Chapter 3 First Impressions: Damon's Cold Efficiency, Sierra's Quiet Strength

I had never before paid such attention to the sound of my heels, and that was on a Monday morning, walking through the bright, gleaming corridors of Cross Enterprises.

Click. Click. Click.

Each step echoed a little too loudly: as if the very building itself was warning me: you don't belong here.

But I refused to show my nerves. However fresh were the ironed blouse and the pressed skirt; the neat twist of my hair piled back at the nape of my neck; as good as I looked today, deep inside I felt like a terrified imposter.

I checked the time again on my phone.

6:58 a.m.

Good.

I wasn't going to be late.

Not today.

Not ever.

Not when this job felt like my only chance at regaining some dignity from everything Zachary had scarred.

When I got to Damon 's office, the door happened to be half open already.

I hesitated at the threshold.

On the other side, Damon sat hunched over his massive desk, already working, already lost in the storm of emails or documents or whatever-it-was that demanded the full attention of a man like him. The sound of my knock was soft, yet he didn't look up as I stepped inside.

I simply stayed there for a moment to take him in.

He looked just like he did in the interview; impeccable in dark suit, white shirt, no tie, as if even his strict appearance allowed for exactly one rebellion. His hair was perfectly disheveled in a way that had to be intentional, and his expression was carved from stone: focused, cold, utterly untouchable.

"You're early," he said without glancing up.

"I thought it would be better to be early than risk being late," I answered, willing my voice to be calm, steady.

He had nothing to say, having typed a few more words on his laptop, and in a trademark snap, closed its lid.

That's when he looked at me.

His curious gaze proved as intense as ever, assessing me like I was a complex equation he hadn't quite decided whether to solve or discard.

"I don't tolerate incompetence," he said flatly. "Or excuses."

I nodded once. "Understood."

"You'll be responsible for managing my schedule, preparing reports, coordinating meetings and handling communications-internal and external. I don't like repeating myself. Learn fast or you'll be out as quickly as that."

Another nod. "Understood."

A flicker of something passed through his eyes-surprise maybe-but so swiftly that I almost questioned whether I saw it.

"Sit," he ordered, indicating the chair across from his desk.

Smoothing my skirt as I sat with straight back and hands resting lightly on my portfolio, I did so.

"I'll have you shadow me today," he said, his voice clipped and efficient. "Pay attention; memorize my preferences. If you have questions, ask. I don't appreciate guessing games."

"Understood," I said again.

He looked at me for a long moment, tightening his lips a bit.

Most people, I should imagine, flinched at the sight of his eyes.

But not me.

I would not let him, or any person in this glass kingdom, see me as weak.

Not again.

The entire day melted into an unending blur of meetings, conference calls, e-mails, and short conversations. Damon deftly moved through all of it, icy efficiency in every nearly terrifying movement. The final day came to an end for an extremely busy person with just a fiddling laptop and a notebook to his side. I too jumped up on my feet as he flowingly moved with lethal precision through the hall.

He had no wasted words.

Wasted no time either.

Everything he said, everything he did, was calculated to maximum effect.

And people-executives, managers, assistants-rushed to facilitate him.

They feared him.

Respected him, but mostly feared him.

It wasn't his position or his money that made him powerful. It was the effortless way he commanded it, as if it were second nature to him.

By noon, my head was spinning.

Four pages worth of notes; note-taking his preferred coffee order-black-no sugar-no cream, possibility of Ethiopian roast; and that he hates long emails and meetings running over schedule.

He preferred numbers to explanations.

Results to excuses.

And loyalty above all.

At exactly 12:03 p.m., he barked, "Lunch", and disappeared into his office without another word.

I stood there, momentarily shocked.

Was that an order? A suggestion? An announcement?

Before I could figure it out, a sleek brunette appeared at my side, her heels tapping softly against the marble floor.

"You must be the new assistant," she said, giving me a once-over that made my skin prickle.

"I'm Sierra," I said, trying my best to be polite in my smile.

She didn't return it. "I'm Marissa," she said coolly. "Head of PR. Word of advice: Keep your head down. Cross burns through assistants faster than most people burn through coffee."

With that pretty pep talk, she turned on her heel and disappeared down the hall.

I breathed out, locking my portfolio tightly.

I would not be one of those assistants. He wouldn't burn me out or frighten me off. I need this job way too much. I had a rushed salad from the downstairs café, and I returned to Damon's office to find him just as I had left him-with an unsmiling face at focus on his desk.

He barely looked at me when I came in. "Come," he said, grabbing his laptop from its cradle again.

The afternoon is actually worse than the morning.

Tougher meetings. More demands. Higher stakes.

By four in the p.m., my feet ached, my head was fried and my stomach was knotted up into a thousand knots. But I didn't waver this time.

Never once.

He asked for a report, and I had it ready.

When he needed a presentation deck, I made one in under twenty minutes from scratch, using the notes I'd committed to memory from his earlier meetings.

When he barked a schedule change, I adapted without hesitation.

I caught every task he threw at me.

I swung at every curveball.

And for the first time in about a couple of months-maybe years-I felt something stirring inside me that I had probably never felt before.

Pride.

Not arrogance.

Not foolish hope.

Just quiet steady pride that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't as broken as Zachary had tried to make me believe.

Finally, at 6:45 p.m., Damon tilted back slightly in his chair and tossed his pen onto the desk.

He stared at me for a long moment, gaze unreadable.

"You lasted the day," he said, almost to himself.

"I plan on lasting longer than that," I said before I could think better of it.

His mouth twitched, an echo of a smile.

Neither scorn nor cruelty.

Something very close to approval.

"You'll stay late tomorrow," he said matter-of-factly. "Meeting prep. We leave for Chicago Wednesday morning. Pack light."

I blinked.

Travel?

Already?

"Yes, sir," I said, swallowing my shock.

"Good."

He got up and assembled his things.

I did the same, nerves buzzing under my skin.

As we walked out of the office together, with the building now quieter since most of the employees had left for the day, Damon suddenly said something that threw me for a loop.

"Most people crack on their first day."

I looked at him, surprised.

He wasn't looking at me, but in his eye there was a rare glint of something.

Something almost, almost, like respect.

"I'm not most people," I said softly.

And for the first time since stepping into this high-rise jungle, I believed it but a little bit skeptical and having so many mix feelings and couldn't fathom what would happen next!!!