Elizabeth's pov
By the next morning, "chaos" feels like an understatement.
I barely step off the elevator before I see the problem: half the floor is circling Leonard's office like a swarm of panicked bees. Phones are ringing nonstop. People are speaking faster than they can think. A stack of folders has fallen near the copier, scattering color-coded spreadsheets across the carpet.
And it's barely 8:15.
I exhale the way someone does before running into battle and weave through the mess until I reach my desk. My computer is already lighting up with notifications—thirteen unread emails, three missed calls, a reminder pinging about a site inspection, and a calendar update flashing red.
Good morning, indeed.
"Elizabeth!" a voice calls.
I turn around and see Michael from the acquisitions team jogging toward me with a folder clutched to his chest. He looks like he hasn't slept.
"This needs to go to Leonard," he says, thrusting the folder into my hands like he's passing a baton. "It's the amended contract from the Westbrook sellers. They moved the deadline up and want a response today."
"Of course," I say, already opening the folder.
"And, uh—" Michael leans in a little. "He's not… in a great mood."
"When is he ever in a great mood?" I ask.
He considers that. "Fair point. But he's worse today."
Wonderful.
I close the folder and head toward Leonard's office. His door is wide open, which is usually a sign that he's about to explode or already has. When I step inside, he's pacing behind his desk, phone pressed to his ear, expression tight.
"No, that's not acceptable," he snaps. "You can't offer us an evaluation number that low and expect us to—no, listen, I don't care what the Chicago branch said. Tell them—"
He looks up and sees me. Relief flickers across his face, but only for a second. He gestures sharply to the desk for me to wait.
I stand quietly, clutching the folder.
He finishes the call, hangs up, then drags both hands through his hair. "Elizabeth. Good. Please tell me you brought good news."
"I have the amended Westbrook contract," I say, setting the folder down. "They moved the deadline to today."
"Of course they did," he mutters. "Because why wouldn't they pick today?"
He drops into his chair with a sigh.
"What else?" he asks.
I consult my tablet. "You have a 9:30 with the design team, a 10:15 check-in with accounting, a noon call with the new investors, and—"
"Push the accounting meeting," he says quickly. "Tell them something came up."
"I already did," I say, flipping to the next line. "They're moving it to 3."
He blinks at me. "You did?"
"Yes."
He sits back. "God bless you."
I smile a little. "Also, Global Legacy Inc. emailed last night. Their team wants to confirm Friday's agenda."
He rubs his forehead. "Of course they do."
"They also want a copy of the updated proposal."
At that, he looks up sharply. "Updated?"
"Yes," I say carefully. "They requested the latest version for internal review."
Leonard stares at me. I stare back. Slowly, the implication hits him.
"You already updated it, didn't you?" he asks.
"Last night."
He lets out a breath that sounds dangerously close to gratitude. "Send it to them. And Elizabeth?"
"Yes?"
"Double-check everything. This collaboration could pull us out of three months of financial tension. If we lose it…"
"We won't," I say, steadier than I feel.
He nods, but I can see the cracks in his confidence. Starlight has been wobbling lately—too many stalled projects, too many unpredictable contractors, too many investors second-guessing decisions.
Global Legacy Inc. isn't just a potential partner. They're a lifeline.
Unfortunately, that lifeline comes with a very intimidating name attached.
Liam Smith.
A man whose reputation alone could make grown executives rethink their life choices. A man who hasn't returned a single one of Leonard's calls but somehow knows every detail about our company's operations. A man who, according to every rumor floating through the building, is ruthless, unbothered, and allergic to human emotion.
And I'm supposed to sit across from him tomorrow and present our entire proposal.
My stomach tightens.
"Okay," I say, straightening. "I'll take care of everything. Just focus on your meetings."
He nods again, already reaching for the contract.
I leave his office and close the door quietly behind me.
Then the real chaos begins.
By 9:00, the emails have doubled. The phone rings so often I consider unplugging it. People hover by my desk with questions, forms, emergencies, and complaints. Someone from legal needs a file from last month. Someone from HR needs an updated payroll sheet. A client is demanding a callback. And maintenance wants approval to check the vents in the west wing.
I try to handle everything with the kind of calm voice that makes people believe I'm fully in control, but inside I feel like a plate spinner waiting for something to crash.
I respond to emails, schedule meetings, reorganize Leonard's calendar, update files, and answer calls nonstop. My fingers fly across the keyboard. My headset buzzes against my ear. My tablet fills with notes.
At some point I take a sip of cold coffee I barely remember making.
Around 10:20, Leonard storms out of his meeting looking ten years older.
He stops at my desk. "Tell me you have something for me."
"Yes," I say, handing him a printed schedule. "This is your updated agenda. Also, Global Legacy wants a brief summary of today's progress."
He groans. "They would."
"Do you want me to write it?"
He sighs. "Please."
I nod.
But before he walks away, he pauses. "Elizabeth?"
"Yes?"
"Are you all right?"
I blink at him. "I'm fine."
"You look pale," he says, squinting at me.
"I haven't eaten."
"Well, eat."
"I will—as soon as your inbox stops trying to kill me."
He smirks, then claps me once on the shoulder and disappears down the hall.
For a moment, I let myself breathe.
Just one moment.
Then I pick up the next task.
By noon, I've written summaries, coordinated updates with every team on the floor, answered seventy-five emails, rescheduled three meetings, and formatted tomorrow's presentation slides twice because Leonard decided the font "felt passive."
My eyes burn, my head aches, and my stomach feels hollow.
I step away from my desk long enough to refill my water bottle, and when I turn around, Sylvia from accounting corners me.
"Elizabeth, you'll want to know—Global Legacy just emailed again. They want to confirm the exact start time for tomorrow."
I nod. "I'll send it."
"They also want the full digital portfolio."
"I'll attach it."
"And their assistant wants a copy of tomorrow's talking points for Leonard."
I blink. "Talking points?"
"Yes."
"Leonard doesn't use talking points."
"They said it was a mandatory requirement."
My heart sinks. Mandatory requirement means they expect precision, alignment, and no improvisation.
Which means Liam Smith is controlling every breath of that meeting.
I swallow. "Okay. I'll put them together."
Sylvia nods sympathetically and leaves.
I stand still for a moment. Noise fills the hallway. Phones ring. Teams chatter. Printers hum. But all I hear is the quiet thud of my own pulse.
Tomorrow isn't just another meeting.
It's the kind of meeting that decides whether the company I've worked so hard to support sinks or stays afloat.
And I'm standing right in the middle of the storm.