The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.
Amelia stepped out, her heart steady but her palms slightly clammy. It was her first official day at King's Corporation.
The sleek floors gleamed beneath her heels, and the faint scent of coffee, perfume, and expensive ambition filled the air. Around her, employees moved with purpose — every stride fast, every word clipped, every expression professional.
She tightened her grip on her tablet. Breathe, Amelia.
The HR manager, a petite woman with auburn hair and too much energy for a Monday morning, greeted her with a smile.
"Welcome aboard, Miss Jones! You'll be working directly under the CEO's events department. That means you'll assist with internal functions, press conferences, corporate galas — that sort of thing."
Amelia nodded politely. "I understand."
"Good. Because Mr. King is… particular." The HR woman's smile faltered slightly, lowering her voice. "He doesn't tolerate mistakes. Or lateness. Or coffee that's two degrees colder than he prefers."
Amelia blinked. "Right. Got it."
"Good luck," the woman said, almost pityingly, before walking off.
Amelia exhaled slowly. Great. A perfectionist boss who already makes interns cry.
She spent the next few hours adjusting to her workspace — a minimalist desk near the glass wall overlooking Nova Heights. Her department buzzed with constant calls and clattering keyboards. Everyone seemed terrified yet addicted to the pressure.
At exactly 10:15 a.m., a voice rang out.
"Mr. King wants all department heads in the boardroom. Now."
The room tensed. Someone muttered, "He's in one of those moods again."
Amelia followed quietly with the group, notebook in hand. Inside, the atmosphere was electric. The man himself — Christopher King — stood at the head of the long black table, posture perfect, eyes cold as steel.
He was dressed in a charcoal-gray suit, sleeves slightly rolled, revealing the veins along his wrist as he flipped through documents. His tone when he spoke was low, controlled, and cutting.
"Our competitors are preparing for the Summit Gala next month," he said. "We're not just matching them — we're surpassing them."
His eyes moved across the room like searchlights. "I want innovation. Perfection. And zero excuses."
Heads nodded nervously. Amelia scribbled notes quickly, trying not to look at him for too long — not to feel that flicker of old memory.
Then, suddenly —
"You," he said, looking directly at her.
Every head turned.
Amelia froze. "Sir?"
"You're the new coordinator, correct?"
"Yes."
"Good," he said flatly. "Then you'll handle the preliminary guest list. I want it on my desk by tomorrow morning — vetted, formatted, and error-free. Not a single name out of place."
"Tomorrow?" she asked carefully. "But sir, that list requires—"
"Is that a problem?" His tone sliced through her words.
Her pulse spiked. "No, sir."
"Good." He turned away, already dismissing her existence.
For the rest of the meeting, she barely breathed. When it ended, she stayed behind, staring at her notebook full of impossible deadlines.
So this was what he'd become — colder, sharper, crueler. The man who once took her warmth and left without a word now made cruelty look like an art form.
By the time she left the office that night, the city was glowing under streetlights. She was exhausted — mentally, emotionally, everything.
Her phone buzzed just as she reached the bus stop.
Aunt Chloe: "How was your first day, love?"
Amelia smiled weakly at the screen.
She wanted to say "good." But instead, she typed:
> "It was… challenging."
Seconds later, another message came through — this time from Mia.
> "Heard the boss is hell on heels. You okay?"
Amelia looked up at the towering glass building behind her, lights still burning on the top floor where she knew he was — probably reviewing her every move.
She typed back:
> "Yeah. I'll survive."
But deep down, she wasn't sure.
Because something about Christopher King's presence didn't just intimidate her — it pulled at something buried deep, something she thought she'd buried long ago.
And if he found out who she really was…
Surviving would be the least of her worries.
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