By the time I found her, she was curled on the bathroom floor—clutching her stomach, trembling, gasping for air.
"I—I don't know what's happening," she wheezed, her face pale and damp with sweat. "Something hurts. Bad."
The rest unfolded in a blur.
The frantic 9-1-1 call.
The sharp scent of antiseptic in the ambulance.
The sterile chaos of the ER.
Words like internal bleeding and stomach ulcer hit me like static. She'd taken the pills again. Mixed the wrong ones this time.
I watched the clock tick mercilessly forward from the edge of the hospital chair.
9:10.
9:22.
9:47.
I was late. And getting later.
But when the doctor finally told me she was stable, at least for now, something in me snapped into motion. I kissed her forehead, whispered something I don't remember, and ran.
---
I arrived at the Manhattan high-rise at 10:52 a.m.
The building looked like it had been designed to intimidate—sleek glass panels, steel accents, and security guards who sized me up like I didn't belong.
To be fair, I probably didn't. My heels were scuffed, my hair had frizzed into chaos, and my résumé was wrinkled from being shoved hastily into my coat pocket.
"Name?" the receptionist asked crisply.
"Eleanor James. I—I had an interview scheduled for 9 a.m."
She glanced at the time, unimpressed, then typed something into her computer. "Have a seat."
I didn't. I stood awkwardly until a woman in heels sharper than her tone approached me ten minutes later.
"Miss James?"
"Yes."
"I'm Lillian. Mr. Black is—very particular about punctuality. But he'll see you. Briefly."
She didn't wait for a response—just turned and walked, and I had no choice but to follow. We moved through a pristine hallway with walls that probably cost more than my annual income, until she stopped in front of an imposing set of double doors.
She knocked once, then opened one of them halfway. "The applicant's here Sir."
From inside, a voice—low, precise, and completely uninterested—replied, "Send her in."
Lillian stepped aside, barely glancing at me. "Good luck," she said. It didn't sound like she meant it.
I stepped into the office.
And there he was.
William Black.
Even seated behind his polished desk, he carried a presence that filled the room. Tall, sharply dressed in a dark suit, not a single thing out of place. His gaze lifted to mine like I was an equation he'd already solved and found unimpressive.
He checked his watch.
"You're an hour and fifty-two minutes late," he said, tone flat and unapologetic.
"I—I had an emergency," I began. "My mother—"
"I don't care," he said simply. "We value punctuality here. I don't make exceptions."
He stood, clearly preparing to dismiss me without another word.
But then—he paused.
His eyes lingered on me for a beat longer. Not impressed. Not curious. Just… observant.
Whatever he saw, he kept it to himself.
"This was a waste of time," he muttered.
Then, without looking back, he turned and added:
"Follow me."
I followed him into a second room—smaller, more private. A conference-style space with glass walls and an unnerving lack of warmth. He didn't offer me a seat. He didn't sit either.
"You applied to be my personal secretary," he said, walking slowly to the far end of the room. "That position is not a formality. It is not a stepping stone. It is demanding. It is full-time. And it requires absolute discipline."
He turned to face me.
"If you're late again, don't bother showing up. You'll be expected to work beyond typical office hours. No personal calls. No distractions. No mistakes. I don't micromanage, so I expect excellence without reminders."
I opened my mouth—just a little. "I understand. But—uh—about the hours, is there any room for—"
"No," he said, not even blinking.
Right.
"Also," he continued, stepping closer, "you'll sign an NDA. You'll have no contact with the press, no posting anything online, and you'll report directly to me—no filters. If you have an issue, you solve it. Quietly. And efficiently."
I wanted to laugh. Not because it was funny, but because some of these expectations felt… impossible. But the look on his face made one thing clear: none of this was up for debate.
"Do you still want the job, Miss James?" he asked finally.
I straightened. "Yes. I do."
He gave me a long look. "You start tomorrow. 9:00 a.m. sharp."
---
The next day was quieter than I expected.
No outbursts. No dramatic moments. Just William Black's frigid energy and a towering pile of expectations. I was shown to a sleek, glass-walled desk right outside his office. A temp from HR gave me a brief rundown, handed me a folder the size of a novella, and vanished like she couldn't get away fast enough.
Emails, schedules, coordinating meetings, drafting responses—it wasn't hard, exactly. Just precise. Everything had to be just so. And William didn't miss a thing.
He barely spoke, save for clipped instructions or the occasional nod of vague approval. He didn't say another word about my lateness. Didn't comment on my appearance. He just... expected me to keep up.
And I did.
By the time I made it home, my eyes were burning and my nerves were shot, but there was a strange sort of pride lodged in my chest. I'd made it through day one.
But then I opened the door.
My mom was in the kitchen, sipping orange juice like she hadn't spent the night in a hospital bed with an IV in her arm and blood in her vomit.
She looked up. "Hey, baby. How was the interview?"
I stared at her, still in my coat.
"Really?"
"What?"
"You almost died," I snapped, dropping my bag on the couch. "Do you even remember that?"
Her expression soured immediately. "Oh, come on. You're being dramatic."
"No. No, I'm not. I nearly missed the most important opportunity I've ever had because of you. Again."
She stood, arms crossed. "I didn't ask you to drop everything for me. You chose to."
"I called 9-1-1," I said slowly, like she'd forgotten. "You were bleeding. You couldn't even stand. What was I supposed to do, leave you there?"
She shrugged. "You're always acting like it's my fault you don't have your life together."
Something in me snapped.
"My life is a disaster because I've been too busy cleaning up yours!" I shouted. "I'm twenty-three, Mom. I shouldn't be parenting you. I shouldn't be spending my nights sorting through your debt and praying you don't kill yourself by accident."
Her jaw clenched. "Don't you dare talk to me like that in my own house."
"It's not your house," I shot back. "You haven't paid rent in months. You haven't done anything in months but drink, cry, and ruin every chance I have to breathe."
A long, terrible silence filled the space between us.
Then she grabbed her coat off the chair. "You know what? Fine. I'll leave. Since I'm such a burden."
"Don't twist it—"
"Save it," she said, cutting me off. "I'm done begging to stay in a place where I'm not wanted."
She stormed toward the door.
"Mom," I said, softer now. But she didn't stop.
The door slammed shut behind her.
And I was alone.