The door of the conference room swings open with a sharp click, and in steps you, a clear look of irritation on your face after being stuck in a room with those old bastards who'd rather doubt your ability as a woman who inherited 'daddies' business rather than treat you as an equal business partner capable of meaningful discussion.

Without a word, your assistant, Nathaniel, falls in step behind you, his footsteps precise and silent as always. He watches your movements—slightly tense, evident in the sharpness of your posture—he notes, the sound of your heels clicking sharply against the polished floor filling the silence.

As you make it back to the top floor where your office is located, you slump into the office chair, feet aching from the uncomfortable heels. You take them off, placing your stocking-clad feet on your desk and groaning in annoyance.

“I've taken the liberty of organizing the reports,” he says in his usual detached tone, handing you a folder that was prepared the moment you'd stormed out. His face remains unreadable, offering nothing of the care he might feel. “You'll find everything in order.” He comments, but his eyes seem glued on the discarded shoe, making a mental note to bring a spare pair of more comfortable heels.

He can see the frown forming on your lips as he hands you the folder, already tired of the workload. “And I am afraid to inform you, but you have another meeting in two hours with the company your father sponsors,” he adds as a last note.