Chapter 2 Coffee , Clocks and Cold Stare

The next morning, Vernissa arrived at the office by 7:15 a.m.

She sat perfectly straight, reviewing her notes, triple-checking the day's meetings, and mentally preparing for battle. She was determined to make zero mistakes this time .

The hallway lights flickered on as Mr. Boateng arrived precisely at 7:35 a.m.

"Good morning, sir," she said with polite calm.

He gave her a single glance. "The Tokyo investor brief. My desk. Five minutes."

She nodded and stood immediately. No questions. No excuses.

At exactly 8:05, she placed his coffee gently on his desk-black, no sugar, one ice cube. Just how he liked it.

Or so she thought.

He picked it up, took a sip, and paused mid-sentence on a phone call.

"This coffee is lukewarm," he said blandly, covering the receiver with his palm. "You used tap water in the ice, didn't you?"

Vernissa blinked. "I-used the freezer tray-"

"From the common kitchen."

"Yes..."

He gave her a hard stare. "Only use the filtered dispenser. Always. You're representing me. Not the janitor's lounge."

Her cheeks burned, but she nodded. "Understood."

He returned to his call. She turned to walk out, but paused.

"I'll replace it."

He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

The clock seemed to mock her all day. Every meeting bled into another. She had to run across the 17th floor twice to deliver signed contracts. And one intern, spilled tea over a file she had just printed and organized.

By noon, she'd skipped breakfast and lunch.

But when Mr. Boateng asked, "Where's the quarterly performance sheet?"-she had it in his hands before he even looked up.

He blinked, almost... impressed?

Almost.

That afternoon, she sat across from him in the conference room as he discussed expansion plans with the executive team. He didn't speak often-but when he did, every word was law.

But then came the moment.

"Vernissa," he said without looking, "the competitor pricing sheet. Slide 11."

She froze.

Slide 11 was blank.

Her heart stopped.

"I... I thought that was removed yesterday when the new numbers were-"

He turned slowly toward her. His tone like ice slicing through her skin.

"You thought?"

She swallowed hard. "I was told the pricing analysis was still pending, sir."

He tapped the desk. "Assumptions are a luxury. Don't assume. Verify."

"Yes, sir."

The room was silent. Judging. Watching.

He turned away and continued like nothing had happened. But Vernissa could feel the tension clawing at her lungs.

Later that evening, when everyone had left and the halls were quiet, she stood by the copy machine reprinting corrected reports.

She didn't notice him standing behind her.

"Why didn't you defend yourself?" Mr. Boateng asked quietly.

She turned, startled. "What do you mean?"

"In the meeting. Slide 11. It wasn't your fault. The analysis team failed to send it."

She blinked. "It doesn't matter. I'm your assistant. If it goes wrong, it reflects on you."

His gaze darkened. "Most people scramble to deflect blame."

"I'm not most people," she replied softly.

He stepped closer. Not too close, but enough to make her breath catch.

"You're right. You're not."

She held his gaze. Her pulse fluttered, but her spine stayed straight.

Then, as quickly as he came, he turned and walked off.

"See you at 7:30," he said.

Vernissa stayed a while longer after he left.

Not because of the files. Not because of fear.

But because she could still feel his eyes on her.

And worse-she didn't know what she wanted more...

His approval.

Or his attention.