Million Dollar Devil

5.

I insert my card key into the elevator three times before realizing it's upside down. Classic. I flip it, finally getting the green light, and press the button for the 38th floor, silently laughing at myself. A knot pulls tighter in my stomach as the elevator ascends.

At 3 a.m., I received a calendar invite for a 1:1 with Mr. Hayes. I haven't slept since. Instead, I spent the night panic-Googling how to be a personal assistant. The results were... bleak to say the least.

I step out into the marble hallway, perfectly still and too quiet. Now I'm here, standing in front of that same heavy black door, thirty minutes early and vibrating with nerves. I slide my keycard in. The soft click of the lock feels deafening in the quiet hall. I push the door open.

And he's already there.

Mr. Hayes sits on the low black leather couch, laptop balanced on one knee. The morning light frames him in pale silver, soft against the hard lines of his jaw. He doesn't notice me at first, his eyes flick back and forth across the screen, to focused to notice anything. 

He looks tired. There's stubble along his jawline that wasn't there yesterday. His tie is missing. Shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows. 

"Mr. Hayes," I say gently grabbing his attention.

His head lifts, like he hadn't noticed I'd entered. "Lillian. You're early."

He stands, closes the laptop, and moves toward his desk with that same quiet command so inherent to his being. He lowers into his chair with ease, hands resting lightly on the armrests.

"I wanted to avoid traffic," I offer, the excuse coming out thinner than intended. "I'm ready whenever you are. I can just put my things down first."

He nods once. That's all I get.

I retreat to my office, forcing my breath to slow. I place a small jar of colored pens beside the monitor, line up a tray of Hershey's Kisses like armor, and power up the laptop. But nothing, not the fresh whiteboard or the pristine phone, feels like it belongs to me. Not yet.

After a moment, I peek into his office again. "I'm ready if you are."

He glances up, nods once, then gestures to the chair across from his.

I sit. Back straight. Hands folded around a pen like it's a lifeline.

"Where are you from?" he asks.

The question catches me off guard. "Seattle."

He just nods. No follow-up. Just watches me like I'm a puzzle missing a few pieces.

He slides a thin folder across the desk. "These are the expectations. You'll manage my calendar and monitor all scheduling platforms—internal, external, executive. It's extensive and constantly changing. You'll also be responsible for drafting simple reports, preparing external communications, and arranging travel logistics. I travel frequently. On rare occasions, you may be required to come along."

My mouth goes dry. "That's fine. I can adjust as needed."

"Good." He leans back slightly, fingers steepled. "Any questions?"

I hesitate. "Should I be getting your coffee in the mornings?"

"No."

I blink. "But—"

"I'm perfectly capable of getting my own coffee," he says, cutting me off. His voice is flat. Final. "If I ever need a personal errand, I'll ask."

I nod, trying not to sink into my seat. "Yes, sir."

His eyes sharpen. "Don't call me that."

I freeze. "Sorry, s-  I mean, Mr. Hayes. I meant Mr. Hayes."