CHAPTER ONE
1117 Words
KIANA.
Being in the same room as Mason Sinclair was… intimidating. Hell, even passing by him sent shivers down your spine. Not to talk of when he actually looked at you-because let's face it, Mason didn't look; he glared. Right through your freaking soul. His glacial blue eyes had a way of stripping you bare, peeling off whatever confidence you'd managed to muster that morning, and reducing you to nothing more than the dirt under his thousand-dollar shoes. People didn't just dislike being around Mason Sinclair; they feared it. The man was a living, breathing nightmare, a storm in a tailored suit.
And then there was me.
Kiana Howard, the longest-serving secretary to Mason Sinclair, five years and counting. Five long, grueling, sleepless years.
Many people have asked me how I did it, how I survived working under him; it is an office legend at this point.
"I'd barely lasted a week!" one ex-employee had said at the last corporate party, downing her martini with a shudder. "A whole year under Mason? That's basically torture."
I had only smiled faintly, sipping my own drink. A year? Oh please. I had stories that would make their jaws drop.
But I didn't say anything, because no one would understand. Nobody knew what Mason had done for me-not even him.
I remembered it like it was yesterday.
It had been a cold November morning, bitter wind nipping at my face as I dragged my feet up the steps of Sinclair Corps' big glass building. I was just out of college, wearing the same suit I wore to every interview that month. Its seams were already frayed; my heels hurt my feet.
I had been living a life that was a complete mess. I had lost my family not long ago, and the mounting bills were swallowing me whole, like a sea. My landlord had slipped an eviction notice under my door just a few days before, and I hadn't eaten in two days. I had been drowning in despair, and Sinclair Corps was my last shot.
And if I didn't get it? Well, I had a plan for that too: a final, permanent plan. Yes, yes, I’d been deliberating suicide. Dramatic much? But you weren’t there. You wouldn’t understand.
Those were dark times, indeed.
The reception area that day was full of applicants, dozens of sharp suits and perfect resumes. I sat at the far end of the room, head down, too tired to care about the competition. What was the point? I didn't stand a chance against these people anyway.
When my name had been called, my hands had shaken as I clutched my bag; I'd walked into the room where five interviewers sat in a perfect row, each with a clipboard and a piercing stare.
"Miss Howard, let's begin.
My voice had quivered with each response. I'd mispronounced, stuttered over words, and fumbled through my papers. By the time they finally asked me my last question, I wasn't even attempting to be impressive anymore. I whispered, my voice cracking, "I don't know the answer."
The room had gone silent.
Their eyes met, and the other gentleman, a silver-haired man in a sleek gray suit, arched a brow that spoke volumes as he leaned back in his chair. "You're… not prepared, are you?"
The sting of humiliation had burned hot in my chest, yet I didn't argue. I couldn't. He was right.
So I merely shrugged.
"Thank you for your time," another woman said shortly, her lips pressed into a thin line.
I had nodded, my throat tight. I stood to leave, my heart plummeting further with each step toward the door. But then-
"Wait."
The voice was sharp, commanding, cold enough to freeze me in place.
I'd turned.
Mason Sinclair stood from his chair at the end of the table. He was taller than I’d realized, his broad shoulders perfectly fitted in a black suit that looked like it cost more than my rent. Ten times. It definitely did, looking back. His icy blue eyes were fixed on me, his expression unreadable. As always.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
“You’re hired,” he said, his tone flat. “Follow me.”
And then he’d turned and walked out of the room.
I had stood there, stunned, as the other interviewers gaped after him. The silver-haired man broke the silence with a scoff. “He can’t be serious.”
But he was serious. Dead serious, even. Mason Sinclair didn’t know how to joke.
I'd scurried after Mason, grasping my purse while my heels wobbled on the marble floor. He didn't slow down, didn't even turn back to check if I was following him. Later, I'd learn this was how things were: me always chasing him, racing to keep up with his strides. He'd guided me into a more diminutive, private waiting room and had stopped short.
"Wait here," he said, and then he was gone.
Minutes passed. I sat on the edge of the plush leather couch staring blankly at the modern artwork on the walls. My stomach growled loudly, but I didn't move.
Then the door had opened and a woman came in, carrying two large paper bags that smelled like heaven. Wordlessly, she'd handed them to me and said, "He says you start tomorrow. Eight a.m. sharp."
I'd blinked, my hands shaking, as I took the bags. "W-wait, I-" My voice cracked.
The woman didn't wait for me to finish. She turned and left, the door clicking shut behind her.
I had just sat there staring at the food. The aroma was overwhelming, so savory and rich, like a meal I hadn't smelled in months.
Tears had been burning at the back of my eyes, but I sniffed them back and then stood abruptly and clutched the bags before leaving the building without looking back.
I’d walked to the nearest bus stop in a daze, boarded the bus, and found a seat near the back. As the city blurred past the window, I’d sat there for two long minutes, numb.
And then the tears came.
I'd buried my head and cried, silent sobs racking my body. I didn't care about the glances of those around me, moving on to other passengers, didn't care how pathetic I must have appeared.
Because Mason Sinclair hadn't given me food and a job that day.
He had saved my life, stopped me from taking it, without even knowing it. Which was inadvertently the reason why I spent the next 5 years shifting my life to accommodate his, dismissing my own needs to tend to his.
But all things, as all things do, have to come to an end.
- Writer
