𝘾𝙀𝙊. - 𝘾𝙀𝙊 𝙓 𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘿𝙀𝙍

18.

━━━

Work applies within the days of arrival, no matter how tired one may seem. 

I had the one night to grow accustomed to the hotel room provided for me, the feel of the chilly air against my skin, and the sights beyond me, before I was almost instantaneously thrown back into the rigorous work of being Mr Dosteovsky's secretary.

From directing countless phone calls, distributing messages and contacting different business partners, maintaining and adjusting schedules, it piles upon my shoulders within the second my eyes peeled open.

It's my job, it's expected, and working under such a financially important man within the world of business does not sugarcoat these workloads for me. 

I am glued to my phone ninety per cent of the time, spending each moment working without complaint. From travelling across the city, sitting beside him in the back seat of a car more expensive than my own home, to the different toned offices, I accompany him by every step.

That's how Mr Dosteovsky likes it. 

Me, working beside him, every chance he has. I sit beside him in business meetings, surrounded against a rectangular, glass-based table, businessmen observing, suited women eyeing, Mr Dosteovsky speaking.

Mr Dosteovsky, speaking.

Always. 

He speaks, he does not sit and listen to anybody. 

It displays wealth. Status. The business hierarchy doesn't need to utter a word to create a visual of how the game is played. 

And if he is not standing, he sits beside me. If he is not sitting, he is sleeping in the hotel room beside me. 

Always beside me. 

I observe the people who attend these meetings, these business deals and such. Well-dressed workers. Suited to the exact measurement, clean, cut hair, muted tones, gentle patterns, light makeup, clean-shaved or neatly trimmed, all these factors play a part of the display.

How one displays themselves, presenting the person they want others to perceive on the outside. 

And Mr Dosteovsky displays himself in black. 

Black suits, matching his kept raven locks, adjusted and sewn meticulously. black, glossed shoes, black, million-dollar cars, all of these details play a part.

Black represents wealth. Formality. Authority. A secretive colour, one in which hides and coats all tones behind it. Overpowering them, drowning them. 

That is who Mr Dosteovsky is. 

And out of every businessman and woman he has ever met, there has never been one to leave Mr Dosteovsky's confidence faltered. Wavered, even. Not once.

Except for one. 

The same one, standing before me, speaking to me so enthusiastically. 

Attired in a light grey, textured suit, casually layered over a lazily buttoned white shirt, its collar nonchalantly shows visible above the blazer. The ensemble is cluttered, yet maintains a formal air.

I have never seen a businessman wearing such bright tones. 

I'm accustomed to the blacks, navy's and deep greys. Not bright greys and whites. 

His hair is blonde. Swept and chopped in layers, folded over in the most pristine shape I have ever seen. His lashes, like leaves of glistening gold, layer over his ice-blue, almost green eyes.