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The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime that feels far too calm for the storm I'm walking into.
Rowland & Co. occupies the entire top floor—glass, gold, and power. Everything gleams, from the polished marble floors to the cold stares of the assistants already gliding through the space like they were born in heels and deadlines.
I check my watch. 8:59 a.m. On time. Technically.
Then I see her.
Kelly Rowland.
She's standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows, talking to someone in a sharp, clipped tone that makes the hairs on my arms rise. She's dressed in a slate-gray suit, hair pinned back, lips painted the kind of red that says, don't waste my time. The woman is pure authority in heels.
Her eyes flick toward me like a laser.
"You're late."
My mouth opens before my brain catches up. "It's—eight fifty-nine."
She doesn't blink. "Early is on time. On time is late. Remember that."
I nod, swallowing whatever confidence I had mustered in the lobby. "Yes, Ms. Rowland."
"Good. You'll need to keep up."
She turns and walks away, expecting—no, knowing—I'll follow. And I do.
Her assistant's desk—my desk now—is already stacked with folders, a laptop, a planner, and a phone ringing nonstop. She motions to it with a single, elegant finger.
"That phone rings? You answer. Emails come in? You flag them. If I need coffee, it's two creams, no sugar. Almond milk only. I don't repeat myself, so listen carefully. Can you do that?"
"Yes, Ms. Rowland."
She watches me for a beat too long, like she's deciding whether to fire me now or give me an hour.
Then she smirks, just barely. "We'll see."
The rest of the morning is chaos. She barks instructions through her wireless headset like a commander. I chase after details like they're running from me—printing reports, calling stylists, adjusting her schedule on the fly.
She doesn't thank me. But she doesn't yell, either.
Around noon, she hands me her coat without a word. I take it, careful not to let it brush the floor.
"You're quieter than the last one," she says without looking at me. "They talked too much. You—might actually last."
It sounds like the closest thing to a compliment I'm going to get.
I don't smile. Just nod.
"Thank you, Ms. Rowland."
She glances at me then—really looks—and something flickers behind her gaze. Not warmth. Not yet. But maybe curiosity.
