Monday morning arrived with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
Ava stood outside the Cross Industries building at 6:45 AM, watching the early commuters stream past in their expensive coats and confident strides. She'd been awake since 4 AM, practicing her masculine walk in front of their bathroom mirror, binding her chest until she could barely breathe, and rehearsing responses to questions she hoped no one would ask.
The weekend had been a crash course in becoming Evan Carter. Talia had drilled her on masculine mannerisms while they filled out the paperwork Sarah had sent over - employment forms that required creative interpretations of truth. Social security number (her own, hoping they wouldn't dig too deep), emergency contact (Talia, listed as a "roommate"), previous employment (a careful blend of truth and fiction).
"Remember," Talia had said Sunday night, "you're not lying. You're method acting."
"Method acting that could land me in federal prison."
"Details."
Now, standing in the shadow of Damon Cross's corporate empire, those details felt monumentally important.
The lobby was already bustling with early arrivals - men in thousand-dollar suits discussing deals over coffee, women in power dresses striding purposefully toward the elevators. Everyone looked like they belonged here.
Ava adjusted her tie and walked inside.
"Evan Carter," she told the security guard, proud that her voice came out steady and appropriately deep.
He checked his list, handed her a temporary badge, and pointed toward the elevator bank. "Fifty-seventh floor. Sarah Chen will meet you."
The elevator was packed with bodies and aftershave. Ava found herself pressed between two men discussing quarterly projections in voices that carried the casual confidence of people who'd never worried about rent money.
"New guy?" one of them asked, noticing her temporary badge.
"Yeah. Starting today."
"What department?"
"Executive assistant. To Mr. Cross."
The elevator went quiet. Even the soft jazz muzak seemed to pause.
"Jesus," someone muttered. "Good luck."
"How long you think this one will last?" another voice asked.
"I give him three weeks. Maybe less if Cross is having a bad month."
"Remember the last guy? Lasted exactly nine days. Walked out during a board meeting."
"That was nothing. The one before him lasted six days and ended up crying in the bathroom."
The elevator dinged at the fifty-seventh floor, and Ava escaped into the hallway, their laughter following her like a bad omen.
Sarah was waiting, clipboard in hand and sympathy in her eyes. "You look terrified."
"Should I be?"
"Probably. But don't let them psych you out. Mr. Cross is demanding, not demonic. There's a difference, even if his previous assistants couldn't figure it out."
She led Ava down the familiar hallway, past offices filled with people who looked up curiously as they passed. Word traveled fast in corporate environments, and apparently the new sacrifice - assistant - was already news.
"Your desk," Sarah announced, stopping in front of a workstation positioned strategically outside Damon's office. "Computer password is taped under the keyboard. Coffee machine is down the hall - Mr. Cross takes his black, no sugar, and he'll want his first cup at exactly seven-fifteen. His calendar is synced to your computer, but he changes meetings constantly, so stay flexible."
Ava sat in the ergonomic chair that probably cost more than her rent, staring at the computer screen that would either be her salvation or her downfall.
"Any questions before I throw you to the wolves?"
"Just one. What happened to the last assistant? Really?"
Sarah's expression darkened. "Marcus Reid happened. Mr. Cross's right-hand man has a talent for making assistants feel incompetent. Don't let him get in your head."
"Noted."
"Oh, and Evan?" Sarah paused at the elevator. "Mr. Cross might seem cold, but he's fair. Do your job well, and he'll respect you for it. Mess up, and... well, you'll find out."
At exactly 7:15, Ava knocked on Damon's office door with a steaming cup of black coffee.
"Come in."
He was already at his desk, surrounded by papers and focused with the intensity of a surgeon. He didn't look up when she entered, just extended his hand for the coffee.
"Temperature?" he asked, taking a sip.
"Perfect, I hope."
"It is." He finally looked at her, those steel-gray eyes taking inventory. "Good. Punctuality matters. So does attention to detail. The coffee is exactly the right temperature, which tells me you either got lucky or you paid attention to Sarah's instructions."
"I paid attention."
"We'll see." He turned back to his papers. "I have a board meeting at nine. I need the Henderson files, the quarterly projections, and three copies of the Morrison contract revision. The files are in the cabinet behind your desk, the projections are on the shared drive under Q4-2024, and the contract is with legal - call Jennifer Martinez and tell her I need it now, not when she's finished with her morning crossword."
Ava blinked. "Should I write that down?"
"If you need to write down three simple tasks, you're not qualified for this job."
Message received. She turned to leave.
"Evan."
She stopped. "Yes, sir?"
"The previous assistants failed because they spent more time making excuses than completing tasks. Don't be like them."
The next two hours were a masterclass in controlled chaos.
The Henderson files were mislabeled and took twenty minutes to locate. The quarterly projections were password-protected, requiring three phone calls to IT.
Jennifer Martinez was in court and couldn't be reached, but her assistant grudgingly agreed to email the contract revision.
By 8:45, Ava had everything Damon requested, plus copies organized in presentation folders she'd found in the supply closet. She knocked on his door at exactly 8:50.
He looked up from his computer, eyebrows raised slightly at the professional presentation.
"Henderson files, quarterly projections, Morrison contract revision," she said, placing the folders on his desk. "Jennifer Martinez was in court, but her assistant confirmed the revision reflects all your requested changes from Friday's meeting."
Damon opened each folder, scanning the contents with practiced efficiency. "Good. Walk with me to the conference room."
The boardroom was a temple to corporate intimidation - floor-to-ceiling windows, a table that could seat twenty, and chairs that probably cost more than most people's cars. Eight men in expensive suits were already seated, their conversation pausing as Damon entered.
"Gentlemen," Damon said, taking his seat at the head of the table. "Let's begin."
Ava started to leave, but he held up a hand. "Evan, stay. Take notes."
She found a chair against the wall and pulled out the notebook she'd learned to carry everywhere. _Stay calm. You belong here. You're just another assistant taking notes._
For the next hour, she transcribed a discussion that might as well have been in a foreign language - acquisition strategies, market penetration, something called "synergistic cost optimization" that sounded like corporate speak for firing people.
The men around the table spoke with the casual brutality of people who moved millions of dollars like chess pieces. They were smart, ruthless, and completely comfortable in their power.
They were also, she realized, testing her.
"What's your take on the Peterson acquisition, Evan?" one of them asked suddenly.
Ava looked up from her notes, feeling eight pairs of eyes on her. _Breathe. Think. You've been listening._ She had no idea what the Peterson acquisition was, but she'd been paying attention.
"I think Mr. Cross's concerns about the third-quarter projections are valid," she said carefully. "The numbers look good on paper, but if Peterson's client retention is as unstable as it appears, the acquisition might be buying problems instead of solutions."
It was a complete guess based on fragments of conversation, but several men nodded thoughtfully.
"Interesting perspective," the same man said. "Background in finance?"
"No, sir. Just common sense."
Damon's expression was unreadable, but she caught what might have been approval in his eyes.
The meeting ended at 10:30, and the men filed out, leaving Ava alone with Damon.
"Not bad," he said, gathering his papers. "Your assessment of Peterson was surprisingly insightful for someone with no financial background."
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't let it go to your head. Marcus Reid is coming by at eleven to discuss the Morrison project. He'll try to undermine you - it's what he does. Don't take it personally, and don't let him bait you into an argument you can't win."
"Understood."
Marcus Reid arrived at 10:55, five minutes early and radiating the kind of aggressive confidence that came from thirty years of corporate warfare. He was everything central casting would order for "intimidating business executive" - silver hair, expensive suit, smile that never reached his eyes.
"You must be the new assistant," he said, looking Ava up and down like she was a piece of furniture he was considering purchasing. "Marcus Reid, senior partner."
"Evan Carter. Nice to meet you, sir."
His handshake was designed to intimidate - too firm, held too long, accompanied by eye contact that felt invasive.
"How long have you been working for Damon?"
"Today's my first day."
"First day." He smiled, and it was not a pleasant expression. "Well, that explains the optimism. Give it a week - you'll understand why this position has such a high turnover rate."
Before Ava could respond, Damon's office door opened.
"Marcus. You're early."
"Always am. Keeps people on their toes." Marcus's demeanor shifted subtly, becoming more deferential but no less calculating. "I see you've found another assistant. This one looks promising - very... clean-cut."
He paused, studying Ava with those cold eyes. "Almost too polished, don't you think? Like someone who's practiced being professional."
_He knows something,_ Ava thought, fighting to keep her expression neutral. Or he suspects. Either way, he's dangerous._
"Evan's doing well so far," Damon said neutrally. "Shall we discuss Morrison?"
They disappeared into Damon's office, leaving Ava at her desk with the uncomfortable feeling that she'd just been sized up by a predator who'd caught her scent.