TAMING MR BLACKWELL

Ivy The elevator glides upward with a soft hum, but I’m anything but calm. My fingers grip the strap of my bag tighter than they should, my knuckles whitening under the pressure. It’s like my nerves are trying to find an escape through my hands. I glance at my reflection in the mirrored walls. My hair is in place, my blazer sharp and neat. I look confident, even if I don’t feel it. Good. Adrian Blackwell can’t know I’m nervous. The doors slide open, and the office swallows me whole. It’s massive, with a pristine marble floors stretch out underfoot, and glass walls rise to impossible heights, everything gleams with cold perfection. The people inside move with purpose, their heads down, their heels tapping out a relentless rhythm. No one looks at me. No one even seems to breathe too loudly. The only one that as ever spoken to me, was the receptionist who had directed with a not so friendly smiles to this very floor. I take one step, then another, my heels adding to the symphony of sound. The air feels sharper, heavier, as though even the atmosphere in Adrian Blackwell’s office has rules to follow. Straight ahead, his name is engraved neatly beside a large, looming door: Adrian Blackwell. It’s as if the office itself wants to remind me who holds the power here. I tighten my grip on my bag and move forward. Each step echoes, loud and deliberate. My stomach twists, my heartbeat thudding in my ears. But I can’t falter now. Not on my first day. As I reach for the door handle, a voice slices through the air like a knife. “You’re late.” The words are low and firm, but they carry enough weight to pin me in place. My hand freezes mid-air. Slowly, I turn around. There he is. Adrian, f**k**g Blackwell. He stands tall, his tailored suit sharp enough to cut. His light brown eyes lock onto mine, unreadable and steady, like he’s already sizing me up, and finding me lacking. There’s no warmth in his expression, only cold efficiency. I glance at the clock hanging on the wall behind him. 7:59 AM. My throat tightens, but I keep my voice even. “I was told to be here at eight.” His brow barely moves, but the air around him seems to grow even heavier. “I expect my employees to be early.” Of course. He doesn’t wait for my response. Instead, he turns and strides into his office, his movements sharp and controlled, just like everything else about him. The door swings open, and I take a steadying breath before following. His office feels like stepping into another world. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across one wall, offering a breathtaking view of the city below. But there’s no warmth here, just dark wood, black leather, and clean, precise lines. It’s the kind of space that demands power and respect, reflecting its owner perfectly. Adrian picks up a folder from his desk, flipping it open without sparing me a glance. “Your résumé is impressive,” he says, his voice clipped. “But I don’t hire people to impress me. I hire them to perform.” I straighten, lifting my chin. “I understand.” “Good.” His gaze finally meets mine, sharp and unwavering. “Your job is simple, anticipate my needs before I say them. Keep up. Don’t waste my time. And if you’re expecting kindness, you won’t find it here.” His words feel like a test, but I keep my face neutral. “Noted.” For the briefest moment, something flickers in his eyes, It’s gone before I can decipher it. “Get started.” The words are curt, leaving no room for interpretation. I pause, unsure. “On what?” His jaw tightens just slightly. “Figure it out.” I can feel the heat rise to my face, but I keep my expression steady. “Got it,” I say, then turn and walk out. My chest feels tight, and I force myself to take a deep breath. My steps slow as I reach my desk, the nerves still buzzing under my skin. I dropped my things and went off in search of the coffee room. I don’t know if I passed his test, or if I’ve already failed. But one thing is certain, working for Adrian Blackwell will be no ordinary job. Adrian The moment she steps out of the elevator, I know. She’s trouble. Her résumé caught my attention, a little too polished, a little too perfect. People like that either prove themselves indispensable or crumble under pressure. But it’s not her credentials that hold my focus now. It’s the way she moves, shoulders squared, head high, as though she’s walking into my office prepared for battle. Most people hesitate when they reach my door. They second-guess, falter. Not her. Her hand is halfway to the handle when I speak. “You’re late.” She freezes. Slowly, she turns, and for a moment, her composure falters, just barely. I catch the flicker in her expression before she tamps it down. She glances at the clock on the wall behind me. 8:59 AM. Not late, but I don’t care. It’s not about time; it’s about control. “I was told to be here at eight,” she says, her voice even, steady. Her tone surprises me. Most people stumble over their words when I address them directly. Her gaze doesn’t drop either, not even when I narrow mine. “I expect my employees to be early,” I reply, and I don’t wait for her response. Turning, I push open the door to my office and walk inside. The air here is mine, sharp and deliberate, just like everything in this space. The dark wood desks, the clean lines of black leather chairs, the endless stretch of windows, it’s all designed to remind anyone who steps in of their place. Small. Replaceable. I don’t bother looking back. If she’s smart, she’ll follow. The soft click of her heels announces her presence behind me. Good. I pick up the folder on my desk, flipping through her résumé again, though I’ve already committed every detail to memory. She’s a hard worker, resourceful, ambitious. On paper, she’s perfect for the job, good, maybe too good. But something about her already annoys me. Maybe it’s the way she didn’t flinch under my stare. Maybe it’s the way she challenged me, just a little. “Your résumé is impressive,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. I glance up briefly, watching her posture stiffen. “But I don’t hire people to impress me. I hire them to perform.” “I understand,” she replies. Her voice doesn’t waver. Interesting. “Good.” I close the folder and lift my gaze fully to meet hers. “Your job is simple: keep up, anticipate my needs, and don’t waste my time.” I lean back slightly, letting the weight of my words settle between us. “And if you’re expecting kindness, you’ve come to the wrong place.” Her face remains calm, neutral, but her chin lifts slightly. She doesn’t cower, doesn’t flinch. It’s rare for someone to meet my gaze like this, rare for them to stay so composed. “Noted,” she says, her tone clipped but respectful. For a fraction of a second, something stirs in me, a flicker of amusement, maybe? Intrigue? But I bury it immediately. “Get started,” I say. She hesitates. “On what?” My jaw tightens. I lean forward, resting my forearms on the desk as I pin her with a stare. “Figure it out.” The faintest flush creeps up her neck, but she doesn’t let it show in her expression. Instead, she nods once, turns, and walks out. I lean back in my chair, watching through the glass walls as she walks to her desk, her movements sharp and controlled. There’s tension in her shoulders, but her head stays high. Let’s see how long she lasts. She wouldn't last, I'll make sure of it.