Revenge In A Suit & Tie

Life's about to give me the awful wake up call. I always thought the person in question would have the definitive moment at which they knew they were living a nightmare. It could be something catastrophic, a car wreck perhaps, or a cheating confession, or maybe just a pink slip sliding across the desk.

For me the call came right at 7:08 AM on a miserable, drizzly Tuesday as the old, chewed up phone speaker blasted Zachary's sharp, accusatory voice.

"Oh face it! You think you are so fucking smart, don't you Sierra? You are playing the victim, pretending to be innocent, when all you are doing is whoring yourself to get a promotion."

I flinched and dragged my fingers through my messy hair, still sitting on the edge of the bed. The coldness of hardwood white oak floor met my bare feet, and I made no move to change that. I didn't breathe.

"You think I don't know what you and Damon Cross are doing?" Zachary hissed. "You think you're better than me now? Sleeping your way to the top?"

The words hung like a noose around my neck.

I blinked down at the phone, part of me wishing it would just disintegrate in my hand; no such luck. Zachary kept ranting, his voice rising until it cracked from fury.

"You're a slut, Sierra. A gold-digging, lying slut."

I pressed the End Call button with a trembling thumb. My hand hovered above the screen for a moment, quaking. A wave of nausea roared through me, violent and unforgiving.

This wasn't new; Zachary had been throwing grenades of accusations since we broke up six months ago. But today's words had a timbre and sharpness, they were meaner than before. They were created to cut me open and watch all of the insecurities I had bleed out.

And God help me, they were working.

My vision blurred as I shoved the phone into the nightstand drawer and slammed it shut. I squeezed my eyes closed, breathing deep through my nose like my therapist had taught me, but the panic surged hot and wild under my skin

He knows about Damon

Well, he thinks he does.

Technically, there was nothing going on between me and Damon Cross. Nothing real, anyway. I wasn't sleeping my way to a promotion, regardless of what Zachary wanted to believe.

But still, the thought gnawed at me.

Would everyone else believe it, too? Would the whispers start in the office? The odd glances? The pitying smiles?

My chest tightened. I fumbled to my feet, feeling heavy, clumsy, off-balance. I caught sight of myself in the mirror on the other side of the room and grimaced.

Puffy eyes. Pale skin. Hair like a bird's nest.

I didn't look like the kind of woman who would take on a corporate shark like Damon Cross. I didn't even look like the kind of woman who could withstand another dose of Zachary's poison.

I looked like someone who was already losing.

The kettle let out a deafening shriek from the kitchen but I ignored it. I pressed my arms around myself, shivering even though the apartment was not cold. A cracked ceiling, above me, faded into gray static.

Zack was probably right.

I was probably weak.

I was stupid to think I could rebuild my life after what he did to me.

I bit down on my lower lip, hard, until I tasted blood.

No.

Not today.

I'd survived worse mornings than this. I'd survived Zach's mind games while living with him, while his words were in tandem with slamming doors, shattered glass, and icy silences that felt like they would last forever.

I had survived leaving him and three months on a friend's couch, eating instant noodles and not crying as the tears of everything I went through shuddered down my spine.

I would survive this too.

I would survive this.

Squaring my shoulders, I pulled open my closet and grabbed whatever my hands found first--a white blouse and a blue pencil skirt. The clothing felt stiff and formal against my skin, but it was the armor I needed.

I needed to act as if I was made of something stronger than shattered glass.

Twenty minutes later, I was at the bus stop with a thermos of burnt coffee clenched between my hands as the drizzle turned my hair into limp strings. The city buzzed and groaned around me, horns blared and tires hissed over wet asphalt, conversations hummed around me like insects.

With my head down, I burrowed my shoulders against the world.

I kept telling myself it didn't matter.

I kept telling myself I didn't care what people thought.

But as I boarded the bus and caught a glimpse of two women whispering to each other, their eyes darting towards me, my stomach twisted, notwithstanding.

Paranoia, I told myself.

It's just paranoia.

Except Zachary had a way of making the imposition of bad things seem inevitable. If he is willing to insinuate I slept my way to the top, what else would he insinuate?

I was already annoyed by this though, imagine something worse gnawing at me all the way downtown.

By the time I finally stepped into the lobby of Cross Enterprises, my heart was pounding in my chest as if it might explode like a shaken soda can. I barely paid attention to the polished marble flooring or the massive gleaming gold emblem emblazoned across the wall behind the front desk.

I hardly paid attention to the receptionist's smile.

I was just focused on getting to the elevators intact.

Once in the elevator, I sagged down against the mirrored wall and pressed the button for the thirty-fourth floor. My reflection stared back at me-tight mouth, pinched cheeks, and wild eyes.

The doors flowed closed with a soft hiss.

I closed my eyes and uttered the three words that had recently become my modus operandi.

"You are enough."

And then the elevator dinged.

I stepped out into the bright, buzzing chaos of the executive floor. Assistants rushed in and out with reams of paper, coffee cups, and other items. Phones were ringing. Laughter was bubbling from somewhere that I could not see.

And standing at the far end of the hall, like a dark prince surveying his kingdom, was Damon Cross.

Today he was wearing a navy suit, and it looked sharp enough to slice air. He had ran his fingers through his dark hair just enough so it looked tousled but not messy. His pale blue eyes scanned the room lazily until they landed on me.

For a moment he froze.

I froze too.

His gaze raked over me, but not with the deep calculation that I had grown used to. There was something else. Something dangerous.

Worry that he might have someone else by the net.

I suddenly dropped my eyes quickly and bee lined my way to my desk, ignoring the heat that burned up the back of neck.

I couldn't be noticed by Damon Cross today.

I could not afford to be noticed by anyone.

I slid into my chair, and pretended to memorize my emails. My fingers were still a little shaky on the keyboard.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Damon move.

Crossing the hallway.

Walking directly toward me.

Panic exploded in my heart, like fireworks bursting in my chest. I hunched over my screen, typing nothing more than gibberish, wondering if he would just walk on by.

Except he didn't.

He stopped directly beside my desk.

"Miss Reed," he said, low enough for only me to hear. "Can I have a word?"

I forced myself to look up and meet him in the eye.

There was nothing judging me in his eyes. No suspicion. Just... an even-keeled curiosity. Perhaps concern.

But my stomach fell.

Because in Damon Cross' world, a 'word' could mean anything. It could be a quiet, behind-closed-door reprimand. It could be a demotion. It could even be letting me know that Zachary's accusations had reached his ears.

I nodded stiffly and stood.

Without waiting for me, he turned on his heel and started striding to his office, his long legs covering the distance in seconds.

I followed, my palms sweaty and heart racing.

With me finishing his sentences and leaning on the chair of the desk like I was in front of a judge about to be sentenced, he moved and closed the door.

I would take seat and he would not. Eyes glued to me, mouth dry, chest warm, lips sealed, sharp objects logging the pathway to my lungs, ready to burst. But, for now, I remained still.

This is because the second I allowed my lips peekaboo to the outside world, I would lose every ounce of control in my body. So, I quaked all I wanted as long as it was inside me. All it required was words being flooding out of my mouth saying "I got an interesting email this morning."

With the tips of the fingers, I can only pray I would peel off the wood forming the seat's arms, knowing full well they will begin transform into stumps.

He would add to his statement saying fond topics would be, reveal what bounty hunter would torment him in a marsh.

Hoping words do not leave my mouth, I croaked, having also hoped my throat didn't feel like it was on fire, could lead to radical amputation.

This was not the mental image my mind wished to witness, and based upon my surprise I wish not endure.

The only sensible action from my standpoint would be too sate my unending discomfort by deleting whatever was poised in front of me and spiraling into an infinity of risk event horizon through the ever-stretching blunt void.

Dashing student. Preproperties. A chat I hadn't had the fortune to join. Al heard the part about my hands and my suiting up. "Now that explains a lot," he said, still half-interested. During training, he blurted out new nicknames for the subject within the syllabus we were learning with unprecedented precision. End of lesson number two. Al together with the rest of the class just couldn't help but looking at me through the small window as I desperately waved my arms about in an attempt to convince him of my innocence to the actual situation too, and was instantly locked inside. Despite getting contacted by an ongoing organization demanding to speak, I found joy on defeat on winning this first battle. Despite how sharply interning went, and even hated the idea of trying to hitchhike back to my place, I remained lost in the complexity of emotions. Multiple ever so frustrating.

"But they ate every unmarked envelope with suspected baggage.", he continued with only a hint of a grin.

The uncomfortable feeling of complete dumbfoundness gripped every fiber of my being the moment I saw I was still considered to any modern-day algo even while scrolling oblivious to whatever reasoning. Mainstream fabrics fell flat painting themselves into a corner after every eager participant interviewed us over the phone always angrily biting head straight off at the ocean's might.

I wobbled to his door, still slumped on a chair, I could feel his piercing gaze hypnotizing the back of me as a flashlight follows a moth. Upon entering the room.

What a lame Monday waiting to be tackled, however before doing so, let me plant my forehead on the desk.

This is only an exhale Tuesday in disguise. Might as well all Monday's month contains a lie in it. What could be my fate for this new job again, how do I continue with this, would it be like every other business????????

I never for a single moment thought that their mind would gander at the fact that I would sit in the lavish lobby of Cross Enterprises with a leather portfolio in hand while I also sweat out of my favorite blouse. Not until I got on this crease that someone posed this query.

For me, Cross Enterprises did not seem like any other business venture, but instead, the pinnacle of all my corporate peers aspiring to achieve.

At the type of organization you did not only get a job, but a lif change of sorts.

My journey though, and amid all other adversities I had crossed apart me and showered my lucky star, I did have a job interview within reach.

I wiped my palms across my skirt brace at the time I sat with legs crossed while feeling base uncontrollably slipping away in a skirmish i striked out against my heart while doing a makeshift cardiac drill underneath my ribs.

From my point of view and in all honesty portraying myself in everything I will do it in sulat, avoiding the sign of the lady who's sneaking on the cubicle space feels seventh in order to show face at glance senses desperate.

Maybe she could.

Hell, even I could.

I am trying to inhale and exhale in a slow and calculated manner, just like I practiced last night standing in front of my own mirror, reciting the answers to direct questions posed by no one. However, this was almost impossible to continue when every tick of the second hand dragged on for an eternity until the wall clock positioned in the corner was mocking me.

The elevator doors across the lobby slid open with a muffled ding. A man stepped out who looked like he would be gracing the cover of a magazine, tall, with broad shoulders, in a fitted charcoal suit that must have cost more than my entire wardrobe. His dark hair maintained a casually windswept appearance, as if he'd never had to make much effort to attractively dishevel it.

And when he walked in, the rush of scurrying whispers around him told me he was a person of importance. Not just a person of importance. A person of power.

I shimmied lower into my seat, knitting my stomach into tighter turns. I looked down, hoping against all odds that he wouldn't notice me sitting there, small and out of place like a stain on pristine marble. But luck, as usual, was not on my side. In fact, his steps slowed. Stopped. Right in front of me. I forced myself to look up, my heart hammering. When our gazes locked, it felt as if the air around us snapped taut. His gaze was penetrating: icy blue and sharp enough to cut, devoid of any smile or even flinch. He was just studying me, head tilting slightly, as if trying to solve a puzzle he wasn't eager enough to find an answer for. "You're Sierra Reed?" he asked, his voice low and smooth, almost lazy. I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Yes," I said, my voice only cracking slightly. "Yes, I'm Sierra Reed." He nodded once, curt. "Follow me." Without any further words, he turned on his heel and walked straight toward the elevators. For half a second, I just sat there, dumbfounded. That's it? No handshake? No introductions?

My body was moving, a lot faster than my brain could process what was happening. It was like a child trying to chase a dying balloon.

It was me in the elevator, standing awkwardly against the back wall with my portfolio clutched to me like a shield from the outside world. He was not looking at me. The eyes remained glued to the elevator doors, jaw clenched.

I swallowed highly, making the silence weigh a ton until it turned suffocating.

So this is how interviews happened here?

Is he testing me already?

Up it glided, perhaps again the shining floors whizzing past below me. I glimpsed mirrored walls and a conference meeting place, glass-walled offices looking over the entire city.

It felt like a world that was not for me to enter.

Soft chime from the elevator.

Thirty-fourth floor.

Topmost floor.

He stepped out, and I followed awkwardly behind, boot heels clacking at his back across marble too shiny for me to see my pale terrified reflection against it. We passed rows of desks down the hall with offices of moving staffs, their brisk, efficient energies at work. No one looked up. No one smiled.

It was not a place for those richly strange niceties.

He led me to a pair of double glass doors and pushed them open.

His office.

I knew it immediately.

It spoke command, not mere presence. The vistas were awesome through floor-to-ceiling windows. Toward the center of the room loomed a rather massive desk that had little more than a laptop and a few folders stacked by one corner quite neatly. In one of the corners, an Afterthought; a couch in well-oiled black leather and a coffee table.

He gestured to the chair across the desk from him.

"Sit."

I sat.

He rounded the desk and sank himself into his chair with the casual grace of one unaccustomed to being denied. Leaning slightly backward, he steepled his fingers beneath his chin and assessed me.

I squirmed under his gaze but forced myself to remain straight-backed with chin held high.

Not because I couldn't take a little intimidation was I going to blow this.

A moment's silence passed, almost too long.

"You worked at Marlowe & Finch for two years."

Not a question.

I replied. "Yes. As junior account coordinator."

He nodded slowly. "And before that?"

"I had an internship at Breckman and Stone while I was finishing my degree."

Another nod.

He opened a file on his desk. My resume.

"You left Marlowe & Finch five months ago."

A statement again.

I struggled to keep my voice steady.

"Yes. There was... a change in leadership. I felt it was time to move on." The innocent-sounding words covered the brutal truth: that Zachary had ruined my reputation and had made my life miserable until I had no option left but to leave. His eyes lifted to mine with a sardonic bite, assessing. "Change in leadership," he reiterated as though doubtful. Or like maybe he already had the whole truth. I tightened my grip on my portfolio and forced a smile onto my face. He closed the file and leaned back in his chair, appraising me with a cool detachment. "You do realize this position is far from...comfortable," he said. "It's demanding. Unforgiving. Most of your life will be consumed." I nodded. "Long hours are expected. Travel on short notice. Handle sensitive information. Sometimes...handle difficult people." Another nod. "Your work will be scrutinized just as much by your loyalty. And discretion." The way he said it made my skin crawl. I thought of Zachary once more, of all the things he could say to hurt me, and the lies he could fabricate to cripple whatever was left of my existence. I thought of my almost-nonexistent tiny apartment. Unpaid bills. My future was disappearing more and more each day. I squared my shoulders. "I can handle it," I said in a whisper. "Whatever it takes. I'm in." For the first time, something flickered across his face. Approval? Amusement? I could not tell.

His fingers tapped rhythmically against the surface of the desk, and he pondered for a moment.

"I don't hire on pity," he said. "Or desperation." "I'm not asking for either," I said, surprising even myself by how steady I sounded.

Then he smiled - a barely perceptible curve to his lips.

It was not benevolent.

It was... interested.

"You start on Monday," he said just like that. "Seven a.m. sharp." My heart banged against my ribs so hard that I thought I might faint.

"Thank you," I murmured, almost a whisper. "Thank you so much."

He dismissed me with a flick of his hand and was already returning to his laptop.

I rose on shaky legs and turned to go, my mind spinning so fast that I hardly registered the walk back to the elevators - the ride down - the chill of the morning air as I stumbled outside onto the sidewalk.

I had done it.

I had truly done it.

It was a job.

With Cross Enterprises.

For Damon Cross himself.

I should have been out of my mind happy. I should have been phoning everyone I knew, practically screaming the news from the rooftops.

Instead, though, I remained frozen on the sidewalk, paralyzed in time as the city rushed past me in a blur, a heavy weight of what I had just entered bearing down on me like a physical entity.

For somewhere buried, beneath the spark of excitement and the immediate rush of relief, I knew the truth.

Nothing about this was going to be easy.

And Damon Cross?

He wasn't just another boss.

He was a man who could see things others missed.

A man who could smell weakness like blood in the water.

A man who could wipe me out with a single adversity without even flinching.

I clenched my portfolio harder against my chest, drawing in a deep and shaky breath.

"You are enough," I pronounced quietly, as encouragement to myself.

Then I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and walked toward the storm I had just put my name to. This freaky day, I am so eager and having so much enthusiasm in me, this feeling is just so unusual as if it had never happened before, maybe I should just keep fingers crossed!

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!!!