head not as heavy. A little dizziness lingered at the edges, but she brushed it off as hunger and sipped another espresso.

Astrid, of course, saw through her.

"You were in a hospital bed forty-eight hours ago," Astrid muttered from the doorway, arms crossed. "Most people would take a week off. Maybe two. You're back like nothing happened."

"Work doesn't wait for me," Elisa replied calmly, eyes fixed on the glowing screen of her laptop. "Croswell's second campaign phase starts in four days. Nordwell is already pressing for a new draft. Helios Media wants a meeting."

Astrid groaned. "Doctors orders, Elisa. Did you miss the part where they said your brain's basically fried from overload?"

"I'm fine," Elisa said, sharper than intended. She adjusted the angle of her tablet on the desk, smoothing her expression. "I'll take it lightly."

"Define lightly."

"Lightly means... I'll ask for your help more often."

Astrid's stomach sank. She already knew what that meant.

At first, it was small things.

"Can you double-check my client emails?" Elisa asked one morning, her tone clipped but not unkind. "Just flag anything urgent."

Astrid sighed but complied, clicking through Elisa's inbox to highlight missed inquiries, half-drafted replies, scheduling requests.

Then it grew.

"Check the ad schedule for Croswell. Finance sent over new invoices, I need you to make sure the totals align."

"Elisa, I'm HR."

"You can read numbers," Elisa replied without looking up. "That's all I need."

Within a week, Astrid's desk bore nearly as many of Elisa’s responsibilities as her own. She juggled payroll, recruitment, staff complaints—her actual job—with ad schedules, budget reviews, and client follow-ups. By the end of each day, her inbox was drowning, but Elisa didn't seem to notice.

Or maybe she noticed and simply expected Astrid to handle it.

"Coffee," Elisa said one afternoon, without lifting her head from her sketchpad.

Astrid's pen froze mid-signature. "Excuse me?"

"Coffee," Elisa repeated, distracted. "Extra shot. You know how I take it."

Astrid stared at her for a long moment, then stood, muttering under her breath as she grabbed her bag. When she returned with the cup, Elisa murmured a soft thank you without looking up, too absorbed in shading the corner of a new campaign logo to realize Astrid's glare could have cracked glass.

Two weeks passed in this pattern.

To the staff, nothing looked out of place. Elisa remained her icy, brilliant self—walking the floor with sharp instructions, dazzling clients with flawless strategy, holding meetings where her vision cut through the noise like a blade. But behind closed doors, the burden slid onto Astrid's shoulders, piece by piece.

She fielded late-night calls from vendors. She drafted polite but firm responses to impatient clients. She managed Elisa’s schedule so tightly that her own husband barely saw her before bed.

And still, Elisa pushed.

"Can you check my Nordwell finance file?" Elisa asked one morning, eyes on her tablet.

Astrid's jaw clenched. "That's accounting."

"They're slow. You're faster."

Astrid slammed the folder onto Elisa's desk. "Do you hear yourself? You're turning me into your secretary."

Elisa finally looked up, frowning. "Don't be dramatic. I trust you more than anyone else here. Isn't that what you wanted?"

Astrid's chest tightened. Trust. It was a compliment, yes, but it also felt like a shackle. She wanted Elisa to lean on her as a friend, not as a crutch for every neglected task.

"Elisa," she said slowly, "you're not actually taking it lighter. You're just pushing everything onto me."

Elisa blinked, uncomprehending. "That's not true. I've cut my hours. I leave before midnight."

Astrid laughed, a hollow sound. "Congratulations, you're only killing yourself half as quickly."

Elisa's lips pressed thin. "This is temporary. Until I find the rhythm again."

Astrid dropped into the chair opposite her, running a hand down her face. "Your rhythm nearly put you in the morgue."

Elisa said nothing. She stared at her sketches, at the icy swirls of blue and silver bleeding across the page. For a moment, her shoulders sagged. But then the steel returned to her spine.

"If I stop," she said quietly, "everything collapses."

Astrid leaned forward, her voice softer but heavier. "If you keep going like this, you'll collapse. And then what happens to this company?"

Elisa didn't answer.

Because the truth was unbearable.

She remembered the hospital bed, the IV drip taped to her hand, Astrid's furious voice. She remembered the doctor's warning: Your brain is overloaded. Forgetfulness is a symptom of exhaustion, not incompetence. Rest before it becomes permanent.

But she also remembered her father, standing in his study, telling her she didn't have the discipline. Telling her she would burn herself out chasing vanity.

She couldn't prove him right. Not now. Not ever.

So she kept working.

The following weeks blurred.

Astrid carried more of Elisa's load than ever, resentment simmering but buried under loyalty. Elisa, for her part, convinced herself she was delegating—as though pushing every forgotten email, every tedious schedule, every finance query onto her best friend counted as "light work."

She was still brilliant. Clients still applauded her. Campaigns still dazzled. But behind her cold, polished exterior, cracks spread wider, her memory faltered more often, her body grew weaker.

Astrid watched, helpless and angry, as Elisa worked herself toward another collapse.

And Elisa, blind to her own breaking point, told herself she was fine.

Because if she admitted otherwise, then her father was right.

And that was a truth she could not survive.

The office was still buzzing from the Croswell campaign when Astrid pulled Tom, the young graphic designer, into a corner of the creative team's bullpen. He was barely twenty-four, with shaggy hair that perpetually fell into his eyes and the kind of nervous energy that made him chew his pencil to splinters.

"Tom," Astrid said briskly, handing him a scrap of paper with notes scribbled in her tidy block handwriting. "I need a visual. Simple, professional, but with impact. Something that says we're not just hiring—we're serious about hiring."

Tom blinked, glancing down at the paper. "Uh... hiring? For what role?"

"Secretary."

His brows shot up. "For Ms. Rendelle?"

Astrid's expression tightened. "For the company. Yes, technically for Elisa, but don't overthink it. Just keep it sharp. Blue-gray tones, clean typography, maybe some geometric accents."

Tom hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek. "Does she knows about this?"

Astrid leaned closer, lowering her voice. "She doesn't need to know. Not yet. Just draft it. You'll have my approval."

By mid-afternoon, the mock-up was ready. A sleek rectangle in Glacier Media's understated palette:

"We're Growing. Join Our Team.

Now Hiring: Executive Secretary."

Beneath the text, Tom had added a stylized snowflake icon—subtle, clever, a nod to the company's name without being cliché.

Astrid studied the design on his monitor, arms folded. "Not bad. Trim the tagline. Keep it crisp."

He adjusted, and she nodded. "Perfect. Send me the final file."

Within an hour, Astrid had uploaded it to the company's official LinkedIn page, then to their i********: and Twitter feeds. She added a caption that was equal parts warm and firm:

Glacier Media is expanding. We're looking for a detail-oriented Executive Secretary to join our growing family. Apply today.

She hit post before she could second-guess herself.

The first comment came within minutes.

"So exciting! Glacier's reputation is amazing."

Then another.

"Would love to apply—where can I send my CV?"

And another.

"A secretary? About time."

Astrid smirked at the last one. She wasn't the only one who thought Elisa had been running on fumes.

Elisa noticed before the hour was out.

She was walking back from a client call, phone still pressed to her ear, when one of the interns approached timidly with a tablet.

"Um, Ms. Rendelle? Congratulations on expanding the team."

Elisa frowned, ending her call and taking the tablet. Her eyes narrowed at the screen.

There it was. Her company's name, her logo, her voice—used without her permission.

Now Hiring: Executive Secretary.

Her jaw tightened, fingers gripping the tablet so hard the intern flinched. "Who approved this?"

The intern swallowed. "I—I thought you did. Astrid—"

Of course.

She stormed into her office, heels striking the floor like gunshots. Astrid was there, seated comfortably at Elisa's desk with a stack of schedules.

"Astrid." Elisa's voice was cold, sharp enough to frost the air. "Explain this."

Astrid didn't even flinch. "We're hiring a secretary."

"Without my approval?"

"Without your permission, yes," Astrid said smoothly. "But with my full authority as HR."

Elisa's eyes flashed. "You don't have authority to post jobs on behalf of my company without my knowledge."

"I have authority to make sure this company doesn't collapse because you're too stubborn to admit you can't do everything alone." Astrid set the papers down with a snap. "That's what HR is for."

Elisa's chest burned. She stepped closer, her voice low and dangerous. "Take it down."

"No."

Astrid met her glare head-on. There was no fear in her gaze, only the blunt, infuriating honesty of someone who had known Elisa too long to be intimidated.

"You almost killed yourself working alone, Elisa," she said. "I watched you collapse at that desk. I had to call the ambulance. I had to tell your staff you'd be okay when I wasn't sure you would. Do you know how terrifying that was?"

Elisa's throat tightened. The memory flickered unbidden—the fluorescent lights of the hospital, the weight of exhaustion pressing her down. But she shoved it aside, clinging to her control.

"That was one time," she snapped. "I've adjusted. I'm fine now."

"You're not fine," Astrid shot back. "You're pushing everything onto me. Payroll, finance checks, schedules, emails, coffee runs—none of that is my job. But I've done it anyway because I care about you, because I didn't want to watch you burn out again. But this? This is where I draw the line. We need someone. You need someone."

Elisa turned away, pacing to the window, her arms folded tight.

She hated this. She hated being cornered. She hated that Astrid was right.

Her reflection stared back from the glass: flawless blouse, tailored slacks, platinum hair gleaming under the afternoon light. She looked every inch the cold, untouchable CEO. But inside, she was fraying.

Her father's voice echoed again, cruel and cutting: You don't have the discipline. You'll burn yourself out.

She clenched her fists until her nails bit her palms. "I don't need a secretary," she whispered.

Astrid's voice softened, but only slightly. "You don't want one. There's a difference."

Elisa spun around. "It makes me look weak."

"It makes you look human," Astrid countered. "And frankly, human is better than dead."

The silence stretched.

Finally, Elisa strode to her desk, snatched up her phone, and pulled up the company's LinkedIn. Her thumb hovered over the "delete" option.

Astrid's hand covered hers, firm. "Don't you dare."

Elisa looked up, stunned.

"If you delete it, I'll just put it back up tomorrow," Astrid said calmly. "And the day after that. Until you realize I'm not wrong."

Elisa's chest rose and fell, her breath sharp. No one defied her like this. Not clients, not staff, not even her family. But Astrid did—and worse, she meant it.

By the end of the day, the post had racked up dozens of comments, applications already flooding the inbox.

Elisa sat at her desk, staring at the flood of CVs Astrid had dropped in front of her.

She wanted to sweep them into the trash. To assert her control.

But instead, she sat frozen, caught between fury and fear.