Chapter 3 Day One From Hell

Isabella stood in front of the towering glass doors of Kane Technologies, clutching a steaming cup of coffee and silently rehearsing her plan for survival.

Rule number one: don't cry.

Rule number two: don't let him see you sweat.

Rule number three: whatever happens, don't quit.

The revolving doors whispered open, swallowing her into a whirlwind of suited executives, flashing screens, and controlled chaos. She'd never worked in an office a day in her life, yet here she was, Alexander Kane's executive assistant.

Her heels clicked nervously against the polished floor as she approached the reception.

"Miss Sinclair," the front desk receptionist greeted, her eyes flicking briefly to Isabella's modest outfit with a barely concealed smirk. "Mr. Kane is expecting you. Eighteenth floor. Good luck."

She boarded the elevator alone, watching the floors tick upward.

Eighteen.

Her stomach turned.

When the doors opened, she stepped into a floor that felt like a world of its own. Everything was sterile, sleek, and silent. The lights were cooler here, almost clinical. Her heels were the only sound.

Alexander's voice rang out the moment she passed his glass office.

"You're two minutes early. Impressive."

He didn't look up as she entered. He was at his desk, eyes on a dual-screen monitor filled with spreadsheets and code.

"Your desk is outside mine. You'll handle all scheduling, email correspondence, and meeting prep. You'll also oversee travel, client coordination, and personal errands if needed."

He slid a tablet toward her. "Your tasks for the day."

She barely touched the screen before he added, "I expect everything done by noon."

"Noon?" She blinked. "It's... eight-thirty."

He finally looked up. "You're not here to coast, Miss Sinclair. You're here to learn how the real world works. Consider it a crash course."

She bit her tongue and nodded. "Understood."

The tablet felt heavier with every task she completed: confirm a conference call with investors in Tokyo, rebook his flight to San Francisco, prepare a full briefing file on a biotech merger, locate his preferred green juice from a tiny organic shop in SoHo, and somehow fix the coffee machine in the executive lounge that had broken overnight.

By 11:00 a.m., she was sweating through her blouse, her hair a frizzy mess, and her fingers sore from typing.

She hadn't even touched lunch.

"Isabella," Alexander's voice buzzed through the desk intercom, smooth as sin. "Where's the updated acquisition folder I asked for?"

"I, I'm still finalizing it, just checking a few of the..."

"You've had four hours."

"I know, I just..."

"Bring it in. Now."

She swallowed her panic, slapped on a confident mask, and marched into his office, folder in hand. Her heart thundered in her chest.

"Here's the file," she said, placing it in front of him.

He flipped through the pages. Pause.

Then he lifted one paper, eyes narrowing. "You didn't include the litigation clause summary."

She froze. "I thought..."

"You thought wrong." He stood slowly, his voice low and sharp. "In this company, you don't get points for effort. Only results. You want to be here? Then be better."

"I will," she said, jaw tight.

"Don't promise. Prove it."

Their eyes locked.

And for the first time, something cracked in his expression just for a second. A flicker of interest. Challenge. Maybe even intrigue.

But it was gone just as fast.

"You're dismissed."

The rest of the day didn't go any smoother.

She spilled coffee on her blouse. Got snapped at by another executive. Missed a calendar update and had to reschedule a client call at the last second.

By 6:00 p.m., her head was pounding. She was packing up her things when Alexander emerged from his office, coat over his arm.

"You're still here," he said.

She didn't know if it was a question or a dig. "I wanted to make sure everything was handled before I left."

He studied her a moment. "Good."

Then, without warning, he reached into his coat pocket and tossed something onto her desk.

She stared down.

A black credit card.

"What's this?"

"Your first errand. I need you to pick up a package tonight. Do not open it. Do not be late. Address and instructions are on the card."

"Tonight?" she asked, startled. "But I thought..."

"I don't pay you to think," he said sharply. "I pay you to execute."

Her pride flared, but she said nothing.

He gave her one last unreadable look, then turned and walked away.

Thirty minutes later, Isabella stood in a dim alley off West 14th Street, staring at an unmarked metal door.

This couldn't be right.

Was this a mistake? Or a test?

She checked the address again. It matched.

She knocked.

A tall man with a buzzcut opened the door and looked her up and down. "You Kane's new assistant?"

She hesitated. "Yes."

He grunted and stepped aside. "It's in the case. Do not open it."

A heavy silver briefcase sat on the counter.

Isabella took it, nodded, and left without another word. The weight of it nearly pulled her shoulder from its socket.

What the hell was in this thing?

She fought the temptation to peek inside the entire subway ride home.

When she finally dropped it onto her tiny Brooklyn apartment table, she exhaled and stared at it like it might explode.

She shouldn't open it.

She really, really shouldn't.

But her curiosity burned.

Just one little peek...

She clicked open the case-and gasped.

Inside wasn't paperwork. Wasn't tech. It was something far more personal. And far more dangerous.