The rest of the day passed in a blur of emails and introductions, but her mind kept circling back to that sharp glance across the table. By the time she stumbled into her apartment, recounting the day to Lila over the phone.
"I swear, the universe is plotting against me," Clara groaned. "Remember the guy from the storm? The one who didn't even say a proper thank you? Yeah, turns out he's my boss. My CEO boss."
Lila's laughter nearly broke the speaker. "Oh, that is too perfect. Clara, you've got a knack for attracting trouble. What did I tell you last night? With your luck, you'd see him again."
"It's not funny," Clara said, flopping on the couch. "He's terrifying. The entire office looks like they're walking on eggshells around him. And of course, I couldn't keep my mouth shut. I muttered something during the meeting, and I'm pretty sure he heard me."
Lila laughed harder. "What did you say?"
"'Arrogant much.'"
There was a beat of silence before Lila snorted. "Oh, you're doomed."
"Don't remind me," Clara moaned. "I'm going to get fired before I even get my first paycheck."
But beneath the panic was something else. A flicker of irritation. Of challenge. Damien Cross might be cold, demanding, and infuriatingly arrogant—but she refused to let him crush her spirit.
Not now. Not ever.
The morning started out fine.
Clara had woken up early, carefully ironed her blouse, and even practiced her smile in the mirror. "Keep your head down, work hard, don't draw attention," she reminded herself as she tied her hair back. Her first day had been nerve-wracking enough, and she didn't want to give her colleagues—or worse, her boss—another reason to doubt her.
But life had a funny way of making promises it never kept.
By mid-morning, Clara was balancing a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a folder of documents in the other. Her task was simple: bring the files Damien Cross—the CEO himself—needed for his next review.
"Just don't trip. Don't spill. Don't be you," she muttered under her breath, walking toward the conference room where he was waiting.
The room was buzzing with chatter, executives discussing numbers, managers flipping through spreadsheets. And there, at the head of the long polished table, sat Damien. Impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, expression unreadable, his presence seemed to command the entire room. His fingers tapped lightly against the table, an unconscious rhythm that demanded precision.
Clara stepped forward, heart hammering. She set the folder down in front of him—success. But just as she turned to leave, her elbow nudged the cup of coffee she'd been holding.
Time slowed.
The cup tipped. The dark liquid cascaded across the table, splattering onto the pristine documents Damien had been reviewing.
A collective gasp filled the room. Papers were snatched out of the way, but it was too late—several sheets were already ruined, the ink bleeding into unreadable smudges.
Clara froze, her face draining of color. "Oh no. No, no, no—" She scrambled to grab napkins, blotting at the mess in a desperate attempt to fix the disaster.
The room had gone silent. Too silent.
Then came the voice. Low. Sharp. Cold.
"Miss Hayes."
Her movements stilled. Slowly, Clara lifted her gaze to meet Damien's eyes. His stare was like ice, cutting through her panic. He didn't raise his voice—he didn't need to. The weight of his tone was enough to make her want to sink through the floor.
"I… I'm so sorry," Clara stammered, her hands trembling as she tried to dab at the papers. "It was an accident, I—"
"Do you know how long it takes to prepare those reports?" he interrupted, his voice even, but laced with restrained fury. "How much time my team spent ensuring everything was flawless?"
Clara swallowed hard. Her throat felt tight, her cheeks burning with humiliation as she realized every pair of eyes in the room was fixed on her. Some sympathetic, others judgmental.
"I—I'll redo them. I'll make it right—"
"You won't." His words sliced cleanly through hers. He pushed the ruined papers aside with one gloved precision of movement. "You'll learn to be more careful. This is a workplace, Miss Hayes, not a playground."
The quiet that followed was worse than the scolding. Clara wished he'd yelled, at least then she could have justified the sting in her chest. But his calm, cutting dismissal left her standing there like a child being told to sit in the corner.
"Leave," Damien said finally, his attention already shifting back to the others.
Clara's hands clenched around the damp napkin as she nodded quickly, retreating from the room on shaky legs. Her ears burned as the muffled whispers started the moment the door closed behind her.
By lunchtime, Clara was convinced her coworkers were betting on how long she would last.
Carrying another stack of files, she walked briskly down the hall, determined not to make another mistake. But as fate would have it, the heel of her shoe caught on the edge of the carpet just as she passed near Damien's office.
"Ah!" She stumbled forward, the files slipping from her hands. Papers scattered like confetti across the polished floor.
Great. Just great.
She dropped to her knees, scrambling to gather them. A pair of assistants passed by, their voices hushed but not hushed enough.
"Poor girl. She won't survive here."
"Damien Cross won't tolerate clumsiness. She'll be gone by the end of the week."
Clara bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself not to react. She stacked the papers neatly, willing her hands to stop shaking.
When she finally got the files in order and delivered them, she escaped into the break room, praying no one would be there. Thankfully, it was empty. She leaned against the counter, pressing her palms into the cool surface, her chest rising and falling unevenly.
"Don't cry, Clara. Don't you dare cry," she whispered, blinking hard as the sting of tears threatened. She had promised herself she wouldn't let anyone here see her break.
Her vision blurred for a moment, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She just needed a minute. Just one.
But when she opened them again, her breath caught.
Damien Cross stood in the doorway.
He didn't move. Didn't say a word. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—those sharp, assessing eyes—were fixed on her. Clara straightened immediately, trying to compose herself, though her damp lashes betrayed her.
For a moment, he simply watched her. His jaw tightened, as if he were about to say something. His hand flexed at his side, then stilled.
But in the end, he said nothing.
He turned and walked away, the door clicking shut behind him.
Clara stared after him, her chest heavy. Part of her was grateful—she didn't need his pity. The other part… ached with something she couldn't name.
"Fine," she whispered to the empty room, brushing away the trace of a tear. "If he thinks I'm weak, I'll prove him wrong."
But deep down, Clara knew this job wasn't going to be easy. And Damien Cross? He was going to be the hardest challenge of all.