The next morning, Lena arrived early—earlier than anyone else in the building. She wanted to prove, if only to herself, that she could belong in a place like this.
The office floors were silent except for the hum of the elevator and the faint whisper of the cleaning crew. She slipped into her desk, reviewing the thick schedule Mr. Reed had left for her: meetings, follow-ups, calls, contracts. Every line bore the precision of Adrian Blackwood's world.
By seven-thirty, the calm shattered. The doors to the executive suite opened, and Adrian strode in, a dark silhouette against the bright skyline. His pace was controlled but swift; the air seemed to tighten around him as he moved.
"Good morning, Mr. Blackwood," Lena greeted, standing automatically.
"Coffee," he said without looking up. "You know how I like it."
"Yes, sir."
She returned within minutes, careful this time—the handle facing him, napkin folded on the right.
He noticed. "Better," he said, taking the cup. "You learn fast."
"I try," she replied.
He gave a faint smile—just enough to confuse her. "That's good. Trying is underrated. Most people prefer pretending."
---
The day unfolded like clockwork. Lena followed him through conference rooms filled with investors and architects, taking notes as he spoke in crisp, decisive phrases. He didn't raise his voice once, yet every person in the room obeyed instantly.
At noon, as they rode the elevator back to his floor, she finally asked, "Do you ever lose?"
He looked at her reflection in the polished steel doors. "Not if I can help it."
"That sounds lonely," she said before she could stop herself.
His eyes flicked toward her. "Power usually is."
The doors opened, ending the conversation, but the words clung to her long after they returned to the office.
---
By afternoon, fatigue began to settle in. Lena's head pounded from hours of concentration. Adrian handed her a new stack of files.
"These are contracts for tomorrow's board review," he said. "Summarize them by six."
Her mouth fell open slightly. "All of them? That's… over two hundred pages."
He raised an eyebrow. "Problem?"
"No, sir," she said quickly, though her heart sank.
When he disappeared into another meeting, she buried herself in work. Pages blurred into numbers and clauses until her fingers cramped. The clock struck six; she was only halfway through.
She stood, stretching, when the office door opened behind her.
"Still here?" Adrian's voice carried mild surprise.
"You said six," she murmured, rubbing her temples. "I'm almost done."
He glanced at the clock—7:15 p.m.—then at the pile of papers. "You could have left. Most people would."
"I'm not most people."
"Clearly."
He walked to the window, undoing the top button of his shirt, a rare hint of fatigue. The city lights shimmered below, painting his reflection in gold and gray.
"Sit," he said suddenly.
She hesitated, then obeyed.
He poured two glasses of water from the crystal decanter on his desk and handed her one. "Rule number one," he said, his tone quieter now. "In this company, excellence is assumed. Effort is expected. But exhaustion is optional."
She blinked. "Optional?"
"You won't impress anyone by breaking yourself," he said. "The game is long. Pace yourself."
Lena studied him, unsure if he was being kind or strategic. "Is that how you survived this long?"
His eyes darkened slightly. "I didn't survive. I adapted."
Something in his voice made her chest tighten. "What happened to you, Mr. Blackwood?"
He gave a small, unreadable smile. "Rule number two, Miss Hart—don't ask questions you're not ready to hear answers to."
The moment lingered between them—electric, fragile.
---
Later that night, Lena packed her things. As she stepped into the empty hallway, she caught sight of a portrait hanging near the elevators. It showed a younger Adrian beside an older man, both in matching suits.
The nameplate read: "Jonathan Blackwood & Son — 2012."
Jonathan. The founder of Blackwood Holdings. Adrian's father.
But there was something odd—the faint crack across the glass, right over the father's face, as though someone had once struck it in anger.
Lena turned at the sound of footsteps. Adrian stood behind her, his expression unreadable.
"Curious habit," he said.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare—"
"It's fine," he said evenly, stepping closer. "Just remember rule number three: curiosity is currency here. Spend it carefully."
She nodded, but her pulse refused to calm.
He moved past her to press the elevator button. "Go home, Miss Hart. Tomorrow starts early."
"Yes, sir."
As the doors closed between them, she caught one last glimpse of his reflection—shoulders tense, gaze distant. For the first time, she realized the rules he lived by weren't just about power. They were walls.
And she was starting to see the cracks.