📖 Chapter Two – Sink or Swim
The badge was still warm in her hand.
Freshly printed, still smelling faintly of plastic and ink, the tiny rectangle that read Aria Collins – Executive Secretary felt less like a job ID and more like a death sentence.
She hadn't even taken her first full breath in the office when the intercom on her desk crackled.
"Collins," came the cold, lethal voice that made every employee in Knight Enterprises flinch.
"Inside. Now."
Aria's pulse stuttered. She'd been in this building for less than fifteen minutes. HR hadn't even finished explaining how to log into the system. Her desk still sat bare except for a pen, the intercom, and the suffocating weight of expectation.
And already, Damian Knight wanted her.
She smoothed her skirt with one hand, squared her shoulders, and whispered under her breath.
You wanted a new life, Aria. This is it. Time to survive.
When she pushed open the heavy glass doors to his office, she nearly tripped on the sight that greeted her.
A mountain of files—no, an avalanche—was stacked on his desk, so tall it looked as though it might collapse at any moment. Damian himself sat behind it, black suit crisp, tie perfectly in place, dark eyes flicking up at her like razors.
"Meeting in one hour," he said, tone like steel. He shoved the pile toward her. Papers slid dangerously close to the edge.
"Organize. Summarize. Brief me."
Aria blinked. "One hour?"
His gaze cut through her. "Did I stutter?"
Her mouth went dry. No warm welcome. No training. No "here's how things work around here." He had thrown her straight into the fire, and she was expected to walk through it unburned.
Sink or swim, she realized. And he wants me to drown.
By the time she staggered back to her desk with the files stacked precariously in her arms, the whispers had already started.
"She's the new one? Poor thing."
"Straight into his office? She won't last until lunch."
"Damian Knight chews secretaries like gum. Spits them out the same day."
Aria ignored them, lowering the stack onto her desk as carefully as if it were a bomb. Her hands trembled, but she forced them still.
"Looks heavy," a honeyed voice purred.
Aria looked up. A woman stood by her desk, perfectly coiffed hair, sharp red lips, and an expression that screamed predator. She held a designer clipboard and the kind of fake smile that carried poison.
"Vanessa Green," the woman said, offering a manicured hand she didn't expect Aria to take. "I've been Mr. Knight's interim secretary for three weeks. Don't get too comfortable—most don't last."
The smirk that followed was almost triumphant.
Aria matched her smile with one of her own. Soft. Polite. Almost meek.
"Then it's a good thing I'm not 'most.'"
For a moment, Vanessa's smirk faltered. Just a fraction. Then she turned on her heel, clicking away like a queen who'd just been insulted.
Aria exhaled. One problem at a time
She dove into the files. Finance reports, merger proposals, contracts riddled with fine print—pages and pages of information that would take any normal assistant a full day to sort.
Her mind, however, was sharper than most. She skimmed, noted, organized. Years of being groomed as Arianna Valencia, heiress, meant she'd been trained to process details quickly. To see numbers, patterns, and strategy where others saw chaos.
Still, the pressure was crushing.
The phone rang. She answered.
"Mr. Knight's office."
"Get me Knight," barked a voice.
"He's in a meeting," she said smoothly, scanning her notes as she spoke. "Would you like me to schedule a callback?"
Click. They hung up.
Another line blinked. Then another.
She juggled them, fingers flying, pen scribbling notes, heart racing.
"Collins," the intercom barked again. "Coffee. Now."
Her stomach dropped. She didn't even know what kind he drank.
She ran to the breakroom, three employees staring at her like vultures circling a carcass.
"Triple shot, no sugar, Colombian roast," one of them murmured mockingly. "Good luck, newbie."
When she returned with the cup, Damian glanced at it once before setting it aside, untouched. His expression revealed nothing.
But the way his eyes flicked to her notes—neatly summarized, bullet-pointed, concise—told her she'd at least passed one test.
By noon, she felt wrung dry. And that was when he called again.
"Collins. Boardroom. You're coming with me."
She nearly tripped rising to her feet. "Me?"
His look silenced the question.
She followed him down the hall, heels clicking, the heat of a dozen curious stares burning into her back.
The boardroom was filled with men and women twice her age, all dressed in power suits, voices low and calculating. Damian took his seat at the head of the table. Aria lingered at the edge, clutching her notepad.
"Stay quiet. Watch. Learn," he murmured without looking at her.
The meeting began. Numbers, strategies, heated debates. Aria scribbled furiously, head down.
And then—his voice cut through the chatter.
"Collins."
Her head snapped up. Every eye in the room swung toward her.
"What's your opinion on the merger proposal?" Damian asked. His tone was calm, almost bored. But the challenge in his eyes was unmistakable.
It was a trap. A test. He wanted her to flounder.
Her heart pounded. The board waited. Silence stretched.
Then, carefully, she spoke.
"The numbers are solid, but the PR risk is high. If you move forward without addressing employee backlash, the long-term profit margin could shrink by five percent within a year. Public image matters as much as numbers."
The silence that followed was deafening.
A few board members blinked in surprise. One coughed awkwardly.
Damian's lips twitched. Not approval. Not disapproval. Just… interest.
"Noted," he said, moving on as though nothing had happened.
But Aria caught the subtle glint in his eyes. The flicker of curiosity.
Back in his office, she placed her notes carefully on his desk, ready to retreat.
"Collins." His voice stopped her.
She turned slowly.
He rose from his chair, closing the space between them with deliberate steps. Not threatening—just suffocating in the weight of his presence.
"You didn't flinch in there," he said softly, almost musing. "Most people can't even breathe when I look at them. You… answer back. You don't break."
Her throat tightened. "I'm just doing my job."
His gaze sharpened. "Who are you, really?"
Her heart skipped. She forced her face into calm neutrality. "Aria Collins. Your secretary."
The silence stretched. He didn't believe her. She could feel it in the way his eyes lingered, dissecting, searching for cracks.
Finally, he turned away, dismissing her with a flick of his hand.
"One mistake, Collins, and you're gone."
She reached the door, relief flooding her chest.
And then his voice came again, low, almost to himself.
"But something tells me… you're not who you claim to be."
Her hand froze on the handle. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
She didn't dare look back.
She stepped out, closing the door softly behind her.
And whispered to herself, Of all the offices in this city… why did it have to be his?