Marcus had been in back-to-back interviews for exactly forty-five minutes when he realized he was dangerously close to hiring the wrong person out of sheer exhaustion.
“—and, of course, I pride myself on keeping my executive’s life running like clockwork,” Karen Liu said from the chair across from his desk. “Your calendar, your travel, your personal appointments, all of it. I view it as my responsibility to make sure you never have to think about the small things, Mr. Kane.”
He nodded, the movement economical. Karen was poised, elegant, early thirties. Her navy suit probably cost less than the watch on his wrist but more than most people’s monthly rent. Her hair was smoothed into a sleek bob. Her eyes were calm, her answers polished.
If he were making this decision on autopilot, she’d be a no-brainer.
“Give me an example,” he said. “A crisis you handled for your last executive that they never even knew about.”
She launched into a story about an investor retreat, a flight delay, a scrambled charter. It was…fine. Competent. Exactly what he expected.
And yet, in the back of his mind, a small, annoying voice whispered, *You’re bored.*
He silenced it.
Boredom was a luxury he didn’t have.
“Thank you, Ms. Liu,” he said when she finished. “We’ll be in touch.”
She stood, extending a perfectly manicured hand. “I look forward to hearing from you, Mr. Kane.”
She glided out.
As the door closed, Marcus let his shoulders drop a millimeter. He glanced at the time. 10:27.
Two minutes to reset before the ex-military logistics guy.
He checked his phone. Three emails flagged urgent, one from Oliver, one from Legal, one from his head of PR with a subject line that made him swear under his breath: *Portvale Leak - Call Me.*
His jaw clenched. He couldn’t ignore this one.
He hit speed dial. “What leak?” he said without preamble when she picked up.
“Morning to you too,” said Jenna Clark, voice dry as sandpaper. “You see the Journal?”
“I’ve been interviewing your future favorite person for the last hour,” Marcus said. “I haven’t had time to read about my impending doom. Cliff notes.”
“Rumor is, Portvale is talking to Arcturus’s middle management about retention packages,” Jenna said. “Framing themselves as the white knights riding to the rescue of the poor family business from the ‘corporate raider.’ Their words.”
A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Of course they are.”
“They’re floating a narrative that if Arcturus sells to you, you’re going to gut the company, sell off the ships, and use the landing pads for luxury condos.”
“They run freight, not theme parks,” Marcus said. “How would that even work?”
“Don’t underestimate the public’s ability to misunderstand logistics,” Jenna said. “Point is, they’re trying to turn the employees against you before you even step in the door. Get ahead of it. You should go to Long Beach. Walk the docks. Shake some hands. Let them see your face.”
“My face is not going to calm anyone,” he said.
“Your face plus a camera and a carefully crafted message *might,*” Jenna countered. “Call me back after your little job fair. We’ll strategize.”
He ended the call and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Another fire. Another narrative to manage.
His intercom buzzed.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Kane,” said the generic pool assistant. “Mr. Harper is here for his interview.”
Marcus exhaled. “Send him in.”
***
By the time he said, “We’ll be in touch,” to the second candidate, he had a headache blooming behind his eyes like a storm.
Harper had been good. Efficient. Unflappable. He’d also answered every question like he was filling out a tactical operations report.
If Marcus were hiring a chief of staff for a battalion, he’d have made an offer on the spot. For himself? He wasn’t sure he wanted someone who looked at his calendar the way one might study a war zone.
He checked the clock.
10:59.
The third candidate.
He almost told himself he’d already seen his options. The safe one and the systems one. He could make either work.
Then he remembered Oliver’s words: *Someone who won’t let you make them a martyr.*
And Veronica’s note: *Unconventional profile. Interviewed extremely well.*
He wondered, unexpectedly, what this woman’s voice would sound like. If it would match the laugh in her photo.
His door opened.
He looked up.
For a rare, disorienting second, he forgot what he’d been thinking.
She wasn’t what he’d expected. Not exactly.
Her dress was simple, navy blue, hitting her knees. The fabric pulled a little at her hips when she walked, emphasizing curves that were decidedly not sample-size. Her curls were gathered on top of her head in a loose knot, a few tendrils refusing to obey. Her skin was a warm medium brown, her mouth wide and expressive, her eyes—
Her eyes were…alive. Curious. Amused.
So many people walked into this office trying to camouflage themselves as something they thought he wanted—composed, deferential, already half in his pocket.
She walked in like a person who’d accidentally taken a wrong turn into a movie set and wasn’t sure if she’d be allowed to stay, but was going to enjoy the view while she could.
“Mr. Kane,” Veronica said from the doorway. “This is Ms. Maya Brooks.”
Maya stepped forward and offered her hand.
“Hi,” she said. “Thank you for seeing me.”
Her handshake was firm. Warm. Grounding in a way he hadn’t anticipated.
“Ms. Brooks,” he said. “Have a seat.”
She sat, not perching on the edge like she might bolt, but with her back straight and shoulders relaxed. Her tote bag went neatly to the side.
Veronica retreated, closing the door behind her.
The office settled into a quiet filled only by the faint hum of the city sixty-two floors below.
Marcus flipped her résumé open, more for the formality of it than because he needed to. He’d already memorized the highlights.
“Unconventional,” he said, echoing Veronica, eyes on the page. “That’s what HR calls you.”
“Is that a question?” she asked.
He glanced up. There was a spark in her gaze he couldn’t immediately classify.
“An observation,” he said.
“Okay,” she said. “Want me to agree? Disagree? Attach a PowerPoint with supporting evidence?”
The corner of his mouth almost tugged. Almost. “Tell me why you’re here, Ms. Brooks.”
“Because I need money,” she said, without missing a beat.
He blinked.
Most people lied, at least a little. Passion, ambition, admiration for the company’s mission—something palatable.
She was either refreshingly honest or deeply foolish.
“Money,” he repeated.
“Yes,” she said. “You’re offering a lot of it, and I have crushing student loans and a mother with medical bills that make me cry in the shower. Also, my landlord is starting to sound like a disappointed aunt in his emails. So here I am.”
He shouldn’t have liked that answer.
Yet something about it cut cleaner than any of the packaged ambition he’d heard all morning.
“You’re aware this job is demanding,” he said. “The hours, the pace. I don’t have a reputation for being…easy.”
“Your Glassdoor reviews are a horror show,” she said. “I read them all. Twice.”
He couldn’t help it. A short huff of laughter escaped him. “And you still applied.”
“I almost didn’t,” she admitted. “Then I watched a video of you at some conference talking about how you decide what companies to buy. You said, ‘I look for the mess under the polish. If I can’t find a mess, I’m not interested.’ That sounded…familiar.”
“In what way?”
“I’ve been walking into messes my whole career,” she said. “Nonprofits, small businesses, one very chaotic production company. I clean them up. I like that part.”
He studied her. “What don’t you like?”
“Being treated like a machine,” she said. “Being told that caring about anything other than work makes me less committed. That my value is measured only in how many fires I put out for other people.”
“Working here,” he said slowly, “is not going to change that dynamic.”
“I know.” She met his gaze head-on. “But at least you’re honest about it. You don’t pretend this is a family. You call it what it is—a machine that eats time and spits out money. That kind of clarity I can work with.”
He sat back, considering her.
“Tell me about this,” he said, tapping a line on her résumé. “You left a director-level role at a nonprofit to be an office manager at a production company. That’s…an interesting lateral move.”
“That’s a nice way of putting it,” she said. “The nonprofit paid me in moral satisfaction and panic attacks. I loved the cause, but I was burning out. The production company offered me ten thousand more a year and actual health insurance. It wasn’t glamorous. I kept the lights on, made sure people got paid, organized a storage closet that should honestly be in a museum of horrors. But I slept better.”
“Why did you leave?”
“The CEO started sleeping with the receptionist,” she said. “Which is whatever, except he also started routing *everything* through her. Invoices, contracts, vendor approvals. She was twenty-two and thought a W-9 was a type of coffee drink.” Maya shook her head. “I told him that was a terrible idea. He told me to ‘focus on my lane.’ Three months later, half our subcontractors hadn’t been paid and we were this close to a lawsuit. I cleaned up as much as I could and then realized I was doing two jobs for the price of one, none of which was respected. So I quit.”
“You told him it was a terrible idea,” Marcus said. “Those were your exact words?”
“Yes,” she said. “Along with some others. I have…feedback issues.”
“Explain.”
“I give it,” she said. “Upward, sideways, in color-coordinated lists. I don’t punch down. Ever. But if I see a problem and it’s in my power to fix it or flag it, I can’t just…smile and stay quiet.”
“And you think that will work with me how, exactly?” he asked.
“That depends on if you want a mirror or a megaphone,” she said. “If you want someone to reflect back what’s actually happening in your orbit—even if it’s not flattering—I can do that. If you want someone to amplify whatever you say no matter what, I’m not your best choice.”
Her gaze didn’t waver. He found he…liked that.
Most people in this chair either flattered him or tried too hard not to. She seemed busy just…being herself.
“What’s your biggest weakness?” he asked, because it was a cliché question and he wanted to see what she did with it.
“I get attached,” she said.
He hadn’t expected that.
“To what?” he asked.
“People. Projects. Lost causes.” A self-conscious smile tugged at her mouth. “I take things personally. I know you’re supposed to ‘not take work home,’ but my brain doesn’t have that setting. If I’m in, I’m *in.* That’s good when you need someone to ride out a crisis. It’s less good when you need someone who can shrug off shitty behavior because ‘that’s just how it is.’ I have a hard time with that.”
“And you think you can work for someone with my reputation and…not…take things personally?” he asked.
“Depends,” she said. “If your version of ‘ruthless’ is making cold, strategic decisions that piss people off but benefit the company, that’s one thing. If your version is screaming at assistants because your coffee is lukewarm, that’s another. I can handle the first. I won’t tolerate the second.”
“So there *are* things you won’t tolerate,” he said lightly.
“Plenty,” she said. “Misogyny. Racism. Being talked down to like I’m incompetent. Being expected to sacrifice my health for someone else’s bottom line. Vending machines that eat my money. The usual.”
His mouth definitely twitched this time.
“Walk me through how you’d handle this scenario,” he said. “It’s 11 p.m. We’re three days from closing a deal. I ask you to book me on the first flight to New York the next morning, reschedule three meetings, and pull a briefing book on three executives I’m meeting over there. At the same time, the head of PR calls you because there’s a crisis brewing on social media, and my general counsel calls because she needs a document pulled from the archives before the SEC does. What do you do first?”
“Tell PR to email me bullet points,” she said without pause. “SEC trumps Twitter, so I’d get Legal what they need first. If the crisis is big enough to hit mainstream media, you’ll need to address it, but there’s no point in throwing you in front of a camera without vetted talking points anyway. While the archives team is pulling documents, I’d book your flight, reschedule meetings, and start the briefing book—or delegate parts of it, depending on who I can tap at that hour. I’d also ask you one question: do you actually need to be on that first flight, or are you defaulting to in-person because that’s your habit?”
His brows rose. “You’d challenge me on that?”
“If we’re three days from closing, your time is finite,” she said. “If your presence in New York isn’t going to materially change the outcome of those meetings, maybe your energy is better spent here putting out fires.”
He couldn’t argue with the logic.
“Assuming I say ‘yes, I need to be there,’” he said, “you push back once and then drop it?”
“Yes,” she said. “You’re the boss. I’m not here to run your life for you. I’m here to make your life easier where I can. That includes sometimes showing you options you might not see when you’re in the weeds. If you still want what you want, my job is to make that happen.”
He sat back, studying her.
“You understand this role will eat your time,” he said quietly. “It will not be nine to five. It will not be respectful of holidays or weekends. People will expect you to be accessible because I am. I’m not going to pretend otherwise.”
She nodded. “I’m not naïve. I also can’t promise I’ll answer my phone at three a.m. every time it rings.”
“That’s in the job description,” he said.
“And reality is messy,” she said. “If you want someone with zero boundaries, you should hire someone else. If you want someone who will give you…ninety percent of their waking hours and one hundred and twenty percent of their brain while they’re on the clock, I can be that. But I will have…a life. Even if it’s a small, scrappy one.”
“You think you can hold a boundary with me,” he said, a hint of curiosity in his tone.
“I think I’ll have to,” she said. “For both our sakes.”
His eyes narrowed, intrigued despite himself. “For mine?”
“If you train people to be available at all hours for all things, they’ll burn out,” she said. “Then you’re back where you started, except now you’ve invested time and money in someone who’s too fried to function. That’s not efficient.”
He couldn’t fault her logic. He might not like what it implied for his demands, but he respected the thought process.
“Any questions for me?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said immediately. “Why did your last assistant leave?”
He held her gaze for a long moment.
“She wanted a life outside this office,” he said finally. “A family. She thought that if she didn’t step away now, she never would. I…didn’t make it easy for her to go.”
“By ‘didn’t make it easy,’ do you mean you offered her more money and equity, or you guilt-tripped her emotionally?”
He stared at her, astonished by the audacity.
Her eyes widened a fraction. “Sorry. That sounded more aggressive out loud than it did in my head.”
“No,” he said slowly. “It’s a fair question. The answer is…both. I offered more money, more equity, more control. And I tried to convince her she could have the family she wanted *and* this job. I told her she was the only person I trusted with certain things, and that it would be difficult to replace her.”
“Translation: you meant well and also you made it about yourself,” she said.
His jaw tensed.
“Yes,” he said. “I suppose I did.”
“Did you apologize?” she asked.
He frowned. “For what?”
“For making her feel guilty for wanting something different,” she said. “For implying that choosing her life over your schedule was a betrayal. For not listening when she told you she was at her limit. Take your pick.”
“Are you always this…direct?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s a problem.”
“You’re aware you’re currently saying these things to the man who could decide whether or not you can pay your rent next month.”
“Yes,” she said. “And I *am* trying to rein it in, I swear. But you asked, and I don’t…edit well in real time.”
Silence stretched between them like a wire.
He should have been irritated. He *was* irritated, on some level—the part of him that was used to deference, to people treading carefully.
But under the irritation was something else. A faint, unwelcome spark of…interest.
When was the last time someone had sat across from him in this office and called him out without flinching?
“I didn’t apologize,” he said eventually. The words surprised him. “Not in those terms. I…thanked her. I told her she’d be missed. I don’t…do apologies.”
Her gaze softened the tiniest bit. “Don’t or won’t?”
“Do you always psychoanalyze your potential employers?” he asked.
“Occupational hazard,” she said. “Every assistant I know acts as an unlicensed therapist at some point.”
He let out a breath.
“I didn’t apologize,” he repeated. “And she left anyway. Happily married. Fertility treatments. A house in Seattle. She sends photos of her garden sometimes.”
“That’s…nice,” Maya said carefully.
“It’s…something,” he said.
He realized his hands had curled into fists on the desk. He forced them to relax.
“Why should I hire you?” he asked, bringing the conversation back to safer ground.
She took a breath, as if weighing several answers.
“Because I’m not afraid of you,” she said finally.
His brows lifted.
“Most people are,” she said. “Maybe for good reasons. You have power. You make big decisions that affect a lot of lives. That can be scary. But I grew up with a nurse for a mom in a barely-funded hospital and a dad who worked graveyard shifts at a factory to keep us afloat. I’ve seen what real fear looks like. You’re…intimidating. But you’re not scary. Not to me.”
“You don’t know me,” he said quietly.
“I know enough to know that if I walk into this job terrified of you, I’ll never be able to do it well,” she said. “You don’t need another person walking on eggshells around you. You have a whole company for that. You need someone who can tell you when your fly is down right before you go on CNBC.”
“I highly doubt that will happen,” he said, deadpan.
“You say that now,” she said. “Statistically, everyone’s fly is down at least once in a high-stakes moment.”
“That’s not a statistic,” he said.
“Give me Wi-Fi and five minutes, I’ll make it one.”
He stared at her, and then, to his own surprise, he laughed.
It was a short sound, rough around the edges. It felt like using a muscle he hadn’t needed in a long time.
Her face lit up in response, like she’d just discovered a rare specimen.
“You do laugh,” she said, almost to herself. “Good. That’ll help.”
“With what?” he asked.
“Not dying on the job,” she said.
***
Veronica was waiting outside when Maya emerged from the inner sanctum of Marcus Kane’s office thirty-five minutes later, heart still pounding a staccato rhythm against her ribs.
“Well?” Veronica asked, eyes searching her face. “How did it go?”
“I don’t know,” Maya said honestly. “He laughed. Once. I may have threatened to fact-check his zipper statistics, so…your guess is as good as mine.”
Veronica blinked. “His…zipper?”
“Long story,” Maya said. “Is he always like that?”
“Like what?” Veronica asked carefully.
“Like he’s about to fire you and buy you a car at the same time,” Maya said. “It’s…a lot.”
“That’s…fair,” Veronica said. “You didn’t cry, so you’re already ahead of two of the candidates we saw last week.”
“Two?” Maya said. “Oh, wow. Okay.”
“There’s one more round of internal discussion,” Veronica said. “We’ll be in touch within the next few days.”
“Sure,” Maya said. “No problem. I’ll just go home and stare at my phone like a teenager waiting for a text.”
Veronica’s mouth curved. “Thank you for coming in, Ms. Brooks.”
“Thank you for…taking a chance on my chaos résumé,” Maya said.
She rode the elevator back down to the lobby, feeling like she’d just stepped off a roller coaster. Her stomach was still somewhere between floor forty-eight and forty-seven.
Outside, the late-morning sun was bright and unforgiving. Traffic roared. Somewhere, a food truck honked angrily.
She checked her phone. Two missed calls from her mother, three texts from her best friend demanding details, one notification from her bank helpfully reminding her that her account balance was flirting with the wrong side of zero.
Her head spun.
She hadn’t lied to Kane. She *did* need this job.
But there, underneath the financial panic, something else fluttered. Not quite excitement. Not exactly dread.
An itch.
The itch she always felt at the edge of a big, messy project.
“He’s a person,” she murmured to herself as she started toward the subway. “Under the suits and the reputation. He’s still just a person.”
She had a feeling, though, that this particular person might be the most complicated mess she’d ever taken on.
***
Back on the sixty-second floor, Marcus stood at the window, hands in his pockets, the city a blur below.
“Well?” Oliver’s voice came from his office doorway. “Did you find your unicorn?”
Marcus didn’t look over. “Define unicorn.”
“Someone competent enough to keep you from accidentally scheduling yourself in three time zones at once, brave enough not to cry when you inevitably snap at them, and self-aware enough not to fall in love with you by week three.”
“I don’t recall asking for the last one,” Marcus said.
“You never ask for it,” Oliver said. “They just…offer.”
Marcus finally turned. Oliver leaned against the doorframe, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. He looked more like a professor than a CFO, which was part of why people underestimated him.
“There were three candidates,” Marcus said. “The first was exactly what you’d expect. The second was a field marshal in training. The third…”
He trailed off, not sure how to summarize her in a line.
“The third?” Oliver prompted.
“Has no filter,” Marcus said. “Told me she applied because she needs money. Called me out on emotionally manipulating my last assistant. Questioned my travel habits. I’m reasonably certain she’ll say ‘no’ to me at some point, which is…oddly refreshing and deeply inconvenient.”
Oliver’s mouth tugged. “You like her.”
“I didn’t say that,” Marcus said.
“You didn’t have to,” Oliver said. “Your face did.”
“My face doesn’t do anything without my permission,” Marcus said. “And anyway, it doesn’t matter if I like her. The question is whether she can keep up without exploding.”
“And?”
He thought of the way she’d laid out that crisis scenario. The way she’d looked at him without flinching. The way she’d said, *I’m not afraid of you,* and something in his chest had tightened in a way he didn’t like.
“And I don’t know,” he said. “She’s untested at this level. Her experience is all over the place. She has…boundaries.”
“Good,” Oliver said. “You need someone with boundaries.”
“It’ll be a disaster,” Marcus said. “She’ll resist, I’ll push, she’ll push back, I’ll get irritated, she’ll get emotional—”
“You’re projecting your last seven years,” Oliver said. “Give yourself a chance to do it differently.”
Marcus looked back out the window.
He could picture the safer choice, easily. Karen Liu, efficient and polished, sliding seamlessly into the rhythms of this place, quietly absorbing his demands like a sponge until she wrung herself dry.
He could also picture Maya Brooks, not sliding into anything, but walking in with her eyes open, tripping over his sharp edges, refusing to be cut without at least handing him a mirror.
“She told me she won’t pick up the phone every time I call,” he said.
Oliver laughed. “She said that to *you*?”
“Directly.”
“I like her already,” Oliver said. “So should you.”
“This isn’t a charity,” Marcus said. “I don’t hire people to make me like myself more.”
“No,” Oliver said. “You hire them to make your life easier. Sometimes those things overlap.”
Silence pulsed.
“You always tell me to diversify assets,” Marcus said finally. “Not to over-invest in one category just because it’s comfortable.”
“I do,” Oliver said.
“Maybe that’s what this is,” Marcus said. “Portfolio diversification.”
“That’s a very Marcus way of saying ‘I’m going to take a risk,’” Oliver said. “But I’ll take it.”
Marcus exhaled.
“Get Veronica,” he said. “Draft the offer. To Maya Brooks.”
Oliver’s brows shot up. “Karen’s going to be crushed.”
“She’ll have five offers by the end of the week,” Marcus said. “She’ll live.”
“And the one you’re hiring?” Oliver asked. “You think she’ll live?”
Marcus thought of the way her fingers had tightened on her tote strap when she’d walked in. The way she’d still met his gaze like she refused to be intimidated *by herself*.
“She’ll either live,” he said, “or she’ll set my office on fire on the way out. Either way, I won’t be bored.”
***
Veronica’s call came three hours later, just as Maya was emerging from a discount grocery store with a bag full of frozen vegetables and instant noodles.
“Ms. Brooks,” Veronica said. “Do you have a moment to talk?”
Maya’s heart did a weird, nauseating flip. She dropped her groceries into the trunk of her ancient Honda and leaned against the bumper.
“I have several moments,” she said. “Possibly a lifetime’s worth, depending on what you’re about to say.”
There was the faintest hint of amusement in Veronica’s voice.
“Mr. Kane would like to extend you an offer,” she said.
For a second, the sounds of the parking lot—the revving engine, the distant honk, the squeal of a child somewhere—went muffled, like someone had turned the world’s volume down.
“An…offer,” Maya repeated.
“Yes,” Veronica said. “Full-time executive assistant to the CEO. The salary and benefits are as outlined in the posting, with an additional signing bonus. There is also an equity component that we can discuss in detail.”
Maya’s brain did a quick, panicked math equation. Salary, signing bonus, equity. Hospital bills. Rent. Credit cards. Freedom.
“I…” She swallowed. “Okay. Wow. Um. I have questions. Probably many. But the short answer is…yes.”
“You accept,” Veronica clarified.
“Yes,” Maya said. “I accept.”
“Excellent,” Veronica said. “We’ll email you the formal offer letter and onboarding documents within the hour. Our standard background check will be required, of course.”
“Of course,” Maya said. “Full disclosure, I do have a criminal record for murdering my last boss, but the charges didn’t stick, so…”
There was a pause.
Maya closed her eyes. “That was a joke. I’m so sorry. I panic joke. There is no criminal record. Unless you count overdue library books in college, which I returned, for the record.”
“I’ll note your…penchant for humor in your file,” Veronica said dryly. “Can you start Monday?”
She looked at her calendar and did absolutely nothing because her calendar was tragically empty.
“Yes,” she said. “Monday’s perfect.”
“Excellent. We’ll see you then, Ms. Brooks. Welcome to Kane Global.”
The line clicked off.
Maya slid down the side of her car until she was sitting on the asphalt, back against the dented door, knees pulled up.
“What did I just do?” she whispered.
She stared at the blue California sky, cloudless and indifferent.
She’d just agreed to hand her life over to a man whose idea of work-life balance probably involved eating dinner at his desk instead of in a meeting.
She’d also just given herself a shot at digging out of the financial hole she’d been drowning in for years.
Her phone buzzed.
Best friend: *WELL???*
She typed with shaking fingers.
*I got it.*
Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.
Best friend: *Oh my God. You’re going to be the right hand of the Devil himself. I’m so proud of you.*
Maya let her head thunk back against the car and laughed, a wild, breathless sound.
“Yeah,” she said to the sky. “Me and the Devil. This’ll go great.”
She had no idea that sixty-two floors above, the so-called Devil was standing at his window again, staring out at the same blue sky, wondering why, for the first time in a long time, he didn’t know exactly how the next few months of his life were going to go.
***