Cold morning air bit through my thin, worn-out suit jacket as I stepped off the humid city street. I had spent my last hundred pesos on a bus fare and a quick shoe-shine, desperate to look the part of a successful executive secretary. This job at Vance Holdings was my family’s absolute last lifeline.
Failure meant eviction. It meant my younger sister would have to drop out of her dream university, and my grandmother's heart medication would remain unfilled on the kitchen counter. I couldn't let them down, which meant I had to make myself indispensable from the very first second.
Growing up in the cramped, leaking apartment of my grandparents, I had learned early that my only value lay in what I could do for others. My parents had abandoned us when I was barely seven, leaving behind a mountain of high-interest debts and a crushing sense of inadequacy that clung to me like a second skin. I quickly realized that if I kept my head down, smiled wide enough, worked until my fingers bled, and never said no to anyone, people would tolerate my existence. It became my armor, my pathological defense mechanism against a world that wanted nothing to do with me unless I was useful to them. When I stood in the presence of absolute danger, my broken wiring didn't register fear—it registered an opportunity to be helpful.
Standing in the towering glass atrium of the headquarters, I swallowed hard to clear the nervous lump in my throat. Sunlight poured through the massive skylights, illuminating the pristine, silent lobby like a modern cathedral of wealth. Everyone here moved with cold, calculated precision, dressed in thousands of dollars of tailoring.
Desperate to fit in, I plastered a bright, energetic smile on my face. My jaw already ached from practicing it in the mirror all morning, but I kept it locked in place. Smiling made people comfortable, and comfortable people didn't fire you.
Floor eighty-four was my destination. I offered the security guard a cheerful nod as he scanned my temporary badge with a look of supreme indifference.
Riding the high-speed elevator felt like being launched into the stratosphere. My ears popped twice as the digital display ticked upward at a dizzying pace. With every floor we passed, my heart hammered harder against my ribs.
This was the inner sanctum of Alexander Vance.
Rumors about the young billionaire CEO were whispered in every dark corner of the business world. Some said he was a ruthless corporate genius who had doubled his family's fortune in three years. Others whispered darker things—that he was the heir to an underground syndicate, a man who crushed his enemies both legally and physically without a shred of mercy.
None of that mattered to me. I was determined to be the best assistant he had ever employed, a shield against his bad moods and an absolute master of administrative efficiency.
Ding.
Doors slid open to reveal a panoramic view of the city skyline, wrapped in sterile, expensive quiet. Polished marble floors stretched out before me, reflecting the soft ceiling lights like a frozen lake.
"Good morning!" I chirped, stepping out and nodding to the vacant reception desk.
Silence greeted me. The silence was thick, heavy, and strangely cold for a Monday morning.
Clutching my leather portfolio and a silver tray carrying a freshly brewed, single-origin espresso, I navigated the quiet corridors. I had spent hours researching Mr. Vance's exact preferences. He liked his coffee black, piping hot, and served precisely at eight o'clock.
It was currently seven-fifty-eight.
Approaching the massive mahogany doors of the primary boardroom, I noticed they were slightly ajar. A faint, low murmur drifted from the crack, accompanied by a sound that made my spine freeze.
It sounded like a wet, muffled sob.
Pausing for a fraction of a second, I debated whether to knock. My desperate, pathological need to please kicked in, whispering that a perfect employee would never be late with the morning coffee, no matter what.
Pushing the heavy wooden door open with my shoulder, I kept my voice pitched to an eager, pleasant register. "Good morning, Mr. Vance! I have brought your morning—"
Words died in my throat.
Copper. The unmistakable, iron-heavy smell of fresh blood hit my nose before my eyes could fully register the horror in front of me.
Sprawled on the pristine white Carrara marble floor was a middle-aged man in a tailored grey suit. His face was a swollen, purple ruin, blood leaking steadily from his split lip and broken nose onto the expensive imported rug. His hands were bound tightly behind his back with plastic zip-ties.
Standing directly over him was Alexander Vance.
Towering at six-foot-three, the notorious billionaire looked like an absolute monster of dark elegance. His bespoke charcoal jacket was discarded on a nearby leather chair. His crisp white sleeves were rolled up to his thick forearms, revealing veins pulsing with lethal adrenaline.
Drip. Drip.
Crimson droplets fell from the heavy platinum signet ring on his right fist, splattering onto the polished leather of his designer shoes. He didn't look surprised to see me. He didn't even look angry. He only looked bored.
"Please..." the man on the floor whimpered, spitting out a glob of bloody saliva. "I didn't sell the schematics. I swear to you, Vance... it wasn't me..."
Silence stretched across the massive boardroom, thick and suffocating.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every normal human instinct screamed at me to drop the silver tray, turn on my heel, and run out of the building as fast as my legs could carry me.
But my brain didn't work like a normal person's.
Panic twisted inside me, morphing instantly into that familiar, toxic urge to fix things. I was a chronic people-pleaser, crippled by a childhood of neglect where a single mistake meant cold isolation. I couldn't stand conflict; I couldn't bear the thought of being rejected or failing on my very first hour of work.
Step by step, I walked forward. My cheap dress shoes clicked softly against the hardwood border of the room.
"Mr. Vance," I said, my voice shockingly level, still carrying that customer-service cheerfulness that had been beaten into me by years of retail.
Alexander's dark eyes narrowed. They were a cold, glacial grey, completely devoid of any human warmth. He watched me approach, his entire body tensing like a predator waiting to see if the prey was actually stupid enough to walk into its jaws.
Carefully, I set the silver tray on the edge of the glass conference table. The porcelain cup rattled slightly, a tiny betrayer of my internal terror, but I ignored it.
Reaching into my breast pocket, I pulled out a neatly folded, pressed white silk handkerchief. It was a gift from my grandmother, the only nice thing I owned.
"You have a bit of... mess on your hand, sir," I whispered, holding out the pristine fabric. "The platinum might stain if you let the blood dry. Please, allow me."
Alexander stared at the handkerchief. Then, slowly, his gaze drifted up to my face.
I kept my smile plastered on. My cheeks ached from the effort, but I refused to let it drop. I needed him to know I was useful. I needed him to see I could handle his dark world without flinching, because I desperately needed this job.
"Are you out of your mind?" Alexander's voice was a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated through my very bones.
"I am your new executive secretary, sir," I replied, taking another half-step forward. "Jiho. It is my job to make sure your day runs smoothly. Blood on your jewelry seems like an unnecessary inconvenience."
Below us, the bloodied corporate spy groaned, rolling onto his side in a futile attempt to escape the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
Alexander didn't even look down at the groveling man. His focus was entirely locked on me, his sharp jaw clenching as he tried to decipher the smiling, polite boy standing in front of him.
Slowly, he reached out. His fingers, warm and calloused, brushed against mine as he took the silk cloth.
He began to wipe the dark red smear from his knuckles, never taking his eyes off mine.
"You aren't screaming," Alexander noted, his tone dangerously light. "You aren't running to the police. Why?"
"Well," I started, rubbing the back of my neck with a sheepish chuckle. "The police don't pay my family's debts. And I really, really want to do a good job for you, Mr. Vance."
Utter disbelief flickered across his handsome, harsh features. He tossed the now-ruined, bloody handkerchief onto the table.
"You are either the bravest idiot I have ever met," Alexander murmured, stepping closer, "or you are a very bad spy yourself."
"I can assure you, I am just very eager to please," I said, bowing my head slightly.
Suddenly, his hand shot out.
Alexander grabs Jiho by the collar, pulling him so close their breath mingles, and whispers, 'If you don't run out of this room in three seconds, I will make sure you never walk out of this building again.'