Chapter 4 Bree
Bree
The weekend passes in a blur of aggressive distraction techniques.
Saturday afternoon, I deep-clean my apartment like I’m preparing for a surprise visit from the Health Inspector. Scrub the bathroom tiles until my fingers prune. Reorganize my bookshelf because apparently I’ve completely lost my mind. Wash sheets that still smell faintly of wood and spice cologne.
Don’t think about him. About the way he—
Nope.
Saturday evening, Sora shows up at my door with Thai takeout and a bottle of wine, because she’s a mind reader and also the best friend a human disaster could ever ask for.
“Spill,” she demands the second she’s through the door.
So I tell her. All of it. The sex. The fact he stayed until dawn. The fact I don’t even know his last name.
I brace myself for judgment.
Instead, Sora raises her wine glass. “Here’s to you.”
“What?”
She smiles. “Bree. You had a one-night stand with a hot, rich guy and then watched the sunrise with him on your fire escape.” She grins. “That’s like... you’re finally living.”
“I’m an idiot,” I correct.
She shrugs. “A well-sexed idiot.”
She’s not wrong.
“Anyway, you have a fresh start on Monday,” she adds. “You excited?”
Oh God.
The new job.
I’d almost forgotten all about it.
I quickly usher Sora out the door, and collapse on my bed.
The same bed where—
No!
Sunday I wake up and dedicate the day to Job Prep Mode.
I iron my entire professional wardrobe. Set three separate alarms on my phone because apparently I don’t trust myself to wake up for the most important first day of my life.
I even practice my introduction in the mirror like a complete psychopath.
“Hi, I’m Bree Dawson.” Too laid back.
“Hi! I’m Bree Dawson!” Too enthusiastic.
“Hi. I’m Dawson. Bree Dawson.” Too James Bondish.
Sunday night, I lie in bed staring at my ceiling and catastrophizing every possible scenario. What if I’m terrible at this job? What if I accidentally spill coffee on someone important? What if—
My phone buzzes with a text from Sora. You’ve got this! Go be amazing tomorrow!
I smile.
Good ol’ Sora.
Hope she’s right.
Monday morning arrives with all the enthusiasm of a root canal.
I stand in front of my closet, staring at my limited selection of freshly ironed professional outfits.
I grab the navy blazer and matching pencil skirt. Going with conservative today because, well, first day and all.
I arrive at the building at 8:30 AM sharp. The lobby is all glass and steel, the kind of corporate architecture designed to make you feel small.
I approach the front desk, where a security guard who looks like he moonlights as a bouncer eyes me suspiciously.
“I’m here to start work on the 28th floor,” I say, trying not to sound like someone who’s hoping she didn’t walk into the wrong building.
“Rossi Industries?” he asks.
I nod. “That’s the one. First day.” I smile sheepishly.
He ignores my smile, picks up a phone, murmurs something I can’t hear, then gestures to a waiting area. “Someone will be down shortly.”
I perch on the edge of a sleek leather chair and try not to fidget. My palms are already sweating.
You’ve got this, I tell myself. You have a master’s degree. You can handle being someone’s secretary. Besides, you already passed the interview with flying colors.
A woman in her late twenties appears from the elevator bank. She’s wearing a crisp white blouse and black pants, and looks more confident than I’ve probably ever felt in my entire life.
“Briana Dawson?” she asks.
“Bree,” I correct automatically, standing up too fast and nearly dropping my purse.
Real smooth.
“I’m Cressida Ortiz, executive assistant to the COO.” She extends a hand and I shake it, trying not to notice how perfectly manicured her nails are compared to my own slightly ragged cuticles. “I’ll get you set up. Follow me.”
She leads me to the elevator bank, swiping a card that makes a panel light up green. While we wait, she hands me a similar card attached to a lanyard.
“This is your access badge,” she explains. “You’ll need it to get through security here downstairs and to access the 28th floor. Keep it on you at all times.”
I loop the lanyard around my neck, feeling like a kid on the first day of school.
The elevator arrives and we step inside. Cressida swipes her card against a reader and presses 28. The doors close and we start ascending.
“So,” she says, turning to me with a polite smile. “First day jitters?”
“Is it that obvious?” I ask.
“Everyone’s nervous on their first day.” She adjusts her perfectly straight blouse. “Just remember, Mr. Rossi values competence and discretion above all else. As long as you stay organized and don’t overstep, you’ll be fine.”
Don’t overstep.
Got it.
Just be invisible and efficient.
The elevator opens directly onto the 28th floor, and I’m immediately struck by how different it is from the sterile corporate lobby downstairs.
The hallway has abstract art hanging from the brown-painted walls, while floor-to-ceiling windows offering inviting views of the Hudson River.
The air smells faintly of coffee and air freshener.
A glass door with “Rossi Industries” etched into it stands between us and the main office. Cressida swipes her badge and it clicks open.
Behind a sleek reception desk sits possibly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in real life.
She’s got this whole effortless glamour thing going on with perfect bone structure, glossy dark hair, and a body that probably has its own Instagram account.
She’s wearing a dress that manages to be both professional and devastatingly flattering.
I immediately feel like a potato in a blazer.
God.
“Piper,” Cressida says. “This is Bree Dawson, Mr. Rossi’s new executive secretary.”
Piper looks up from her computer screen, and her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Welcome to Rossi Industries.”
There’s something in her tone. Not quite hostile, but definitely not friendly either. Like she’s assessing me and finding me wanting.
“Thanks,” I say. “Happy to be here.”
Liar, my brain supplies helpfully.
“I’ll give her the tour,” Piper says, standing up and smoothing her dress. “You can get back to Elspeth.”
Cressida nods and disappears down a hallway, leaving me alone with Piper and her perfect everything.
“So,” Piper says, coming around the desk. “Let me show you around.”
She leads me through the office with the kind of efficient boredom that suggests she’s done this a thousand times and finds it only slightly more interesting than watching her manicured nails dry.
We pass an open workspace where people are already at their computers, a break room (or I guess kitchen?) with a coffee maker, vending machine, and a fridge, and several offices with nameplates I don’t recognize.
“Conference room,” she says, gesturing to a glass-walled space with a massive table. “Board room is down the hall. You probably won’t need to go in there unless Mr. Rossi asks you to take notes during meetings.”
She makes “take notes” sound vaguely insulting.
We pass more offices. She rattles off names and titles I’m definitely not going to remember. CFO. General Counsel. VP of Communications. Everyone seems busy and important and completely uninterested in the new secretary.
Finally, we reach a desk positioned just outside a corner office with floor-to-ceiling glass walls.
“This is you,” Piper says, gesturing to the desk like she’s presenting a consolation prize.
It’s nice, actually. Better than nice. There’s a new computer setup, a filing system that looks recently organized, and a small potted plant that someone thought to include.
There’s an office directly behind it. Glass walls.
“Mr. Rossi’s office,” Piper says. She opens the door and steps inside the currently unoccupied office, gesturing for me to follow. “He prefers the glass walls because he likes to see what’s happening on the floor. But watch this.”
She walks to a sleek panel on the wall near his desk and taps it. The glass immediately clouds over, transforming from crystal clear to opaque white in about two seconds.
“Smart glass,” she explains, tapping again to make it transparent once more. “He controls it from in here when he needs privacy for calls or meetings. Pretty cool, right?”
“Nice,” I comment.
“Any questions?” Piper asks.
“I think I’m good,” I reply.
“Great.” She glances at her watch. “Mr. Rossi should be in around 8:45. He’ll want to meet with you at 9 for introductions. Just be ready.”
She walks away, her heels clicking efficiently on the polished floor.
I sit down in my ergonomic chair and try to take inventory. Computer, check. Phone, check. No nameplate, at least not yet.
My phone buzzes. Sora. How’s it going???
So far so good, I type back.
I grab the temporary password HR emailed to my phone, then set the device down and log into the computer. I familiarize myself with the calendar system. I wander back to the break room and play with the coffee maker, in case I need to make an emergency caffeine run.
I absolutely do not think about Nico. Nor that Friday night. Because I’m never going to see him again. I should’ve probably asked him for his phone number.
Story of my life.
I remind myself that it had to be this way. That I made the right choice.
I dismiss Nico from my thoughts, and instead I think about how I ended up in this office.
The interview process three weeks ago had been straightforward enough.
Two rounds with HR, a panel interview with the Chief of Staff and someone from Communications, the usual skills assessments and reference checks.
I’d asked, during the second interview, if I’d be meeting Mr. Rossi himself before a final decision was made.
“Oh, he’s traveling,” the HR director had said with a dismissive wave. “He trusts our judgment on administrative hires. You’ll meet him on your first day. And if he doesn’t like you, you’ll know in the first five minutes when he shows you the door.”
Great.