Christian

I knew she’d be different the second her file landed on my desk.

Lea Lira. Twenty-two years old. Top of her class. No family connections (I knew her brother but I didn’t take her because of her brother but her profile), no wealth (her brother is rich but not her. She’s not spoiled. That’s what I love), no strings attached. She didn’t clawed her way in using a famous last name or a network of legacy referrals like the others. She had gotten here on merit—and something else I couldn’t quite define. Not just intelligence. Not just persistence.

Softness. That was the word that kept circling back in my mind.

The kind of softness that doesn’t belong in places like this. In places like me.

And yet—here she was.

The office door creaked open, and the light from the hall spilled into my office before she stepped inside, uncertain but not timid. Eyes wide, lips slightly parted, like the city had only just swallowed her whole. She stood there—poised, breathing steadily despite the nerves I could see pulsing just beneath her skin.

I stayed silent. Most candidates—hell, most executives—couldn’t survive more than three seconds of my silence. They squirmed. Fidgeted. Lied.

Not Lea

She stood there, blouse slightly rumpled, cheap leather satchel tucked under one arm, the faintest shine of nerves across her blow. No thick perfume closing the air. Just a clean, steady presence. No designer handbag. Just a resume that told me everything and nothing all at once.

Sunlight, I thought.

In a building built entirely from shadows.

I didn’t speak right away. I let the silence settle between us. Most people squirmed under it, fidgeting or talking too much to fill the void. Lea didn’t. She stood perfectly still, hands folded, back straight. She didn’t fawn or flirt or flatter.

She waited.

Good

I pushed away from the window, moving slowly, deliberately. The way one might approach something fragile or even dangerous.

“Sit,” I said, letting my voice drop to its natural register—low, firm, undeniable.

She obeyed without a word—not with fear, but with curiosity. That intrigued me. Not docile. Not timid. She wasn’t just trying to survive this moment.

She was observing.

Just…watching. Curious. Watching me back.

There was a sharp mind under all that careful stillness. I could see it working, ticking, cataloging everything—from the arrangement of the books on my shelf to exact timbre of my voice.

I leaned against the edge of my desk, her resume in my hand, though I already knew it by heart. International Business and French Literature. Top of her class. Fluent in French. Conversational German. Former library aide. Volunteer tech for migrant students in Chicago’s South Side. Worked four jobs at once to stay afloat without a cent of family help, especially from her rich brother. No silver spoon, no runway of trust funds or family yachts anchored off the Côte d’Azur.

She wasn’t born into this world.

She’d built herself from the ground up.

Her life was built on earned currency. Not privilege. And I respected that more than I wanted to admit.

I let my eyes trail over her as I set the file aside. Her eyes followed my hands as I set the paper down. Noticing everything. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, betraying the first real sign of nerves. Her breathing was quiet but fast than she thought it was. Controlled. She was trying hard not to lose control in a place where the rules were written in a language she hadn’t yet learned.

Still, she didn’t look away.

Neither did I

I’d built empires out of cold strategy and sheer will, turned companies into weapons. Negotiated in war zones, both literal and corporate. I’d walked out of meetings where the cost of a single word was millions of dollars. Nothing rattled me. Nothing rattled me. Nothing surprised me.

Until now.

And it wasn’t the nervous flick of her eyelashes or the worn leather of her bag. It was the stubborn glow in her, the only one the city hadn’t crushed yet. The sunlight she didn’t even know she carried.

I should have ended this here. I should have sent her back down to the lobby and locked the door behind her.

I should’ve dismissed her with a simple thank you and moved on to the next candidate—someone with steel in their veins and years of experience in their file. Someone who knew how to play my game.

But this girl, this Lea, was something else.

She didn’t know the rules.

And that made her dangerous. Because if she didn’t know them, she couldn’t be bound by them. She couldn’t be predicted. Or controlled.

Still, I’d chosen her. And I never make decisions I can’t live with.

“You’ll report to me directly,” I said, folding my arms across my chest. “Not to HR. Not to middle management. No distractions. You belong to my schedule from now on. Only me.”

Her eyes flicked up to mine, surprise flashing behind them. I didn’t wait.

Good. She was smart enough to understand the weight of those words.

“You’ll handle my schedule. Manage my correspondence. Organize meetings—most of which will happen at short notice. You’ll accompany me to business functions, local and international. You’ll be expected to read people quickly. Translate silence into information. Speak when I ask. Stay invisible when I don’t. If you can’t read the difference, you won’t last.”

She blinked but said nothing. Processing. Most people would have protested. Demanded more information. Pleaded their case.

Not Lea. She listened like she was being handed the keys to a world she hadn’t even realized she wanted yet.

“You’ll also screen my calls. No one gets through unless I approve it—no one. Not my board. Not my lawyers. Not my investors. Not even my nonexistent brother.”

She blinked.

Paused.

“Do you have a brother?” she asked, softly.

For a second—a brief, forbidden second—I almost smiled.

“No,” I said, voice flatter now. “That’s the point.”

Her lips parted slightly in realization. Her mouth twitched like she was biting back a smile. She was quick. Witty without being careless. She was already learning.

I shifted my weight slightly, folding my arms across my chest.

“You’ll be paid more than you think you’re worth—more than anyone else on this floor,” I added. “But you’ll earn every cent. This job will break you if you don’t respect it—and me.”

“I’m careful,” she said.

Three simple words.

It wasn’t defiance. It wasn’t bravado. Just… certainty.

The muscles in my jaw tightened. I studied her again. She didn’t realize what she’d walked into.

She would.

I walked to the other side of the desk and pulled out a folder. One she hadn’t seen yet. I handed to her.

Inside were documents—NDAs, keycards, an internal guide to Grey Empire protocols, and a private contact phone. I handed it to her.

“You start today,” I said. “Now.”

Her chin lifted. No questions. No last-minutes bargaining. Just—acceptance.

Her hands trembled slightly as she took the folder, but she didn’t hesitate. Nothing most people would have noticed.

But I noticed.

“You’ll find your desk outside this office,” I continued. “The assistant director of internal coordination will walk you through the digital systems. You’ll have full access to the executive calendar by noon. And Lea—”

She tuned to go, the folder clutched tight against her chest. She stopped, halfway to the door. When she looked back at me, there was something raw in her gaze. something she hadn’t learned how to hide yet.

“Don’t ever lie to me. Not even once.”

She held my stare.

Unflinching.

She nodded. “I won’t.”

And she meant it.

At least for now.

I watched her stand, folder in hand. She walked toward the door, still absorbing everything, still unknowingly pulling the gravity of the room with her as she went.

And as the door closed behind her, I leaned back against my chair, breathing slowly, deliberately.

I should have rejected her the second I saw her eyes. I should have locked the sunlight out.

Instead, I’d let her in.

But somewhere, deep in the cold, iron parts of me that I thought were long dead, something in me had already shifted.

Not much.

Not enough to be dangerous.

Not yet.

But soon.

Because the thing about softness is—

It doesn’t just survive in places like this.

Sometimes, if you’re not careful…

It conquers…