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The desk assigned to her was simple. Clean. White marble surface, sleek glass screen, and an executive-grade headset she was afraid to touch too much. Everything around her felt expensive, like it wasn't meant to be breathed on, let alone used.
She sat quietly, hands folded in her lap, pretending to skim the training packet Dana had left her.
She wasn't pretending because she didn't want to learn—she just couldn't focus.
Not after him.
That man… Rael Moreau.
The way people responded to him.
The way the air had changed.
Even now, she swore the silence around the floor felt heavier ever since he walked in.
Isla reached for the stylus beside her keyboard—then paused as a figure approached.
He was tall, lean, with a navy suit that looked casually thrown on but clearly expensive. His hair was slightly curled at the front, his steps easy but deliberate. His presence was nothing like Rael's—there was warmth there, a flicker of curiosity behind his calm.
"Elijah Grant," he said smoothly, stopping at the side of her desk. "Mr. Moreau's personal assistant."
Isla stood immediately. "I-Isla Quinn."
"I know," he said, a small smile tugging at one corner of his lips. "You've been assigned to Operations and Legal as a floating executive assistant. You'll be rotating tasks for the senior staff, and occasionally supporting upper management, including Mr. Moreau, depending on scheduling."
"I… understand." She tried to keep her voice steady. "Thank you for telling me."
"You'll be under review for the first two weeks. Performance-based. No pressure." He tilted his head slightly. "That wasn't sarcasm. I'm serious. Don't panic."
"I—I'm not panicking," she replied.
"You're blinking too fast not to be," he said.
Isla blinked once more. Then stopped.
He chuckled softly. "Relax. You're not in trouble. Yet."
She managed a faint smile.
Then his tone shifted—just slightly. The humor faded, replaced by something professional and precise.
"Mr. Moreau would like to see you now."
Isla froze.
"Me?"
"Yes. He prefers to look over any assistants assigned near his departments. Doesn't like strangers walking through his corridors."
"Oh… okay."
"You don't need to bring anything," Elijah said. "Just yourself. And maybe don't stumble."
That last part was definitely a joke—but it didn't make her feel any steadier.
As she followed him down the corridor, her fingers curled into her palms. Not out of fear—she told herself that firmly—but something more complicated.
Nerves. Anticipation. That strange stillness from earlier returning to her chest.
They stopped in front of a tall, dark glass door.
Elijah looked down at her. "You'll do fine. Speak when spoken to. Be clear. Don't overshare. Don't lie."
"I don't lie."
"Good. Don't start now." He opened the door. "Go in."
Isla stepped through the threshold as the door slid open with a quiet hiss.
Inside, the world felt different again.
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