Chapter 45 The Perfect Assistant
Elena's POV
If there was one thing Damian Cross hated more than losing, it was incompetence.
So when his assistant managed to send a confidential proposal to the wrong client - during a board presentation, no less - it was a miracle the woman still had her job the next day.
By "next day," I mean this morning.
And by "still had her job," I mean she was currently packing her desk.
"Just let her go," I said, leaning against the glass door to Damian's office. "You don't need to breathe fire about it."
Damian didn't look up from his screen. "She attached the wrong document, Elena. To a potential investor."
"She's human," I said.
"She's careless," he corrected, voice low and calm in that terrifying way of his. "I can't afford careless."
I folded my arms. "You're overreacting."
He finally looked up, that cool gray stare pinning me in place. "You wouldn't say that if it was your department."
I sighed, dropping the argument. He was right - and he knew it.
"Fine," I said. "I'll handle it. You'll have a new assistant by next week."
"Good," he said simply, turning back to his work. "Pick someone who can think."
By Friday, HR sent me a list of applicants. None stood out at first - until I saw the last file.
Rachael Meyer.
Twenty-four. First-class degree in Business Administration. Worked at two multinational firms. Recommendations that read like love letters.
But it wasn't the résumé that caught my attention - it was her cover letter.
She didn't grovel. She didn't try to impress. She wrote with confidence and precision, like someone who already knew she was good enough.
I smiled as I read it. Finally, someone with backbone.
I set up the interview for Monday.
When Rachael walked in, I almost laughed.
It wasn't fair - people shouldn't look that put-together on a Monday morning.
She wore a fitted cream blouse tucked neatly into black trousers, her curls pinned up in a way that looked effortless but wasn't. Her skin had that glow money couldn't buy - confidence, intelligence, and just the right amount of poise.
"Ms. Grant," she said, her voice low, smooth, and steady. "It's an honor to meet you."
"Please, call me Elena," I said, gesturing for her to sit. "So, Rachael - tell me why you want this job."
She didn't even hesitate. "Because I know how to make smart people more efficient. And because Mr. Cross has a reputation for expecting perfection. I'd like to meet that challenge."
I raised a brow. "You've done your research."
"Thoroughly," she said with a small smile.
For twenty minutes, we talked. I pushed, tested, threw difficult scenarios at her - and she didn't flinch once.
By the end of it, I caught myself thinking, Damian will actually like this one.
And that thought made me oddly proud.
When I handed him her résumé later that afternoon, Damian barely glanced up.
"Just one candidate?" he asked.
"She's the only one worth your time."
He skimmed her file in silence. "You already decided, didn't you?"
"Yes," I said flatly.
"Fine," he said, signing the approval sheet. "Have HR process her paperwork."
"That's it?" I asked.
He looked at me, expression unreadable. "You're the one hiring. Don't ask me to babysit the process."
I rolled my eyes. "You're welcome."
Rachael started the following week.
At first, I barely noticed her - too busy with meetings and presentations. But by the third day, everyone was talking about her.
"She's amazing," said one of the junior analysts. "She color-coded the entire quarterly report system."
"She helped me fix the printer," another said dreamily.
Even the IT guy - who never liked anyone - had offered to bring her coffee.
Within a week, she'd memorized the firm's protocols, corrected three scheduling conflicts, and somehow convinced Damian's old assistant to send her all the templates before leaving.
I found her one morning at her desk - already typing at 7:45 a.m.
"Do you ever sleep?" I asked.
She smiled up at me. "I like getting ahead."
"Careful," I teased. "You'll make the rest of us look bad."
She grinned. "I'll try not to."
I liked her - genuinely. She was competent, calm, and sharp enough to keep up with Damian's impossible standards.
The perfect assistant.
Or so I thought.
A month later, things had... shifted.
Not visibly - Damian was still Damian. Stoic, cold, focused. But I'd started to notice subtle differences.
For one, he no longer barked orders through email. He asked Rachael to "handle this when you have a minute."
And he never said that to anyone.
When I teased him about it once, he didn't even deny it. Just said, "She's efficient."
That was Damian's version of high praise.
But it wasn't just him.
Every man in the building seemed to orbit her.
The interns tripped over themselves to bring her files. The senior partners lingered longer than necessary when passing her desk. Even the married ones suddenly became very helpful.
Rachael, to her credit, handled it all with grace. She smiled politely, thanked them, and went back to work - completely unaware of the chaos she was causing.
Or maybe she wasn't unaware.
Maybe she just knew exactly how to handle it.
One afternoon, as I walked past Damian's office, I caught a glimpse of them through the glass.
Rachael was standing by his desk, explaining something on her tablet. He was leaning back in his chair, watching her. Not smiling, not flirting - just watching, like he was studying her efficiency, her poise.
I didn't think much of it then.
But something about the quiet between them - that calm, professional ease - made me pause.
There was no tension yet.
No spark.
Just recognition.
He'd finally met someone who understood how he worked.
Later that evening, I passed Rachael in the lobby. She looked up from her phone, smiling. "Goodnight, Ms. Grant."
"Goodnight, Rachael. And please - it's Elena."
She hesitated, then said softly, "Elena... thank you. For giving me the chance."
Her sincerity disarmed me.
"You earned it," I said honestly.
She smiled again, that same quiet confidence in her eyes. "Still, I'm grateful. This job means a lot."
I nodded. "You're doing great."
As I walked to my car, I felt oddly content. For once, something had gone right.
I didn't know then that I'd just handed Damian Cross the most dangerous kind of temptation - the kind that looked like order, intelligence, and calm.
The kind that waited patiently to be noticed.