Elena's POV
If I'm being honest, New York didn't feel real at first.
It felt like a movie set — too loud, too bright, too alive. The streets pulsed with sound and movement, the kind that makes you wonder if the city ever actually sleeps. Back in Canada, my mornings began with the sigh of wind through pine trees outside my bedroom window. Here, it was all car horns and high heels and people moving with the certainty of purpose — like they'd been born knowing exactly where they were going.
And me?
I was standing on the sidewalk clutching my little beige handbag like it was a lifeline, staring up at a tower of glass and steel that reached right into the clouds. The silver letters across the entrance gleamed beneath the sunlight.
Knight Enterprises.
The name alone carried a gravity that made my stomach twist.
My reflection in the glass doors didn't help. Wavy brown hair that refused to stay pinned back, lips trembling despite the coat of neutral lipstick, and a pair of eyes that seemed to say I don't belong here.
But I was here.
For real.
Elena Brooks — Personal Assistant to Adrian Knight, CEO of one of the biggest corporations in New York City.
Even saying it silently felt foreign. Like the words belonged to someone else entirely.
When I stepped through those revolving doors, a rush of cold, expensive air-conditioning met me — scented faintly with leather and something citrusy. The lobby was impossibly sleek, all marble and glass, echoing the sound of my heels as if mocking my nervousness. People passed with brisk precision — assistants carrying tablets, executives murmuring into Bluetooth earpieces, security guards who looked like they could moonlight as bouncers. Everyone belonged. Everyone moved with purpose.
I must've looked lost because the receptionist offered a professional, practiced smile.
"Good morning, how may I help you?"
"I— uh—" I adjusted my grip on my bag, palms slick. "I'm starting today. Personal assistant to Mr. Knight. Elena Brooks."
Her smile warmed just a fraction. "Of course, Miss Brooks. One moment, please."
She picked up the phone, murmured something I couldn't catch, and then nodded. "Someone will escort you up shortly."
That "someone" turned out to be a tall man in his thirties — neatly dressed, polite but distant. The kind of person who made silence feel heavy.
"This way," he said simply, leading me toward the elevators.
The ride up felt like an eternity. I watched the digital numbers climb — 25… 32… 38… 42 — and with each floor, my heart pounded harder. By the time we reached the top, my reflection in the polished elevator walls was pale, my breath shallow.
When the doors slid open, I was greeted by a hallway lined with glass offices. Everything was quiet up here — unnaturally so. The carpet muffled every sound, the lighting was soft, and there was a faint hum of air conditioning. It smelled like paper, coffee, and money.
And then I saw him.
Adrian Knight.
He stood by the window, back turned to us, gazing out at the city like it belonged to him. Maybe it did. His figure was impossibly composed — tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit. Even from behind, he radiated something that made the air shift.
"Mr. Knight," the escort said, voice subdued. "Your new assistant has arrived."
For a heartbeat, he didn't move.
Then — slowly — he turned.
And the world seemed to go still.
He was every bit as striking as his photographs suggested — sharp jawline, hair dark as ink, eyes a stormy grey that missed nothing. His presence wasn't loud; it was quiet power, the kind that didn't need to announce itself. Every movement was deliberate, every breath measured.
"Miss Brooks?" he said, voice deep, smooth, controlled.
"Yes, sir." I somehow managed to make my voice steady, though my hands were trembling behind my back.
He regarded me for a moment that felt like an hour.
"You're from Canada."
"Yes, sir."
"Good," he said. "Canadians are punctual."
I blinked. It took me a second to realize he wasn't joking. His expression didn't shift even a millimeter.
He gestured toward a desk outside his office — minimalist, polished, perfectly aligned. "That's your workspace. You'll manage my schedule, correspondence, and travel arrangements. No mistakes."
"Yes, sir. Understood."
His gaze lingered. Not flirtatious. Not kind. Just… assessing. Like he was trying to read a book written in a language he didn't entirely trust. When he finally looked away, I felt my lungs fill again.
"You'll start with the emails from the London branch," he said. "My last assistant left mid-project, so I expect you to adapt fast."
Adapt fast.
Those two words would become my silent mantra.
---
The first few hours were a blur of panic disguised as productivity. My hands trembled each time I typed. The London branch's inbox was chaos — half-finished negotiations, flight confirmations, board meeting notes. I tried to stay composed, but every sound from his office made me jump. When he spoke through the intercom, my heart nearly stopped. Not because he yelled — he never did — but because his tone carried that same unbending authority that made you want to get everything exactly right.
He moved like someone who never questioned his place in the world — tall, precise, almost soundless. Each word he said seemed weighed, measured, and strategically placed. And the strangest part? He didn't intimidate me because he was cruel. He intimidated me because he didn't have to be.
By noon, I was still glued to my desk, trying to decipher the spreadsheet from London. My stomach had long started complaining, but I ignored it. I didn't want to look like I couldn't handle the pace.
That was when his office door opened.
Adrian Knight stepped out, adjusting the cuff of his shirt. His shadow fell across my desk.
"You haven't taken your break," he said.
The words startled me. His tone wasn't harsh, but there was an edge of something — disapproval, maybe. Or concern, though he'd never admit it.
"Oh— I'm fine, sir," I stammered, fumbling with my keyboard. "I just wanted to finish sorting through—"
"Take your break."
It wasn't a suggestion. It was a command wrapped in calm.
I blinked, unsure whether to argue. His gaze found mine — steady, unwavering, a storm behind glass. There was no anger there, but also no room for debate.
"Don't argue," he said quietly. "I need my staff functional."
Functional.
That was the word he chose. Practical. Emotionless. And yet somehow, I felt the faintest tug of protectiveness behind it — like he'd noticed something no one else would've cared about.
I stood up immediately, nodding. "Yes, Mr. Knight."
His eyes followed me for a moment, unreadable, before he turned back toward his office. Still, I could feel the heat of his gaze long after the door closed.
In the break room, I sat down with a sandwich I barely tasted. My hands wouldn't stop trembling. It wasn't fear, not exactly. It was… awareness. Like every nerve in my body had decided to pay attention at once.
When I returned to my desk twenty minutes later, there was a cup of coffee waiting beside my keyboard. No note. No explanation. Just the faint steam rising from a perfect, dark brew.
He never mentioned it. And I never asked.
---
By the time evening rolled around, the office was nearly empty. The sky outside had turned deep indigo, city lights glittering like spilled stars. I was wrapping up the last of the London emails when his office door opened again.
He walked out without a sound, jacket draped over one arm, tie slightly loosened. For the first time all day, he didn't look like a man made of marble. He looked… human. Tired, maybe. But still composed in a way that made my pulse trip over itself.
"You can leave those," he said, nodding toward the computer screen. "It's late."
"Yes, sir," I murmured. I hesitated before speaking again. "Thank you. For the coffee."
His eyes met mine, a flicker of surprise crossing them — quick, almost imperceptible. Then, the faintest nod. "You're welcome."
And that was it.
No smile. No warmth. Just acknowledgment — and somehow, that felt heavier than any compliment.
As I gathered my things, the city stretched endlessly below. I caught his reflection in the window — tall, steady, untouchable. And for the first time, I wondered what it would take to unravel a man like that.
When I stepped outside, the wind hit my face, cool and sharp. The city hummed around me — cabs honking, lights flashing, voices overlapping. But my mind was still upstairs, in that quiet office where a man named Adrian Knight had looked at me like he could see right through me.
He scared me, yes. But not the kind of fear that made you want to run.
The kind that made you want to understand.
There was something about the way he carried himself — the control in his voice, the precision of his gestures, the way he noticed details others ignored. Like the fact that I hadn't eaten. Like the tremor in my voice when I spoke.
It wasn't kindness exactly. It was something colder, rarer — attention.
And it was intoxicating.
As I walked back toward the subway that night, my heels clicking against the wet pavement, I told myself not to overthink it. It was just a job. He was just my boss.
But deep down, something in me already knew that was a lie.
Because I wasn't just stepping into a new job.
I was stepping into his world — his rules, his silences, his impossible gravity.
And once you fall into Adrian Knight's orbit…
you never really leave.