I tilt my head, studying my reflection in the mirror. My white button-up shirt is neatly tucked into black, perfectly pressed trousers. My hair is tied in a smooth bun.
I look… decent? Maybe even pretty.
I let out a shaky sigh, tugging at the hem of my shirt and straightening my shoulders.
"Deep breaths, Karisha. You've got this," I whisper, inhaling until my chest aches and exhaling slowly.
Still, something feels off. I lean closer to the mirror, scanning my face for what's missing. A touch of pink lip gloss, maybe. I swipe it across my lips and mash them together. Better.
My heart is pounding so hard I can barely think. Maybe it's because this is my first real job in a corporate company. Or maybe it's because I'm about to work as the Executive PA to the CEO—the freaking C-E-O.
DAMIAN CROSS. The seventeenth richest man in the world. And my new boss.
Grabbing my bag, I take one last steadying look at my reflection before turning away. With a long exhale, I close the door behind me and step into the morning light.
***
The elevator chimed softly as the doors slid open, revealing the topmost floor of Veymont. The air here carried a weight I couldn't ignore — polished wood, expensive cologne, and the faint, intimidating scent of old money.
I distinctively take a quick sniff at myself to see if I fit in but my five hundred dollars cologne smells like cheap perfume that was on sale for ninety percent off.
The company's headquarters is vast and deliberately impressive—marble floors polished to a mirror's shine, floor-to-ceiling windows spilling in light that glints off golden accents, and an almost intimidating quiet broken only by the hurried footsteps of its employees.
Everyone who passes me looks exhausted, weighed down by the kind of stress you can't just sleep off. Their faces are tight, their strides sharp.
"Ms. Serone."
Except him.
I stretch a smile across my face as the office manager approaches with a not-so-obvious fake smile. If I were to guess he's having an even worse day than anyone here but he's masking it so well if I didn't know better I might believe it.
"Welcome to Veymont," he says warmly, and my eyes can't help but smile back.
"Thank you, Mr. Cole."
Nathan Cole. Mid-thirties, tall, handsome, well-built. I'm almost certain half the women here have a crush on him. He was the one who gave me the job, choosing me out of hundreds of interviews. I was qualified, of course, but the way he's looking at me now makes me wonder if that's the real reason I got it.
"Let me show you to your office," he says, leading me down the spacious hallways lined with glass doors, each engraved with a name that gleams like a title.
We finally make a stop at the very end, in front of a massive glass door boldly etched with a single name: DAMIAN CROSS and below it was written CEO.
My heart jumps, my stomach twists. Excitement, fear, adrenaline—tangled together, surging through me.
We step inside. The first room is a small office—mine. Minimalist to the point of bare: a desk pushed neatly to the side, a shelf stacked with files, a couch opposite. Clean, functional, nothing else.
Beyond it, another frosted glass door stands waiting. The one that leads to Mr. Cross' office.
My eyes keep scanning the room until they land on the nameplate resting on my desk: KARISHA SERONE, Executive PA.
Nice.
"Mr. Cross will be here any moment," Mr. Cole says, his face suddenly serious, making me turn to meet his gaze. "His schedule should be read to him every morning. Any impromptu meetings or events must be cleared by him first."
I nod.
"Mr. Cross is strict and professional. Incompetence will not be tolerated. As his PA, you're expected to follow the guidelines and make sure he's never late for a single meeting or event."
Another nod.
That smile of his returns, but this time it looks almost genuine. "Try not to get fired, Ms Serone."
My brows knit together at his last words. The way he said it—it wasn't exactly a joke, and I can't quite place the meaning. Before I can ask, he's already out the door, leaving me in an awkward silence.
Try not to get fired
The sentence echoes in my head, but I shrug it off with a sigh.
I sink into the chair behind my desk, running my fingers across the polished smooth surface.
My bag drops onto the desk with a soft thud, and I open the laptop, the screen flickering to life with the company's logo.