CHAPTER 7
Helisa’s POV:
The private executive elevator chimes with a low, expensive frequency that always signals the beginning of my absolute jurisdiction.
When the mahogany doors slide open on the forty-second floor of the E-Tech Towers, the world changes.
There are no loose papers here; there is no uncalibrated noise.
The air is crisp, filtered through state-of-the-art purification systems, carrying the faint, reassuring scent of polished walnut, high-grade leather, and wealth.
I walked through the glass-paneled double doors of my corner office, my heels striking the dark hardwood floor with a steady, military cadence.
Click. Click. Click. It was the sound of authority, the sound that usually made vice presidents double-check their spreadsheets and secretaries clear their throats.
I slipped my tailored slate-blue blazer off my shoulders and draped it over the back of my ergonomic leather chair—a custom-built piece of Italian engineering that cost more than a small sedan.
I didn't sit down immediately. Instead, I moved toward the massive, wrap-around floor-to-ceiling glass windows that served as the northern anchor of my office.
From this height, New York didn't look like a chaotic hive of human desperation; it looked like a perfectly designed circuit board, its streets running in clean, geometric grids, its inhabitants reduced to microscopic specks moving at my command.
The morning sun was hitting the Harlem skyline in the distance, casting a pale, golden sheen over the brick tenements and the distant ribbon of the Hudson River.
It was an amazing view—the kind of view that made most executives feel like gods.
A soft knock rattled the glass door before it swung open.
"Your usual, Ms. Smith," my third assistant, a quiet, hyper-efficient young man named David, murmured as he stepped into the room.
He was carrying a white porcelain saucer containing a single, custom-fired ceramic mug.
Inside was my morning lifeblood: a double shot of dark-roast Jamaican Blue Mountain espresso, cut with exactly half an ounce of steamed oat milk, no sugar.
"Thank you, David. Place it on the blotter," I said, my voice smooth and level, my eyes never leaving the horizon.
"Of course, ma'am. The regional directors are already assembling their metrics for the ten-thirty briefing," he added, his feet shifting silently on the silk rug.
"Let them wait," I replied. "I'll review the briefing materials when they are complete."
He bowed his head slightly and retreated, the heavy glass door clicking shut behind him.
I reached down, my long fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic handle of the mug, lifting it to my lips.
The bitter, smoky liquid hit my tongue, instantly sharpening the remaining corners of my brain that had stayed behind in the penthouse shower.
I took a slow breath, letting my gaze drift downward toward the open-concept executive floor just outside my glass partition.
The floor was a maze of frosted glass cubicles, white minimalist desks, and expensive monitor setups.
But my eyes didn't care about the architecture today. They were locked onto a single target.
Miley Palmer.
She had just walked past my door a moment ago, heading toward the central filing hub with a stack of ledger sheets clutched against her ribcage.
My God. The view of the Manhattan skyline was worth millions, but in that fraction of a second, the best view in the entire building was the five-foot-nine intern from Harlem.
She had caught my eye through the glass, tilted her head slightly, and murmured a soft, confident, "Morning, Ms. Smith," as she glided by.
And then the scent had hit me.
Even through the slight gap in my office door, her perfume had managed to drift into my personal airspace like a deliberate provocation.
It wasn't the heavy, chemical-floral nonsense that the girls in marketing wore to corporate galas.
It was a sweet, intoxicating mixture of wild strawberry and warm vanilla—a scent that felt entirely too vibrant, too alive, for a floor dedicated to international logistics and software architecture.
It smelled like a Friday night in July. It smelled like youth, heat, and unbothered confidence.
Through the glass, I watched as Ciara stepped into Miley’s workspace.
Ciara was already in high-gear mode, her hands moving through the air with dramatic precision as she laid out three separate binders of international trade data.
She was showing Miley the reports to write up—the final, crucial data summaries that needed to be on my desk in the next twenty minutes if I was going to have any hope of properly briefing Kenji in the Tokyo office before his board meeting closed for the night.
I leaned my hip against the edge of my desk, taking another slow, deliberate sip of the espresso, my eyes narrowed as I analyzed the intern’s attire.
Not only did she smell like an absolute dream, but she was dressed immaculately as well.
She wore a high-waisted, charcoal-grey pencil skirt that clung to the substantial, athletic curve of her hips in a way that should have been illegal in a corporate setting, paired with a crisp, cream-colored silk blouse that suggested she knew exactly how beautiful she was.
Her long box braids were pulled up into a massive, regal crown at the top of her head, leaving the smooth, dark column of her neck entirely exposed.
This girl was driving me absolutely nuts, and I didn't have a single corporate policy to explain why.
I was the CEO. I was the woman who broke venture capitalists for sport.
Yet, watching her fingers tap against the keyboard, I felt a strange, low-frequency hum in the lower half of my abdomen that had absolutely nothing to do with E-Tech's third-quarter margins.
Out the window, a flock of white birds scudded across the pale blue morning sky, their wings catching the sunlight as they drifted over the high-rises. I exhaled a heavy cloud of breath against the clean glass, the warmth of the coffee cup seeping into my palm.
And then, like a sudden static disruption on a clear radio station, my brain flashed back to the kitchen counter from two hours ago.
I remembered Naomi’s face. I remembered the heavy hiss of the frying pan, the scent of red onions, and the absolute outrage in her voice when she spoke about the office politics of West Indian cuisine.
“That loudmouth secretary of yours, Ciara... had the nerve to tell me Aunt May down the block cooks a better oxtail than me! The absolute audacity!”
A slow, dangerous smile crept onto my face. I set my coffee mug down on the leather blotter with a soft thud. I pulled my slate-blue blazer back on, buttoning the single silver clasp at my waist, and walked toward the office door.
I slid the heavy glass door open just a few inches, pushing my head out into the climate-controlled air of the executive suite. My voice cut through the soft clatter of keyboards like a laser.
"Ciara. In my office. Right now."
Miley didn't look up from her screen, her fingers moving with a terrifying, rhythmic speed across the mechanical keys, her shoulder-blades working beneath the silk of her blouse as she pulled data from the Tokyo mainframe.
Ciara, however, blinked in surprise, dropped her yellow legal pad onto her desk, and stood up instantly.
"On it, boss," Ciara said, smoothing down her own bright pink blazer as she hurried across the floor. She stepped into my office, her eyes scanning my face for any signs of a corporate emergency, and reached back to slide the glass door shut, turning the thumb-lock with a sharp click.
"What's up, Helisa?" Ciara asked, dropping the formal 'Ms. Smith' the second the acoustic insulation sealed us away from the interns.
She pulled out one of the minimalist chrome-and-leather chairs across from my desk and threw herself into it with the casual familiarity of someone who had survived three separate hostile takeovers by my side.
"You look like you're about to fire a regional manager before breakfast. Did the shipping container numbers from Yokohama drop? "
I didn't answer right away. I kept my back to her, walking back over to the window to pick up my espresso mug, taking a slow, dramatic sip while the silence stretched out between us.
"I heard the strangest thing this morning, Ciara," I said, my voice dropping into that low, deliberate register I usually reserved for contract negotiations.
Ciara sat up straight in her chair, her back stiffening as her professional defense mechanisms kicked in. "What? What happened? Did someone leak the software specs to the European tech blogs? Because I personally audited the secure servers last night—"
"No," I interrupted, turning around slowly to face her, leaning my weight against the front of the mahogany desk. I leveled a cold, unblinking glare at her face. "Naomi told me you had the absolute audacity to tell her that Aunt May down the block cooks a better oxtail than she does."
Ciara froze. Her mouth opened slightly, her brain clearly attempting to pivot from international corporate espionage to the high-stakes politics of Harlem home cooking. And then, without warning, she let out a loud, screeching laugh that made her throw her head back against the leather headrest.
"Oh my God!" Ciara gasped, her hand coming up to clutch her chest as she laughed. "Oh yeah! About that! Helisa, please tell me she didn't actually bring that up to you while you were on the treadmill!"
"She was ready to quit her job, Ciara," I said, though the corner of my mouth was twitching. "She told me her spirit was vexed before seven in the morning. You know how she gets about her kitchen."