Sibling Shift

The first thing I noticed about Mr. Aldrich was his hands.

Not in a romantic way. Not then. I noticed them the way you notice a storm cloud on the horizon, a dark shape that doesn't belong against the pale sky. He had the kind of hands that looked like they'd never held anything softer than a fountain pen. Long fingers, clean nails, knuckles that stood out like pebbles beneath the skin. They rested on the edge of his mahogany desk, perfectly still, while the rest of him leaned back in his leather chair, watching me with an expression I couldn't read.

I was twenty-three years old, three months out of university, and I had absolutely no business being in that office.

"You're late," he said.

"I know. I'm sorry. The train—"

"I don't care about the train." His voice was low, unhurried, the kind of voice that didn't need to rise to be heard. "I care that you're late. This is the third time this month."

I wanted to explain. The Northern line had been suspended between Camden Town and Euston, and I'd stood on the platform for fifteen minutes with my heart hammering against my ribs, watching the minutes tick past on my phone, calculating exactly how much trouble I was in. But something about the way he looked at me made the explanation die in my throat. He didn't want excuses. He wanted compliance.

"I understand," I said. "It won't happen again."

"It won't." He said it like a fact, not a threat. Like he'd already decided the outcome and was simply waiting for the universe to catch up.

That was the thing about Elias Aldrich. He didn't make threats. He made statements. And somehow, impossibly, they always came true.

The office was on the fourteenth floor of a glass tower in the City, the kind of building that made you feel small just by walking through its revolving doors. Everything about the space was designed to communicate a single message: you are here because I allow it. The desk was mahogany, the carpet was wool, the windows stretched from floor to ceiling and looked out over a city that seemed to belong to someone else entirely. There were no personal photographs on his desk. No plants. No coffee mug. Just a laptop, a leather-bound notebook, and a pen that probably cost more than my monthly rent.

I stood in front of his desk with my hands clasped behind my back, the way I'd learned to stand in front of him. It wasn't a rule he'd ever stated out loud. It was just something I'd figured out, the way you figure out that a dog doesn't like to be touched on its ears. You learn the boundaries. You learn them fast.

"You'll stay late tonight," he said. "To make up for the time you've wasted."

"Yes, Mr. Aldrich."

"Until the Harlow account is finished."

The Harlow account was a nightmare. A seventy-page financial report that needed to be cross-referenced, fact-checked, and formatted before the client meeting on Thursday. I'd been working on it for two weeks. It was nowhere near finished.

"Of course," I said.

He nodded once, a small, almost imperceptible movement, and turned his attention back to his laptop. I was dismissed.

I walked back to my desk in the open-plan office outside his door, feeling the familiar burn of humiliation in my chest. The other assistants didn't look at me. They never did. They kept their eyes on their screens, their fingers moving over their keyboards, as if I were invisible. Maybe I was. Maybe that was the point.

My desk was the closest one to his office. That was the only thing that distinguished it from the others. It wasn't a promotion. It was a punishment. Or maybe a test. I still hadn't figured out which.

I sat down and opened the Harlow file. The numbers blurred in front of my eyes. I'd been working on this report for so long that I'd started to see the figures in my sleep, columns of digits marching through my dreams like soldiers. I rubbed my eyes and started typing.

The office emptied slowly over the next few hours. First the marketing team, then the analysts, then the other assistants. By seven o'clock, the floor was almost silent. By eight, it was just me and the hum of the fluorescent lights.

By nine, I was the only one left.

I didn't mind. There was something almost peaceful about the office at night, the way the darkness pressed against the windows and turned the glass into mirrors. I could see my own reflection in them, a pale ghost of a girl hunched over a keyboard, her hair falling out of its bun, her blouse wrinkled from a day of nervous sweating. I didn't look like someone who belonged in a place like this. I looked like someone who was pretending.

The truth was, I was pretending. I'd been pretending since the day I walked through the door for my interview, wearing a blazer I'd bought from a charity shop and a pair of heels that pinched my toes. I'd pretended to be confident. I'd pretended to be competent. I'd pretended that I deserved to be there, in that glass tower, among people who'd gone to schools I couldn't afford and had parents who knew people I'd never meet.

And somehow, impossibly, it had worked. I'd gotten the job. I'd gotten the desk closest to the corner office. I'd gotten the attention of a man who terrified me and fascinated me in equal measure.

I didn't know why he'd hired me. I'd asked myself that question a hundred times, lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling of my tiny flat in Hackney. I wasn't the most qualified candidate. I wasn't the most experienced. I wasn't even the most polished. But something about me had caught his eye, and he'd chosen me, and I still didn't understand why.

Maybe it was because I was the only one who'd looked him in the eye during the interview. Maybe it was because I'd answered his questions without stammering, even though my heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. Maybe it was because I'd told him the truth when he asked me why I wanted the job, instead of giving him the polished answer I'd rehearsed in the mirror.

"I need the money," I'd said. "And I want to learn."

He'd smiled at that. A small, cold smile that hadn't reached his eyes. "At least you're honest," he'd said. "Most people aren't."

I'd gotten the job offer the next day.

Now, three months later, I was still trying to figure out what he wanted from me. He was exacting. Demanding. Impossible to please. He criticized my work relentlessly, pointing out every tiny mistake, every awkward phrasing, every misplaced comma. But he never raised his voice. He never lost his temper. He never showed any emotion at all, except for that faint, cold amusement that flickered across his face when I did something he found particularly foolish.

It was exhausting. It was exhilarating. It was the most alive I'd ever felt.

I finished the Harlow report at eleven-thirty. My eyes were burning, my back ached, and my stomach was growling so loudly I was sure the entire floor could hear it. I saved the file, printed two copies, and walked back to his office.

The light was still on.

I knocked softly on the door, half hoping he wouldn't hear me. Half hoping he would.

"Come in."

He was still at his desk, his laptop open, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It was the first time I'd seen him without his jacket, and the sight of his forearms, bare and strong, sent a strange jolt through my chest. I looked away quickly, focusing on the papers in my hands.

"The Harlow report," I said. "It's finished."

He held out his hand without looking up. I walked forward and placed the papers in his palm, my fingers brushing against his. His skin was warm. Warmer than I'd expected. I pulled my hand back quickly, as if I'd been burned.

He flipped through the pages, his eyes moving rapidly over the text. I stood in front of his desk, waiting, my heart hammering in my chest. The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy.

"This is adequate," he said finally.

Adequate. It was the highest praise he'd ever given me.

"Thank you, Mr. Aldrich."

"There's a problem on page forty-two. The figures for the third quarter don't match the summary on page seven. Fix it before you leave."

My heart sank. "Yes, Mr. Aldrich."

He handed the papers back to me without looking up. I took them and turned to go, but his voice stopped me at the door.

"Miss Chen."

I turned back. He was looking at me now, his dark eyes fixed on my face with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

"You did well tonight," he said. "Despite your tardiness."

I didn't know what to say. I stood there, frozen, my mouth slightly open, trying to process the words. He'd never complimented me before. Not once. Not even a little.

"Thank you," I managed.

He nodded once, and turned back to his laptop. I was dismissed.

I walked back to my desk in a daze. The office was dark now, the only light coming from the glow of my computer screen and the faint sliver of illumination spilling out from under his door. I sat down and opened the Harlow file, my fingers trembling slightly as I navigated to page forty-two.

The figures didn't match. He was right. He was always right.

I fixed the error in twenty minutes, my mind racing the whole time. Why had he complimented me? Why had he said I did well? It didn't make sense. Nothing about him made sense. He was a puzzle I couldn't solve, a riddle I couldn't answer, and the more I tried to understand him, the more confused I became.

I saved the corrected file and printed a new copy. I walked back to his office and knocked on the door again.

"Come in."

He was standing by the window now, his back to me, looking out at the city lights. The glass reflected his silhouette, a dark shape against the glittering skyline. I stood in the doorway, unsure whether to enter.

"The corrected report," I said.

He didn't turn around. "Leave it on the desk."

I walked forward and placed the papers on his desk. I was about to leave when he spoke again.

"Do you know why I hired you, Miss Chen?"

I stopped. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it. "No," I said. "I've wondered."

He turned around slowly, his eyes meeting mine across the dim room. "Because you're hungry," he said. "I could see it in your eyes. The hunger. The desperation. The need to prove yourself."

I didn't know what to say. I stood there, frozen, my hands clasped behind my back, my nails digging into my palms.

"Most people who work here are comfortable," he continued. "They have money. They have connections. They have safety nets. They don't need this job. They don't need anything." He paused, his eyes never leaving my face. "You need everything. That's what makes you useful."

Useful. The word landed in my chest like a stone. I wasn't a person to him. I was a tool. A resource. Something to be used and discarded when it was no longer needed.

But I couldn't bring myself to care. Because he was right. I did need everything. I needed the money. I needed the experience. I needed the chance to prove that I was more than the sum of my circumstances, more than the girl from the council estate who'd clawed her way into a world that didn't want her.

"I understand," I said.

He smiled. That same cold, faint smile I'd seen in the interview. "I don't think you do," he said. "But you will."

He walked past me, close enough that I could smell his cologne, something dark and woody that made my head spin. He picked up his jacket from the back of his chair and slipped it on, his movements smooth and deliberate.

"Go home, Miss Chen," he said. "It's late."

I nodded and walked out of his office, my legs shaky beneath me. I gathered my things from my desk and walked to the elevator, my mind spinning with questions I couldn't answer.

What did he mean, I would understand? What was he planning? What did he want from me?

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. I stepped inside and pressed the button for the ground floor. As the doors slid shut, I caught one last glimpse of him through the glass walls of his office. He was standing by the window again, his back to me, looking out at the city that belonged to him.

And I knew, with a certainty that settled into my bones like a cold wind, that nothing would ever be the same again.

The next morning, I arrived at the office fifteen minutes early.

I'd barely slept. I'd spent the night tossing and turning, replaying the conversation in my head, trying to decipher the meaning behind his words. Useful. Hungry. You will understand. The phrases circled in my mind like sharks, relentless and hungry.

I'd given up on sleep at five o'clock and gotten dressed in the dark, choosing my most professional outfit, a grey pencil skirt and a white silk blouse that I'd ironed three times to make sure there wasn't a single wrinkle. I'd done my makeup carefully, a light layer of foundation and a sweep of mascara, nothing too obvious. I'd pulled my hair back into a neat bun, not a single strand out of place.

I looked like someone who was trying to prove something. I was.

The office was quiet when I arrived. A few early risers were already at their desks, nursing cups of coffee and staring bleary-eyed at their screens. I walked past them without a word and sat down at my desk, my back straight, my hands folded in my lap.

I waited.

At eight o'clock exactly, the door to Mr. Aldrich's office opened and he walked out. He was wearing a dark blue suit today, perfectly tailored, with a crisp white shirt and a silver tie. He looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine, like he'd been airbrushed into existence. He didn't look at me as he walked past, but I felt his presence like a physical force, a pressure in the air that made it hard to breathe.

He stopped at the coffee machine and poured himself a cup. Black, no sugar. I'd learned that about him in my first week. I'd learned a lot of things about him, actually. I'd learned that he arrived at eight o'clock every morning and left at seven o'clock every night. I'd learned that he drank three cups of coffee a day, never more, never less. I'd learned that he ate lunch at his desk, always a salad, always the same one from the deli around the corner. I'd learned that he never smiled at anyone except me, and even then, it was that cold, faint smile that didn't reach his eyes.

I'd learned that he was watching me. Always. Even when he wasn't looking, I could feel his attention on me, a weight that pressed against my skin. I didn't know why. I didn't know what he wanted. But I knew it was there, and I knew it wasn't going away.

He walked back to his office without a word. The door closed behind him with a soft click. I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.

The morning passed in a blur of emails and phone calls and spreadsheets. I worked with a focus I hadn't known I possessed, my fingers flying over the keyboard, my eyes fixed on the screen. I didn't look up. I didn't let myself look up. I was afraid of what I might see if I did.

At noon, my phone buzzed with a message from the internal system. It was from Mr. Aldrich.

My office. Now.

I stood up so fast I knocked my pen off the desk. I didn't bother picking it up. I walked to his office and knocked on the door, my heart pounding in my chest.

"Come in."

He was sitting at his desk, his laptop open, his eyes fixed on the screen. He didn't look up when I entered. I stood in front of his desk, my hands clasped behind my back, waiting.

"The Harlow meeting has been moved to tomorrow," he said. "I need you to prepare a presentation. Fifteen slides. Summarize the key findings. Make it clear. Make it concise."

"Yes, Mr. Aldrich."

"The meeting is at nine o'clock. I want the presentation on my desk by six tonight."

"Yes, Mr. Aldrich."

He finally looked up, his dark eyes meeting mine. "You'll stay late again."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement. A command.

"Yes, Mr. Aldrich."

He nodded and turned back to his laptop. I was dismissed.

I spent the rest of the day working on the presentation. I skipped lunch. I skipped my afternoon coffee. I didn't even notice the other assistants leaving at the end of the day, one by one, until the office was empty and the only light came from my computer screen and the sliver of illumination under his door.

By five-thirty, the presentation was finished. Fifteen slides, clean and concise, exactly what he'd asked for. I saved the file and printed it out, my hands trembling slightly as I gathered the pages together.

I walked to his office and knocked on the door.

"Come in."

He was standing by the window again, his back to me, looking out at the city. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, and the light spilled into the room like liquid gold. He looked almost beautiful in that light, his sharp edges softened, his coldness warmed.

I placed the presentation on his desk. "It's finished," I said.

He turned around and walked to the desk, picking up the pages. He flipped through them slowly, his eyes moving over each slide with the same intense focus he always had. I stood in front of his desk, waiting, my heart hammering in my chest.

"This is good," he said.

I blinked. "Good?"

"Good." He set the pages down and looked at me, his expression unreadable. "You've improved."

I didn't know what to say. I stood there, frozen, my mouth slightly open, trying to process the words. He'd never said anything was good before. He'd never said I'd improved. It was the highest praise he'd ever given me, and it made my chest ache in a way I didn't understand.

"Thank you," I managed.

He walked around the desk and stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell his cologne again, that dark, woody scent that made my head spin. He was taller than me, much taller, and I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

"You're different from the others," he said. "You know that, don't you?"

I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what he meant. I stood there, frozen, my heart pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it.

"The others are comfortable," he continued. "They don't need this job. They don't need anything. But you..." He paused, his eyes searching my face. "You need everything. That's what makes you dangerous."

Dangerous. The word sent a shiver down my spine. I didn't feel dangerous. I felt small and scared and completely out of my depth.

"I don't understand," I said.

He smiled. That same cold, faint smile. "You will."

He turned away and walked back to his desk, sitting down and opening his laptop. I stood there for a moment, unsure what to do, before turning and walking out of his office.

I gathered my things and walked to the elevator, my mind spinning. Dangerous. He'd called me dangerous. What did that mean? What did he think I was going to do?

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. I stepped inside and pressed the button for the ground floor. As the doors slid shut, I caught one last glimpse of him through the glass walls of his office. He was sitting at his desk, his eyes fixed on the screen, but I knew he wasn't looking at his laptop. He was thinking about me. I could feel it.

The doors closed, and I was alone.

The next morning, I arrived at the office at seven-thirty.

I'd spent another sleepless night, my mind racing with questions I couldn't answer. Dangerous. Why had he called me dangerous? What did he think I was going to do? I didn't have any power. I didn't have any leverage. I was just an assistant, a nobody, a girl from a council estate who'd somehow stumbled into a world she didn't belong in.

But something had changed. I could feel it in the air, a tension that hadn't been there before. Something was building between us, something I didn't understand, something that scared me and excited me in equal measure.

I sat down at my desk and opened my computer, my fingers trembling slightly as I typed my password. The office was quiet, the only sound the hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant rumble of traffic outside.

At eight o'clock exactly, the door to Mr. Aldrich's office opened and he walked out. He was wearing a grey suit today, perfectly tailored, with a black shirt and a black tie. He looked like a shadow given form, dark and sharp and impossible to ignore.

He walked past my desk without a word, heading for the coffee machine. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, my heart pounding in my chest. He poured himself a cup of coffee, black, no sugar, and walked back to his office.

He stopped at my desk.

"The meeting is in an hour," he said. "I want you to attend."

I looked up at him, surprised. "Me?"

"You prepared the presentation. You should be there to answer any questions."

I nodded, my mouth dry. "Yes, Mr. Aldrich."

He walked back to his office and closed the door. I sat there for a moment, trying to process what had just happened. He wanted me in the meeting. He wanted me to answer questions. He wanted me to be visible.

It was a test. I knew it was a test. And I was terrified of failing.

The meeting was in a conference room on the fifteenth floor, a large, glass-walled space with a view of the city that made you feel like you were floating in the sky. I arrived early, clutching my laptop and a printed copy of the presentation, my hands sweating so much I was afraid I'd drop everything.

Mr. Aldrich was already there, sitting at the head of the table, his laptop open in front of him. He didn't look up when I entered. I took a seat at the far end of the table, as far from him as possible, and waited.

The Harlow team arrived a few minutes later. There were four of them, all men, all wearing suits that probably cost more than my monthly rent. They shook hands with Mr. Aldrich and took their seats, their eyes flickering over me with barely concealed curiosity.

"Who's this?" one of them asked, a balding man with a red face and a loud voice.

"My assistant," Mr. Aldrich said. "She prepared the presentation."

The man raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything else. He opened his laptop and the meeting began.

I'd never been in a meeting like that before. The Harlow team asked questions, sharp, pointed questions that made my heart race, and Mr. Aldrich answered them with the same cold, measured calm he always had. He didn't stumble. He didn't hesitate. He didn't even seem to breathe. He was in complete control, the master of the room, and everyone in it knew it.

And then, halfway through the meeting, he turned to me.

"Miss Chen," he said. "Can you explain the discrepancy in the third quarter figures?"

I froze. The discrepancy. The one I'd fixed the night before. I'd spent twenty minutes on it, cross-referencing the numbers, tracing the error back to its source. I knew the answer. I just didn't know if I could speak.

I took a breath and straightened my spine. "Yes, Mr. Aldrich," I said. "The original figures included a one-time expense that wasn't accounted for in the summary. I've corrected it in the revised report."

The Harlow team looked at me with new interest. The balding man nodded slowly, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Impressive," he said.

I felt a flush of warmth spread through my chest. I glanced at Mr. Aldrich, expecting to see that cold, faint smile, but his expression was unreadable. He was watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle, his dark eyes fixed on my face like he was seeing something he hadn't seen before.

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur. The Harlow team asked a few more questions, Mr. Aldrich answered them, and then it was over. The men shook hands and filed out of the room, leaving me alone with my boss.

He stood up and walked to the window, his back to me, looking out at the city. I stayed in my seat, unsure whether to leave or stay.

"You did well," he said.

I blinked. "Thank you."

"You answered the question clearly. You didn't hesitate. You didn't look to me for help." He turned around, his eyes meeting mine across the room. "You're learning."

I didn't know what to say. I sat there, frozen, my heart pounding in my chest.

"The Harlow team was impressed," he continued. "They mentioned it to me after the meeting. They said you have potential."

Potential. The word settled into my chest like a warm ember. I'd never been told I had potential before. I'd been told I was hardworking. I'd been told I was reliable. But potential was different. Potential meant someone believed I could be more than what I was.

"Thank you," I said again, my voice barely above a whisper.

He walked toward me, stopping a few feet away. He was close enough that I could see the faint lines around his eyes, the slight shadow of stubble on his jaw. He looked tired, I realized. More tired than I'd ever seen him.

"You're different," he said. "I told you that last night. But I don't think you understood what I meant."

I shook my head. "I don't."

He smiled. That same cold, faint smile. "You will."

He turned and walked out of the conference room, leaving me alone with the view of the city and the echo of his words.

I sat there for a long time, staring out at the skyline, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He'd complimented me. He'd said I had potential. He'd said I was different. And he'd said I would understand, eventually, what he meant.

But I didn't understand. I didn't understand any of it. And the more I tried to figure it out, the more confused I became.

The rest of the week passed in a blur.

I worked harder than I'd ever worked in my life. I arrived early, stayed late, skipped meals, skipped breaks, skipped everything that wasn't work. I wanted to prove myself. I wanted to show him that I was worth the attention he was giving me, that I was worth the potential he saw in me.

And he noticed. He noticed everything. He noticed when I stayed late, when I skipped lunch, when I worked through the weekend. He noticed, and he didn't say anything, but I could feel his approval like a warm hand on my shoulder.

On Friday afternoon, he called me into his office.

"The Harlow account is closed," he said. "You did well."

I stood in front of his desk, my hands clasped behind my back, my heart pounding in my chest. "Thank you, Mr. Aldrich."

"I have a new project for you." He slid a folder across the desk. "The Morrison account. It's more complex than Harlow. I want you to lead it."

I stared at the folder, my mind reeling. Lead it. He wanted me to lead it. I'd never led anything before. I'd never been given that kind of responsibility.

"Me?" I said. "Are you sure?"

He looked at me with that same unreadable expression. "I'm always sure."

I picked up the folder, my hands trembling slightly. "Thank you," I said. "I won't let you down."

He nodded. "I know you won't."

I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me at the door.

"Miss Chen."

I turned back.

"You've been working too hard," he said. "You need to rest."

I blinked, surprised. "I'm fine."

"You're not." He stood up and walked around the desk, stopping in front of me. He was close again, close enough that I could smell his cologne, close enough that I could see the faint lines around his eyes. "You're exhausted. You're running on fumes. You're going to burn out if you're not careful."

I didn't know what to say. No one had ever told me to rest before. No one had ever noticed that I was tired.

"I can't afford to rest," I said. "I have too much to do."

"You can't afford not to." He reached out and took the folder from my hands, setting it on the desk. "Go home. Take the weekend off. Come back on Monday refreshed."

I stared at him, my mouth slightly open. "But the Morrison account..."

"Will still be there on Monday." He looked at me with an expression I couldn't read. "You're no good to me if you're exhausted. You need to take care of yourself."

I didn't know what to say. I stood there, frozen, my heart pounding in my chest. He was telling me to rest. He was telling me to take care of myself. It was the most human thing he'd ever said to me.

"Okay," I said finally. "I'll go home."

He nodded. "Good."

I turned and walked out of his office, my mind spinning. I gathered my things and walked to the elevator, my legs shaky beneath me. I pressed the button for the ground floor and leaned against the wall, trying to process what had just happened.

He'd told me to rest. He'd told me to take care of myself. He'd noticed that I was exhausted, and he'd cared enough to say something.

It didn't make sense. None of it made sense. He was cold. He was distant. He was impossible to read. But underneath all of that, there was something else. Something I couldn't quite see.

The elevator doors opened and I stepped out into the lobby. The sun was shining through the glass doors, bright and warm, and I stood there for a moment, letting it wash over me.

I didn't know what was happening between us. I didn't know what he wanted from me. But I knew one thing for certain: I was in over my head. And I didn't care.

The weekend passed slowly.

I slept for twelve hours on Saturday, waking up only when my stomach growled so loudly I couldn't ignore it anymore. I made myself a proper breakfast for the first time in weeks, eggs and toast and a cup of tea, and ate it sitting by the window, watching the world go by outside.

It was strange, being still. I'd been running for so long, working so hard, pushing myself so relentlessly, that I'd forgotten what it felt like to just exist. To breathe. To be.

I thought about Mr. Aldrich. I thought about him constantly, actually, even when I didn't want to. He was always there, in the back of my mind, a dark shape that I couldn't quite see but couldn't ignore. I thought about his hands, his voice, his eyes. I thought about the way he looked at me, like he was seeing something no one else could see.

I didn't understand him. I didn't understand what he wanted from me. But I knew, with a certainty that settled into my bones like a cold wind, that I was going to find out.

On Monday morning, I arrived at the office at seven-thirty.

I felt different. Rested. Ready. I'd spent the weekend taking care of myself, eating properly, sleeping properly, doing all the things I'd been neglecting for months. I felt stronger, clearer, more focused.

I sat down at my desk and opened the Morrison folder. It was thick, filled with financial statements and contracts and correspondence, and I spent the next hour reading through it, making notes, trying to understand the scope of the project.

At eight o'clock exactly, the door to Mr. Aldrich's office opened and he walked out. He was wearing a navy suit today, perfectly tailored, with a white shirt and a blue tie. He looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine, like he'd been airbrushed into existence.

He walked past my desk without a word, heading for the coffee machine. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, my heart pounding in my chest. He poured himself a cup of coffee, black, no sugar, and walked back to his office.

He stopped at my desk.

"You look better," he said.

I looked up at him, surprised. "Thank you. I feel better."

He nodded. "Good. I need you at your best for the Morrison account."

He walked back to his office and closed the door. I sat there for a moment, trying to process what had just happened. He'd noticed. He'd noticed that I looked better. He'd noticed that I'd taken his advice.

It was a small thing. A tiny thing. But it made my chest ache in a way I didn't understand.

The Morrison account consumed my life for the next two weeks.

I worked longer hours than ever before, arriving at seven, leaving at ten, sometimes eleven. I skipped meals, skipped breaks, skipped everything that wasn't work. I was determined to prove myself, to show him that I was worth the responsibility he'd given me.

And he watched. He watched me work, watched me struggle, watched me push myself to the limit. He didn't say anything. He didn't offer help. He just watched, his dark eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

But he was there. Every night, when I stayed late, he stayed too. His light was always on, his door always slightly ajar, a silent presence that kept me going when I wanted to give up.

I didn't know why he stayed. I didn't know why he didn't just go home, leave me alone, let me work in peace. But he stayed. And somehow, impossibly, it made me work harder.

On the last night of the Morrison project, I finished at midnight.

I saved the file and printed it out, my hands trembling with exhaustion. I gathered the pages together and walked to his office, my legs shaky beneath me.

The light was still on. Of course it was.

I knocked on the door.

"Come in."

He was sitting at his desk, his laptop open, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked tired, I realized. More tired than I'd ever seen him. His eyes were shadowed, his jaw tight, his shoulders slumped slightly.

I placed the report on his desk. "It's finished," I said.

He picked it up and flipped through it slowly, his eyes moving over each page with the same intense focus he always had. I stood in front of his desk, waiting, my heart pounding in my chest.

"This is excellent," he said.

I blinked. "Excellent?"

"Excellent." He set the report down and looked at me, his expression unreadable. "You've exceeded my expectations."

I didn't know what to say. I stood there, frozen, my mouth slightly open, trying to process the words. He'd never said anything was excellent before. He'd never said I'd exceeded his expectations. It was the highest praise he'd ever given me, and it made my chest ache in a way I didn't understand.

"Thank you," I managed.

He stood up and walked around the desk, stopping in front of me. He was close again, close enough that I could smell his cologne, close enough that I could see the faint lines around his eyes.

"You've been working too hard," he said. "You need to rest."

"I'm fine," I said, even though I wasn't. Even though I was so exhausted I could barely stand.

"You're not." He reached out and touched my face, his fingers brushing against my cheek. His skin was warm, warmer than I'd expected, and the touch sent a jolt through my entire body. "You're burning out."

I didn't know what to say. I stood there, frozen, my heart pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it. His hand was still on my face, his thumb tracing a slow circle on my cheekbone.

"Mr. Aldrich," I whispered.

"Elias," he said. "Call me Elias."

I stared at him, my mind reeling. Elias. His name was Elias. I'd never called him anything but Mr. Aldrich. I'd never even thought of him as anything but Mr. Aldrich.

"Elias," I repeated, the word strange on my tongue.

He smiled. That same cold, faint smile. But this time, it reached his eyes.

"Good," he said. "Now go home. Get some rest. You've earned it."

He dropped his hand and stepped back, and the spell was broken. I stood there for a moment, my heart pounding in my chest, before turning and walking out of his office.

I gathered my things and walked to the elevator, my mind spinning. He'd touched me. He'd told me to call him Elias. He'd smiled at me, a real smile, a smile that reached his eyes.

What did it mean? What did any of it mean?

The elevator doors opened and I stepped inside, pressing the button for the ground floor. As the doors slid shut, I caught one last glimpse of him through the glass walls of his office. He was standing by the window, his back to me, looking out at the city that belonged to him.

And I knew, with a certainty that settled into my bones like a cold wind, that nothing would ever be the same again.