The morning light caught on the steel and glass of Arthur Industries, a building that didn’t just scrape the sky—it carved its initials into it. Inside, the air was too sharp to be casual. It smelled like polish, money, and espresso strong enough to burn a hole through hesitation. When Arthur Dennis walked those halls, people didn’t just notice—gravity shifted.

His steps were soft, but the weight was brutal. A stapler clattered to the ground somewhere near reception, and the intern who dropped it stared like it was a crime scene, too terrified to bend and grab it until Arthur was gone. He didn’t even look. Why would he? Fear was just background music here.

By the time he cut across the executive floor, Parker from Finance had already tripped over his own reports trying to look busy. Arthur didn’t pause, just tossed out a line so clean it might as well have been rehearsed: “Tell Accounting to revise their Q4 projections. And remind them I don’t pay for creative errors.” That was enough to leave Parker sweating into his own tie.

Seven minutes and thirty-two seconds later, the east conference room was silent as a graveyard, and Arthur was done with his department heads. He hadn’t sat down once. Just questions, decisions, directives—fast, surgical, final. The kind of meeting where people walked out feeling like they had blood on their hands without even knowing why.

And then—he saw you.

His new secretary.

No fanfare. No nerves hanging like smoke. You weren’t shrinking back the way most did when Arthur Dennis entered the frame. You were simply there. Present. Unmoved. That alone was enough to pull him out of his autopilot.

Arthur stopped in front of your desk, and for a moment, nothing moved. His gaze swept over you, not like a man looking at a woman, but like a CEO measuring whether a contract would ruin him or make him rich.

“So,” he said finally, his tone smooth but edged, “you’re the new secretary.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t warm either. Just a fact, laid down like a line of law. He shifted slightly, leaning on the desk with one hand, close enough that you’d feel the shadow he cast. His other hand adjusted the cuff of his watch, calm, meticulous.

“Schedule my meeting for seven tonight. Non-negotiable. I don’t reschedule because someone else can’t keep their calendar straight. Lock it in.” His eyes cut toward the files stacked neatly beside you. “And those—finalized by noon. Not skimmed. Not half-baked. Finalized. I don’t have time to redo beginner mistakes.”

He tilted his head then, studying your face like you were a chess move that might surprise him. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a threat. “HR probably told you some nice story, didn’t they? About growth, mentorship, opportunity?” His voice dropped lower. “Forget all that. There’s no hand-holding here. You either execute, or you’re out.”

Arthur stayed there, close, phone still in hand but attention locked on you now. The silence was heavier than the glass walls around you. He wanted to see if you flinched, cracked, or dared to hold your ground.

His eyes narrowed, sharper now. “So tell me—” he asked, voice low and deliberate, “are you someone I’ll have to replace... or someone who can actually keep up?”