The second morning of Arabelle's new job began with a knot in her stomach.
She had barely slept the night before. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Damian Blackthorn's cold grey stare boring into her, heard his voice replaying his rules: You will not lie. You will not make mistakes.
Her hands had trembled the whole subway ride to Blackthorn Tower. She clutched her bag tightly, whispering mental reminders to herself: double-check everything, stay invisible, don't slip.
But no amount of rehearsed caution could have prepared her for Damian's world.
The top floor was buzzing when she arrived. Assistants and junior executives darted about with files clutched in their arms, voices low and urgent. The atmosphere had shifted tighter, sharper, as though the entire floor vibrated under invisible pressure.
"Morning," said one of the junior assistants with a pitying glance. "Brace yourself. He's in one of his moods."
Arabelle swallowed. "Because of…?"
The girl shook her head quickly, as if saying too much might cost her job.
When Arabelle reached her desk, she noticed Damian's office door stood wide open. His voice carried out, clipped and commanding, directing someone on a conference call. The sheer authority in his tone filled the space like electricity.
She sat, setting her things down carefully. Her task was simple or it should have been. Damian had left her an updated version of his schedule for the day, a handwritten note with appointments stacked minute to minute. She typed them into the system, matching times, confirming attendees.
It was a blur of names, numbers, addresses. She worked quickly, biting her lip, double-checking each entry. But somewhere between the 11:30 investor briefing and the 12:15 lunch with a senator, she entered one wrong line. A single digit off.
She didn't notice.
Not until Damian did.
It happened in a storm.
At exactly 11:25, Damian strode out of his office, phone in hand, expression carved from stone. Arabelle rose instinctively, offering the folder for his next meeting.
"Your 11:30 briefing, sir," she said, her voice small.
He took the folder without looking at her, speaking into his phone. "I'll be there in five minutes." Then he hung up, eyes lifting to hers.
"Conference room seven."
Her blood froze. "S-sir?"
"Conference room seven," he repeated, each word slow and sharp. "That's where you scheduled my investor briefing. Isn't it?"
Her stomach dropped. She flipped open her system, eyes racing. Her breath hitched. She had typed "7" instead of "17."
"Yes, sir, I—"
He cut her off with a single raised hand. Then his voice low, quiet, but carrying the weight of a guillotine. "Follow me."
She obeyed, legs shaking, clutching her notepad.
The moment they entered conference room seven, the mistake revealed itself.
Empty chairs. No investors. Just a cleaning crew startled by their sudden arrival.
Arabelle's chest constricted.
Damian turned his head slowly toward her. His silence was worse than yelling. His stare was colder than ice, calculated and merciless.
"Room seventeen," he said at last. His voice was calm. Too calm. "The investors are waiting on the other side of the building. A thirty-second walk. Instead, you wasted five minutes of mine."
Arabelle's face burned. "I—I'm so sorry, Mr. Blackthorn. It was a typo, I must have—"
"Must have?" His words cracked like a whip.
She swallowed. "It won't happen again."
"Of course it won't." He turned sharply, stalking toward room seventeen. She rushed after him, heart hammering.
But humiliation wasn't over. Not yet.
Conference room seventeen was full ten high-profile investors in tailored suits, all rising as Damian entered. He greeted none of them, his gaze cutting briefly to Arabelle, who lingered at the door like a shadow.
"Apologies for the delay," Damian said smoothly, taking his seat at the head of the table. His voice was calm, composed, but each syllable dripped with controlled menace. "It seems my new secretary believes I enjoy detours."
The room chuckled politely, though unease rippled among them. Damian's reputation was notorious; no one dared laugh too hard.
Arabelle's cheeks flamed hot. Every eye in the room shifted briefly toward her. She wanted to vanish, to melt into the carpet.
Damian didn't spare her another glance. He turned to his investors, launching seamlessly into figures and projections, his mind like a machine of precision.
Arabelle remained at the door, trembling, clutching her notepad so tightly her fingers ached.
The meeting stretched an hour. When it ended, Damian dismissed the investors with firm handshakes and curt promises. Only after the last man left did his gaze swing back to Arabelle.
"Inside," he ordered, nodding toward his office.
She followed in silence, pulse roaring in her ears.
The office door shut behind her with a decisive click.
"Rule two," he said, not looking at her as he set his notes down. "Do not make mistakes. And yet, here we are."
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
He looked up. The steel in his gaze pinned her to the spot.
"Do you know what five minutes cost me today?"
Her lips parted. "N-no, sir."
"Five million dollars." His voice was soft, lethal. "Because one investor questioned whether I was serious about time. Five minutes. Five million."
Arabelle's knees weakened.
"It won't happen again," she said, voice shaking.
"You're right," he said coldly. "It won't. Because if it does, you're gone."
Tears stung the back of her eyes. She blinked them away furiously, refusing to break in front of him.
He leaned back in his chair, studying her like an experiment. "You want this job? Then understand something, Miss Vey. I don't tolerate weakness. I don't excuse errors. If you want to survive here, you'll sharpen yourself until you bleed. Otherwise, you'll be devoured."
Her chest ached, but she nodded. "Yes, Mr. Blackthorn."
A long silence stretched. His gaze lingered on her face longer than necessary. There was something unreadable in his eyes, something that flickered like interest. But then it was gone.
"Dismissed."
She turned quickly, desperate to escape before the tears broke free.
Back at her desk, she sat down hard, hands trembling, heart aching. The humiliation clung to her skin like frost. Everyone on the floor had heard. They would whisper, judge, mock.
But beneath the shame, something else simmered.
Not hatred. Not even fear.
Determination.
She would not let Damian Blackthorn break her on her second day.
Not when she needed this job. Not when her mother's life depended on it.
If he wanted her sharpened, then sharpened she would become.
No matter how much it hurt.