Morning light filtered through the glass walls of my office, soft but uncompromising, casting long, sharp shadows across the sleek surfaces. The city outside was already alive—horns blaring, engines roaring—but inside, the only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioner and the slight clink of a paperweight rolling between my fingers.
I watched it spin, almost hypnotically, my mind drifting across yesterday's events. The jet, the clients, the mansion… and that note.
My phone buzzed on the desk, a small reminder that my world never stopped.
"Sir?" Cora's voice broke my reverie, careful and precise as always. "Shina has been calling for the past few days. She wants to speak with you personally."
I didn't react immediately. I kept rolling the paperweight between my fingers, my eyes following its rhythm. Shina. Hmm.
"Send her flowers. Chocolates. Whatever's customary. Let her know I am… unavailable," I said finally, my tone smooth, controlled. I didn't need to raise my voice. I didn't need to explain. Distance was often the best answer.
Cora hesitated, like she wanted to argue, but she knew better. "Understood, sir."
I watched the paperweight come to a stop at the edge of my desk and picked it up slowly. My reflection in the glass of the window caught my attention for a brief moment—the same sharp eyes, the same precise jawline, the same calculated calm. I wasn't unkind, not really. I just didn't waste time on unnecessary gestures or half-hearted attempts at sentiment.
She shifted slightly, the professional patience I had come to rely on always present. "Sir, about the new cook…" Her voice was soft now, almost hesitant. "…I've made arrangements to let her go. It might be best before she gets too comfortable."
I paused, the weight of the words pulling me back to yesterday. Notes in my kitchen. Adjustments in the appliances. A minor disorder, but enough to irritate me. My first instinct had been the usual—fire, replace, maintain order. Predictable, simple, efficient.
I leaned back in my chair, fingertips pressing lightly against the armrests. "Not yet," I said, voice low, measured. My words startled even me. The pause in my own certainty was unusual. I rarely questioned the systems I had put in place.
Cora tilted her head slightly, sensing the change. "Sir?"
I gestured vaguely with one hand. "Tell her… not to write me notes anymore. She doesn't need to. Just… do her job."
Her lips curved into the faintest, almost imperceptible smile, the kind reserved for people who had learned patience through years of dealing with me. "Understood, sir."
I turned my gaze back to the window, watching the city pulse below. I didn't say why I changed my mind—not yet, and perhaps never would. There was no sentimental reasoning here. No curiosity, no indulgence. It was simple: she was competent, she had initiative, and there was… potential. That alone was enough.
Cora's presence was quiet but firm. She had always known the nuances of handling me—the subtle shifts, the hints of approval, the faintest acknowledgement of a thought before it was spoken. She didn't press. She never pressed. I appreciated that.
I reached for the glass of water on my desk and took a slow sip, feeling the coolness wash over my tongue. The taste was neutral, almost calming, but my mind was already moving, cataloguing, planning, calculating.
Shina's calls, the cook's note, the minor changes in the kitchen—it all blended into a rhythm I understood, a rhythm I controlled. I didn't like surprises. I didn't like improvisation. And yet, there was a small, quiet acknowledgement that not all rules needed immediate enforcement. Sometimes, observation was more valuable than reaction.
Cora cleared her throat softly. "Sir, do you want me to update her immediately?"
"Yes," I said, finally turning to face her. My tone was calm, firm. "Tell her… strictly, no notes. And follow the manual. Nothing else. She understands what's expected. She'll do fine if she keeps to that."
Her eyes met mine briefly, reading the subtle nuances, the shift in my decision. "Very well, sir. I'll inform her."
I leaned back, feeling the familiar weight of authority settle comfortably over my shoulders. Control was not just a necessity—it was a comfort. Every detail observed, every task managed, every person following the boundaries I set—it kept the world predictable.
The morning passed quietly after that. Calls came and went. Emails were checked, responded to, filed. Meetings were scheduled, confirmations sent. All of it ran like clockwork, precise and unyielding.
Cora interrupted again later, softly this time, as if testing whether I would react. "Sir… the other staff is asking about the new arrangements for the kitchen. They're concerned about the changes in routine."
I didn't flinch. "Reassure them. The routine remains. Manuals are provided. Everyone follows them, or they're replaced. That's all."
"Yes, sir." Her voice had the faintest edge of relief. She always liked it when I said exactly what needed to be done without overcomplicating it.
By afternoon, I found myself in a quiet corner of a small, refined restaurant. The kind of place that felt like an extension of my own home—clean lines, minimal décor, nothing to distract from the food. Across from me sat Enzo, my best friend and business partner. He had the relaxed ease of someone who knew me too well, the kind of man who could make me laugh even when my day was packed with numbers, negotiations, and deals.
"I hired a new chef," I said casually, cutting into my food. My fork moved almost mechanically, but my words were deliberate. "Wanted to try her artichoke."
Enzo raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at his lips. "And?"
"Trial period," I said, taking a measured bite. The artichoke was… competent. "Grade—eight out of ten."
"Eight?" He laughed, incredulous. "Since when do you give grades for food?"
I smirked faintly, enjoying the rare sound of his amusement. "Nine out of ten for the food. I just lowered it for other reasons."
"Other reasons?" he repeated, eyes twinkling.
I shrugged. "Precision. Patience. Knife work. The sort of things you only notice if you've been around kitchens long enough to understand how small details make a difference."
Enzo laughed, shaking his head. "You're impossible."
"I know." I said it softly, almost to myself, before returning to my meal.
"Who's the new chef? Man or woman?" he asked, curious.
"Emma," I said, thinking over the trial I had observed. "I thought she'd be older. Mature. But she's not—she has patience. Control. You don't find that in youth. Not really. Not like that."
I paused, cutting another piece of food. The fork hovered between my plate and mouth.
"And just to be clear," I added, voice steady, "this is my house. My kitchen. No one gives orders here. If she doesn't like it, the door's right there."
Enzo grinned.
"You really need that countryside weekend. Your mom keeps reminding me—and you're not escaping this time."
I shook my head, the faintest smile touching my lips. "I can't. Reports to go through. You know the routine."
"You always say that," he teased.
"I'll see you at the next meeting," I said, ending the discussion before it could spiral further. Calm. Controlled. Authority intact.
We stood to leave, and as we stepped outside, I added almost absently, "And please, don't change the placement of things at home. Symmetry is important. I'm asking for simple things."
Enzo chuckled. "You and your symmetry."
I didn't laugh back. I straightened my cuffs, the corner of my mouth twitching into the faintest, controlled smile.
Order. Balance. Predictability. It's how I kept the mess out.
The day rolled on, reports and calls stacking up on my desk. Meetings, financial updates, new contracts, client follow-ups. The city was busy, moving fast, chaotic in ways I couldn't allow at home.
I glanced once more at the window. Sunlight had shifted, hitting the glass walls at a sharper angle. The city shimmered, the reflections of buildings dancing on the surface of my office. I felt the faintest hint of… satisfaction.
I pressed the paperweight lightly against the desk again. It was a small, tactile reminder of control—a simple object obeying gravity, spinning and settling precisely where it should.
I turned back to my desk, pulling the latest financial reports toward me. Numbers, graphs, projections—they were predictable. Logical. Safe. Unlike people, whose motives often shifted like the wind.
I picked up the pen lying neatly beside the reports and began making notes, calculating, planning, organising. The day had just begun. There would be calls from clients, updates from board members, and the regular routines that maintained the balance of everything I oversaw.
I leaned back again, the morning sunlight warm on my shoulders, the city humming below, and allowed myself the briefest moment of stillness.