“What exactly is my job?” I ask Lina, the HR girl with the pink lipstick, as she passes my desk for the third time.
She flashes me a quick, apologetic smile. “Someone will be with you shortly to go over your responsibilities. Just hang tight, okay?”
That was at ten a.m. It’s now after three, and no one’s shown up with a manual, a checklist, or even so much as a sticky note. Orientation was just HR running through benefits that were already listed. T
he only time anyone even looks my way is when Owen from accounts asks if I can help him sort through a tangle of expense reports. I say yes—because what else am I going to do?—and spend the next hour untangling his Excel formulas and color-coding receipts. At least it’s something I know how to do.
But every time I look up, the same question gnaws at me.
Why the hell am I here?
I glance at the CEO’s office as I pass with a stack of files—huge, sunlit, glass walls, the kind of view you only see in magazines. He’s in there, suit perfect, posture carved from granite, eyes on his screen, looking like he’s ruling an empire and barely notices anyone breathing outside his door. Not that I expect him to notice me. Guys like that don’t see girls like me.
I’m used to being invisible. In high school, I was the wallflower with the too-big backpack and messy hair. In the city, I’m the anonymous voice in the dark, turning strangers on with words they’ll never imagine coming from someone like me. Here, I’m just another pair of hands at a desk, another name in the HR database.
The position said “assistant,” but no one’s told me what to assist with. The CEO already has a secretary—a chic woman with heels for days and a phone glued to her ear. I catch her shooting me a look once, quick and dismissive, before she disappears into a meeting.
By four o’clock, my inbox is empty and my fingers are stained with highlighter. I sip bad coffee and pretend I don’t care. But underneath it all is a gnawing, panicky little voice.Was I hired by mistake? Was this some kind of clerical error?
No one says otherwise. No one says much of anything at all.
I tell myself I should be grateful. I’m not on the street. I’m not back in my parents’ house. I have a desk, a paycheck, and my name on a plaque.
But mostly, I just feel lost.
And for all the glittering glass and gold in this place, for all the fancy titles and expensive perfume, I’m as invisible here as I’ve ever been anywhere else.
It wouldn’t surprise me if I disappeared and no one even noticed. Most people forget my name five minutes after meeting me.
By the time the sky turns violet and the shadows stretch long across the city, the office is emptying out.
No one says goodbye. No one stops me at the door. I slip my bag over my shoulder and move through the gleaming halls, still not sure what exactly Vasiliev Holdings does. There are no product posters, no buzzwords pinned up on breakroom corkboards, nothing to anchor me in the ordinary world. It’s all glass, silence, and a kind of hush that feels more secretive than professional.
And then there’s him. The CEO. Even thinking about him makes my pulse skitter.
There’s something about him I can’t pin down—something coiled and quiet, like a storm on the horizon. He doesn’t move like a man who answers to anyone. The way people talk about him, the way the air seems to shift when he walks past… he’s more than just a boss. More than just a name on the building.
My phone buzzes just as I step outside into the golden wash of the city lights. It’s Frankie.
How was the first day? Still alive? Is the boss hot? (Details, Zee, I want DETAILS).
I smile despite myself. For a second, the loneliness lifts. I snap a quick selfie, wanting to remember this—my first real office job, the place where everything could change.
I turn, trying to angle the grand lobby into the frame, searching for the right light, something that makes me look like I belong here.
That’s when I hear the footsteps. “Excuse me, miss. What do you think you’re doing?”
I turn, startled. The security guard is young, bored, but suddenly alert. He squints at my phone. “No photos in the lobby or anywhere else in the building. That’s policy.”
“Oh, sorry,” I say, flustered. “I work here, I just—my friend wanted a picture…”
He looks me up and down, slow, skeptical. “Yeah, right. Staff? Sure, you are.” He gestures for my badge, lips curling. “Next time, don’t lie. I could report you, you know.”
Heat burns up my neck. I fumble for my ID, words tangling on my tongue. “I’m new, I?—”
He cuts me off, shaking his head, already turning away, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You people. Always trying to sneak in somewhere you don’t belong.”
My chest tightens. I blink hard, refusing to let him see me cry. I feel so small, so foolish, as if the universe is reminding me just how out of place I am. The humiliation crawls down my spine, cold and sticky.
