Emilia Keller
New York City
202*
As we rode back to the office, the silence was palpable. Ken was engrossed in his laptop, while I was internally succumbing to the pangs of hunger. Having survived on nothing but coffee and tea all day, my stomach was now protesting loudly. The growling was so intense that I felt my eyes widen in mortification. I wished the earth would swallow me whole, sparing me from this embarrassing moment.
I stared blankly at my hands, rested on my thighs, unable to muster the courage to look up at Ken. I hoped he hadn't heard the growling, but deep down, I knew it was a futile wish. The sound had been loud enough to pierce the silence.
Lost in my own mortification, I didn't notice Ken closing his laptop and typing away on his phone. His actions were a blur to me, as I was too busy nursing my embarrassment.
I was finally saved from the embarrassment when the car stopped Infront of the office building , I thought I was.I stepped out of the car hastily and was about to enter the building when a large piece of hands grapped my arm. "W-what the ?" I turned and looked at the person who was grapping my arms so firm I couldn't move.
"Ken?!" My eyes stretched wide.
"Follow me," he commanded, his grip on my arm tightening as he pulled me into the building. His hands remained firmly wrapped around my arm, guiding me through the doors and into the lobby.
I was shocked into silence by his sudden action, unable to process the words to express my discomfort as we entered the office building, all eyes turned to us, and I felt my face burn with embarrassment. The room was abuzz with murmurs and gasps, with some colleagues' jaws dropping in shock at the scene unfolding before them.
Ken, however, seemed impervious to the commotion, his expression unreadable as he continued to propel me towards the elevator. I finally found my voice, my words tumbling out in a embarrassed mumble. "Ken, y-you can let go of my arm now. It's quite embarrassing."
He looked at his hand on my arm , sighed out helplessly and finally let go.
We entered the elevator and I didn't have the courage to look at him as all my cheeks had become red from all this physical contact and second hand embarrassment. He made things more bearable as he didn't try to engage in a conversation with me or ask any questions. We just stood inside the elevator silently till the doors opened.
I cautiously stepped out of the elevator, hesitant to rush ahead, fearing a repeat of the earlier embarrassing scene. Instead, I trailed behind Ken, curious about our destination. To my surprise, we didn't stop in front of the office door as I had expected.
"A kitchen ?!"The kitchen was a sleek and sophisticated space, eerily reminiscent of Ken's office. A predominantly black and white color scheme dominated the room, creating a sense of harmony and balance. The pièce de résistance was the massive marble island, its polished surface gleaming under the bright lights, which seemed to dance across the room like a choreographed ballet.
Every inch of the kitchen was fully equipped, with top-of-the-line appliances and an impressive array of cooking utensils. Recipe books and cooking guides lined the shelves, while the black kitchen chairs, arranged around the island, seemed to be waiting for occupants. A unique clock, shaped like a jaguar, hung on the wall, its eyes seeming to watch every move. And, in the center of the island, a stunning floral arrangement added a pop of color.
"Take a seat." Ken rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and washed his hands in the sink while I sat down on the bar stools and placed my purse on the island.
"What are we doing here?" I asked, quite confused as to why we were in a kitchen bigger than the one I had at home.
Ken began chopping vegetables, his back to me. "What do people do in kitchens, Lia?" he asked, his tone casual.
"Cooking, obviously," I replied, wondering where this was going.
He turned to face me, tilting his head to the side and raising his left eyebrow. "And?"
"You're cooking?!" I exclaimed, shocked. "Wait, what?!" I hurriedly got up from the barstool, intending to go to the cafeteria to get him something to eat.
But Ken grasped my arm, holding me in place. "Sit down, Lia. The food isn't for me, and I don't eat food from the cafeteria."
I frowned, confused. "B-but... whose food is it then? You're the boss, Ken. You can't be seen cooking for someone. I'm going to get scolded by Mrs. Dumain if she walks in here."
Ken's expression remained calm. "Firstly, Mrs. Dumain doesn't have access to this kitchen. Only one person has access to this kitchen."
I raised an eyebrow. "You don't eat food from the cafeteria?"
Ken's eyes seemed to cloud over for a moment before he signed, helpless. "Used to have access to this kitchen. Now...no one other than me uses it.So you won't get scolded."He walked back towards the faucet.
"Oh I see."Lia mumbled.
. "Secondly, yes, I don't eat food from the cafeteria," Ken said, his tone matter-of-fact. "You, of all people, should know that as my EA."
I frowned, still confused. "What about your coffee, then?"
Ken's expression remained unbothered as he placed a pan on the cooker. "What about it?"
I pressed on, trying to understand. "You don't eat food from the cafeteria, but you drink coffee from there. What's the difference? You're just being picky."
Ken's demeanor changed in an instant. He turned abruptly, his eyes narrowing as he walked towards the island. He pinched the skin between his brows, his voice low and even. "You didn't get my coffee from the cafeteria, did you?"
My voice quivered as I apologized. "I am sorry."
Ken sighed helplessly, his shoulders sagging for a moment. Then, he moved towards the faucet and continued chopping vegetables, his movements efficient and practiced, as if the discussion we'd just had hadn't happened.
Meanwhile, I sat there, trying to figure out what I'd done wrong and how I could fix it. No one had given me a proper tour of the building or explained the intricacies of Ken's preferences and habits. I felt like I was navigating a minefield, never knowing when I'd inadvertently trigger an explosion.I thought to myself, exasperated. How was I supposed to know he didn't eat food from the cafeteria when no one had told me? I let out a long sigh of despair, feeling frustrated and helpless. I fidgeted with my fingers under my skirt, unsure of what to do to seek his clemency.
Just then, Ken placed a plate of omelet in front of me. "Go ahead and eat while it's still hot," he said, his tone softening slightly.
He sat down on the barstool next to mine, placing his hands on the countertop and resting his head on his knuckles. For a moment, we just sat there in silence, the only sound the quiet hum of the refrigerator in the background.
I looked at the plate in front of me nervously. "This is for me? B-but I'm not hungry..." My stomach growled loudly, betraying my words. My eyes stretched wide, and I reflexively put my hands on my stomach, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.
I abruptly turned to face Ken, my eyes accusing. "You heard my stomach growling in the car?" I asked, mortification etched on my face.
Ken smirked, confirming my suspicions. I facepalmed, my embarrassment reaching new heights. I wished the floor would open up and swallow me whole at that moment.
I could sense Ken's amusement, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he struggled to contain a smile. A low, amused chuckle rumbled in his throat, and I felt my face grow even hotter with embarrassment.
I cleared my throat, regaining my composure. "Why?" My eyes narrowed towards Ken, but he didn't answer, his silence only fueling my curiosity. I wasn't ready to give up now; I needed to know why all this was happening. Why cook for me, and why... "Why did you make me present the project?" The question had been causing havoc in my brain, and I couldn't pinpoint why he did that. Every time I thought I began knowing him, he did something unpredictable, leaving me questioning his motives and intentions.
My gaze remained fixed on Ken, searching for any hint of explanation, but his expression remained inscrutable. I felt a surge of frustration at his silence, but I was determined to get answers.
His gaze locked onto mine, his eyes as inscrutable as ever. "You reviewed the files on the project that shouldn't have been a problem," he said, his tone neutral. He straightened up, his expression unyielding, as he added, "Now eat up, I have a lot of work to do."
I ate in silence, the food falling short of my expectations, yet not entirely unpleasant. He was right I had reviewed the files and had no grounds to question his decisions. If this was a test, I had failed miserably, my usual composure slipping.
This wasn't like me an efficient assistant who executed tasks without hesitation or complaint. I was the one who anticipated orders, who didn't ask questions. That's what had propelled me forward in my career. I couldn't afford to change now, not when I'd just landed this job. Something was amiss, and I needed to regain my footing, to revert to my professional self.
With a quiet resolve, I stood up from the bar stool, my movements elegant as I retrieved my purse from the island top. "Anytime you're ready," I stated, my eyes cast downward in a gesture of respect, my head slightly bowed. "Thank you for the meal," I concluded, my voice professional once more.
Ken's eyes narrowed at the leftovers on the plate, his expression unreadable. If he was displeased that I hadn't eaten much, he concealed it well. He stood up, his hands tucked into the pockets of his pants, and headed towards the door without casting a glance my way.
♟️ ♟️ ♟️
I swiftly retrieved my agenda from my desk as we walked towards his office.
"Mr. Martins should be sending the design sketches anytime now," I said, my attention focused on reviewing the agenda. "Please ensure you choose before tomorrow, or I can have your stylist select for you," I added, flipping through the pages and making a mental note to use a tablet for future reference. Who still uses a paper agenda these days? Definitely Mrs. Dumain, she seems like someone stuck in the past.
"I don't have a stylist," he responded, his eyes fixed on his computer screen, clearly engrossed in his work.
"Should I hire one for you?" I inquired, curiosity getting the better of me.
"Not needed," he replied curtly.
"Alright then," I said, intrigued despite myself. It was unusual for someone in his position not to have a stylist, especially given his impeccable dress sense.
"You have a dinner scheduled with the CEO of YZ Corp. at 8 pm at their restaurant," I informed him.
"Cancel," he said without hesitation.
"This is a very important meeting, sir," I emphasized. "We need to finalize the deal to make our products accessible in the Chinese market. The sooner we finalize, the better." My gaze locked onto his as he pulled his eyes away from the computer screen and onto me.
"You can't cancel," I continued, my voice professional and confident. "I'll contact your chauffeur to get the car ready. In the meantime, you need to sign the documents on your desk."
"I did check all of them all seems good , but Mr. Hardy has accepted to sell only four percent of his shares."I had requested all the files and business deals I needed to work on be sent to me before starting, but it wasn't easy to access the documents until I electronically completed and signed a survey and questionnaire sent by Mrs. Demain on privacy and other matters I found unnecessary, along with several other forms. I preferred being prepared, and I was already given the job when I asked for the files; I didn't understand why she was so skeptical.
After reviewing the files, I noticed a very interesting contract from a certain William Hardy , stating he could only sell four percent of his shares in the company – the company name was curiously omitted, limiting my ability to research further. Ken's proposal to Mr. Hardy was bold, seeking to acquire all ten percent of shares owned by him. Given my experience in the industry, I wasn't surprised, CEOs often sought to expand their power and influence, and their appetites only grew with each success. Knowing this, I anticipated Ken's displeasure at the news.
"Hmm," he mumbled, leaning back in his chair. "Prepare a contract finalizing the sale of all ten percent of his shares and send it to him tomorrow morning," he said, his tone remarkably calm. I was taken aback by his composed reaction to Mr. Hardy's limited offer, but I skillfully hid my surprise, maintaining a professional demeanor.
In this industry, I'd learned that discretion was crucial, and curiosity often led to trouble. I bit back my questions about his confidence in securing Mr. Hardy's signature, choosing not to risk probing further. His calmness was still surprising, given the high-stakes nature of the deal. I had anticipated a more forceful response , perhaps even anger or frustration.I expected him to lash out at me, reprimanding me and demanding that I fix the situation. This was par for the course with CEOs like him when things went awry, they pointed fingers, but when they scored big wins, they took all the credit. Initially, it was tough to adjust to this dynamic, but I'd grown accustomed to it over time. The generous compensation package helped offset the stress, and I'd learned to navigate the blame-shifting and high expectations that came with working for a demanding executive. However , instead of the anticipated outburst , he seemed remarkably unbothered and unfazed,his calm demeanor catching me off guard.
"Consider it done," I replied, keeping my thoughts to myself. "If that's all, I'll take my leave now." As was typical, he didn't respond, effectively dismissing me without a word. I left his office, returning to my desk to review the stack of files and make some critical calls.