His personal assistant
The relentless beeping of my 5:30 AM alarm sliced through the pre-dawn silence, dragging me from the comfortable embrace of sleep. "Uhhhh," I groaned, a zombie-like murmur escaping my lips as I reluctantly swung my legs over the side of the bed. Another day, another early start at the Russos. Some days, I truly wondered why I put myself through this.
My body felt heavy, each movement a conscious effort as I shuffled towards the bathroom. The promise of a cold shower was the only thing nudging me forward, a brutal but effective way to shock myself awake. Stripping down, I stepped under the icy spray, letting the water awaken my senses.
Fifteen minutes later, refreshed but still a little sluggish, I began my simple makeup routine, brushed my teeth, and let my naturally curly hair fall into place. Then came the daily struggle: choosing an outfit. Today, however, held a special significance. It was Mr. Mario's last day, and I wanted to look my absolute best for the man who had been nothing short of a second father to me. After a frantic ten-minute search, I found the perfect ensemble.
Keys snatched from my nightstand, purse clutched in hand, I finally headed out, making a quick stop at Starbucks. An iced coffee for me, a cold brew for Mr. Mario – his favorite – and a mocha frappe for Jasmine, his ever-efficient secretary and my dear friend. Ten minutes later, I pulled up to the imposing Russos building, coffee in hand, ready to face the day, unaware of the seismic shift awaiting me on the tenth floor.
