I turned it into motion.
By the time I reached my office, the city was just waking—traffic stacking outside, the scent of burnt espresso clinging to the carpet. I sank into my chair, protein bar in one hand, three Post-its stuck to my laptop that I didn’t remember writing.
A light knock broke the rhythm.
“Come in.” I kept skimming emails.
Maria Chen stepped inside—tablet in hand, posture straight, heels clicking once before she stopped, her sharp bob framing eyes that missed nothing. “Mr.Holt.”
“Please. Sit.” I gestured to the chair across from me.
She did—and launched straight into the system-migration report. No filler. No padding. Clean, clinical efficiency. I interrupted once; she didn’t blink. A schematic bloomed on her tablet before I’d finished the question.
That was Maria. No posturing. No diplomatic padding. Just accuracy, distilled and lethal.
“You’ll need to finalize API access with Elion’s CTO by end of day,” she said. “Sequence is outlined in my notes.”
“I saw it. It’s solid.”
Her chin dipped. “They’ll push back.”
“Let me know when they do.”
She nodded once and left—a chill following her out.
By midmorning, I’d barely cleared two emails and a call before Tessa swept in—no knock, as usual.
“Morning,” she said, lowering herself into the armchair with practiced grace. Then her nose wrinkled, twice, and she grimaced. “God, Damien—it smells like paint thinner in here.”
“It’s the new desk,” I explained, gesturing to the glossy walnut surface still gleaming like it had been varnished an hour ago. “We can switch rooms if you want.” I started to rise.
She waved me off, nose pinched between two fingers. “No, it’s fine,” she managed through the grip. “Just—give me a second.”
Her face went pale, a thin sheen of sweat breaking across her brow. She rode it out—jaw tight, breaths measured—until her body remembered how to function. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” I said, mouth twitching. “I should apologize for fumigating you with varnish.”
A small laugh, quickly tucked away. She reached into her bag. “All right. Let’s get to it.”
She slid the first slide across the desk—Falkirk’s alignment against Elion’s proposal. Her work was immaculate: color-coded, annotated, efficient. She flagged three integration risks before I’d finished reading, contingencies already vetted by legal.
Mid-discussion, her hand drifted to the curve of her stomach—so casual I almost missed it. The sharp edge in the room softened. Tessa, relentless strategist and unflappable operator, was also a soon-to-be mother, fighting through nausea while running circles around most of my team.
I respected the hell out of that.
“I heard sour candy helps.” I dug through my desk and came up with a green Jolly Rancher. “Not much, but it’s something.”
Her expression brightened. “Nice. Green apple.” She tore the wrapper with her teeth.
“You’re the only person I’ve met who actually likes that flavor.”
“Good. More for me.” She popped it into her mouth, smirking.
“You’re welcome to the whole drawer if you get Nathan to cancel our meeting today.” I cracked the drawer so the stash of candy glinted under the light like an unspoken bribe.
She groaned, leaning back. “Not sure the candy will help,” she muttered. Then, after a pause: “Just a heads-up—he’s in a particular mood today.”
“Great,” I muttered.
