The alarm was a traitor.
It pierced through my dream just as I was about to take a gloriously greedy bite of my twentieth slice of pizza. Extra cheese, stuffed crust, pepperoni that glistened like—
"Ugh, no," I groaned into my pillow, clutching at the imaginary slice. "Come back."
But reality had no respect for pizza or personal boundaries.
The alarm wailed again. I cracked one eye open. My phone screen glared at me, smug and merciless. 6:52 a.m.
Panic detonated in my chest.
"Shit."
The word flew out of me as I shot upright, tangling in the blanket like some tragic burrito of doom. "Shit, shit, shit!"
Because, in case the universe needed reminding, I worked for Damien Wolfe. Yes, that Damien Wolfe, the billionaire CEO with the personality of a frozen dagger and the work ethic of a caffeinated robot. The man who had personally informed me on my first day that "punctuality is the bare minimum," in a tone that suggested I'd already failed at life.
And his personal assistant (hi, hello, that would be me) showing up at 8:01? A death wish.
I launched myself out of bed, sprinted to the bathroom, and brushed my teeth while simultaneously pulling my hair into what I prayed passed for a bun. Toothpaste foamed down my chin like rabid drool.
"Emery!"
The door swung open, and there she stood. Jade, a five-foot-three goddess of melanin and curls, sipping coffee like she was on a lifestyle blog photoshoot.
She eyed me up and down. "For a second I thought you had died in here. But no, you're just… living your best feral raccoon life."
I spat, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and glared at her through the mirror. "Not now, Jade."
She leaned casually against the doorframe. "You know, most people wake up with alarms like normal humans. But you? You prefer near-death experiences."
"Do you want me to get fired? Because this—" I gestured vaguely at my toothpaste-smeared face, "—is the fast track to unemployment."
She sipped her coffee again, infuriatingly calm. "Maybe unemployment wouldn't kill you. Pretty sure your boss will."
She wasn't entirely wrong.
After taking a quick shower, I dragged on the first vaguely professional outfit I could find. Skirt: wrinkled, blouse: possibly from yesterday, blazer: questionable coffee stain near the hem.
Makeup? Please. My face would have to lean on the timeless, haggard-chic aesthetic.
"Taxi money?" I asked Jade breathlessly, hopping on one foot while trying to force on a shoe.
She rolled her eyes but dug into her purse, tossing a crumpled bill my way. "One day you're going to pay me back, right?"
"One day I'll win the lottery," I muttered, snatching it up. "Or, you know, sue Wolfe Corp for emotional distress."
I grabbed my bag, phone, and the sad remains of a granola bar from the counter. With one last glance at Jade who was still sipping her coffee like she wasn't a traitor to the working class, I bolted out the door.
Because if Damien Wolfe was already terrifying in the boardroom, I could only imagine what fresh hell awaited if I strolled into his office at 8:01.
And knowing my luck? Today would be the day I found out.
~
The streets of New York greeted me with their usual morning symphony: honking, shouting, and the occasional "Hey, lady, watch it!" as I nearly tripped over a hot dog cart.
I flagged down a taxi with the desperation of someone dangling off a cliff. Miraculously, one screeched to a halt and without hesitation I dove inside.
"Wolfe Tower, fast as you can!" I barked, channeling my inner action-movie heroine.
The driver gave me a flat look. "Lady, this is Manhattan at rush hour. Fast as I can is still slow."
I checked my phone. 7:40 a.m.
"Shit," I whispered, pressing my forehead against the window. "Shit, shit, shit."
The city crawled by at a snail's pace. Yellow taxis jammed bumper to bumper. A delivery truck decided to block two lanes because apparently I was cursed. My knee bounced uncontrollably as the minutes ticked away.
At 7:48, we hadn't even passed Midtown.
At 7:52, I let out a small, strangled groan that made the driver glance at me like I was about to commit vehicular homicide.
At 7:54, traffic ground to a complete halt.
"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered.
I leaned forward, peering out the windshield, and my heart did a suicidal leap. Wolfe Tower was right there. Gleaming, glassy, arrogant. Taunting me from three blocks away like, Come on, Emery. Fail spectacularly.
"Keep the change!" I shouted, throwing crumpled bills at the driver before he could argue. I shoved the door open and bolted.
The sidewalks were too packed, so I did the only logical thing: ran straight through the street, weaving between honking cars. Someone yelled, "Crazy lady!" Another whistled. A bus nearly grazed me. But I didn't care. Couldn't care.
My lungs burned. My heels betrayed me, clacking against the asphalt as I sprinted like my life, and my rent, depended on it.
By the time I stumbled up the steps of Wolfe Tower, my phone screen glared at me again. 7:57 a.m.
I could make it. I could—
I barreled through the revolving doors, heart hammering, vision tunneling. Relief flooded me. I'd done it. I was safe.
And then, because the universe thrives on cruelty, my shoe caught on the marble floor.
I tripped. Hard.
There was a horrifying smack as I went down, palms and knees colliding with polished stone. My bag flew open, scattering pens, receipts, and the half-eaten granola bar I had been saving like sad confetti.
"Ughhh," I groaned into the floor, dignity officially deceased.
Slowly, painfully, I pushed myself upright, ready to gather my belongings and crawl into a hole, only to freeze.
Because standing there, perfectly composed in his tailored suit, was Damien Wolfe.
My boss.
My nightmare.
My executioner.
And he was staring down at me like I was gum stuck to the bottom