His voice is low, sharp.
“No, I said midday. If the numbers aren’t there, we pull the offer. No discussion.”
A pause. Silence. Then a clipped “Fine,” and the call ends.
He turns, sees me still standing there, and frowns.
“Did Jess not give you a key?”
“She did. I just thought, first day, it might be polite to—”
“Right,” he cuts in. No thank you. No nod of appreciation. Just that same brusque edge. He turns without another word and strides across the hall.
“Your desk’s this way.”
I follow when he opens the door opposite his and gestures me in without looking at me.
It’s small. No windows. The white walls are bare. There’s a desk pushed into the corner — not the grandoak type he has, but a plain white one that screams budget-friendly. A monitor sits on it, connected to a docking station for my laptop. A small set of shelves hold a handful of neatly arranged folders. On the other side of the room, there’s a round meeting table and a TV mounted on the wall.
Functional. Efficient. Completely soulless.
“Jess set it up,” he says. “You’ve got your logins. Anything else, email her. Or me. Preferably her.”
He pauses in the doorway. “Get settled. Then come to my office. I’ll run you through what I need today.”
And with that, he disappears again.
I take a breath, slow and shallow, and turn back to the desk.
The docking station works — a small miracle. I connect my laptop, boot it up, then take out the tablet Jess gave me before I left London. Slim, lightweight, already loaded with apps and logins, company-branded wallpaper and everything. It feels new. A bit surreal.
I check my reflection in the dark screen before I press the power button. Still me. Still not sure if it was the right decision to take this job. But it is too late for second thoughts now. I’m here to make his life easier and that’s exactly what I will do if he likes it or not.
I gather the tablet and cross the hall.
His office door is open, but he doesn’t hear me as I step in.
The room’s changed completely since my interview. No boxes, no mess. Everything is in place now — polished oak desk, sleek shelves, matte black fixtures, and a few framed patents on the wall. The carpet’s thick underfoot, the furniture looks heavy, expensive, cool.
This is a CEO’s office. A power play in interior form.
He’s facing the desk, leaning over something on the screen, one hand resting on the table, the other on the mouse. He’s wearing a fitted blue button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows.
His tattoos are on full display, dark and striking, dense patterns curving up to where his sleeves end. There’s another hint of a tattoo creeping out from beneath the open top button of his shirt, curling just under his collarbone.
I stare longer than I should.
His voice cuts through the air without looking up.
“You just going to stand there?”
My mouth goes dry.
“I—sorry,” I say, stepping in properly. “You said to come over when I was set up.”
He finally looks up, and when his eyes meet mine, the intensity of it steals my breath. I can’t remember anyone ever looking at me like that.
“Right,” he says. “Let’s get started.”
