Every Assistant Quit in Weeks—Until She Walked In and Changed the Millionaire CEO’s Life
The King’s Kingdom and the Subway Disaster
The graveyard of assistant Sebastian Cross stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of his corner office on the 42nd floor. He was watching the city below like a king surveying his kingdom.
Cross Industries owned half the buildings he could see, and the other half wanted to do business with him. Yet, for all his success, he couldn’t keep an assistant for more than a month.
“That’s the 12th one this year,” James Mitchell said, setting down the resignation letter on Sebastian’s mahogany desk.
As head of HR, James had developed stress lines that deepened with each failed placement.
“Amanda lasted exactly 17 days,” James continued. “She said, ‘Working for you was like being trapped in a beautiful prison with a warden who spoke only in deadlines.'”
Sebastian didn’t turn from the window. His reflection showed a man of 32 with sharp features, perfectly styled dark hair, and eyes the color of storm clouds.
Everything about him screamed control, from his tailored suits to the way he held his shoulders.
“Find another one,” he said simply.
“Sebastian, we’ve tried everything,” James replied. “Ivy League graduates, experienced professionals, even that woman with 20 years of CEO support experience.”
“They all quit for the same reasons. You’re impossible to please. You work 80-hour days and you treat human emotions like they are system glitches.”
“I treat inefficiency like what it is: a waste of time,” Sebastian finally turned, his expression unchanged.
“I need someone who can keep up, not someone who needs handholding and encouragement.”
James rubbed his temples. “What you need is someone who isn’t afraid of you. Good luck finding that person.”
Three subway stops across town, Olivia Rivers was having the kind of morning that would make other people crawl back into bed. Her alarm hadn’t gone off and her coffee maker had exploded.
Now, the subway was stuck between stations. She checked her phone for the hundredth time. The interview was in 20 minutes, and she was still 15 minutes away.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re experiencing signal problems ahead. We’ll be moving shortly,” the conductor announced with the enthusiasm of someone reading a grocery list.
Olivia looked around the crowded car. A businessman was aggressively typing on his phone. A mother was trying to calm a crying baby.
An elderly woman was knitting what looked like a scarf for a very large dog. They were normal people living normal lives, completely unaware that Olivia’s entire future was hanging by a thread.
She pulled out the crumpled job posting she’d printed at the library. “Executive Assistant to CEO, Cross Industries. Competitive salary. Must be detail-oriented, professional, and able to work in a fast-paced environment.”
What it didn’t mention was that the position had become legendary in employment circles: the job that ate assistants alive. Olivia had applied anyway, not because she was brave, but because she was desperate.
Her savings account had $12. Her rent was due in 3 days, and her cat, Whiskers, had developed an expensive taste for premium food.
She needed this job, even if it came with a boss who apparently considered human resources more like human obstacles. The train lurched forward just as her phone died completely.
Five minutes later, Olivia burst through the glass doors of Cross Industries looking like she’d survived a small hurricane. Her brown curls had escaped their attempted professional bun.
Her blouse was wrinkled from squeezing through subway crowds. She was pretty sure she had a coffee stain on her skirt that hadn’t been there when she left home.
The reception area was intimidating in its perfection. There were white marble floors and modern art that probably cost more than most people’s cars.
The receptionist looked like she’d stepped out of a fashion magazine.
“I’m here for the assistant interview,” Olivia announced, slightly out of breath.
“I know I’m late, but the subway decided to take a nap. My phone died and, honestly, getting here was like competing in an urban obstacle course.”
The receptionist, whose nameplate read Jennifer Walsh, looked Olivia up and down with the expression of someone who’d found something unpleasant on her shoe.
“Mr. Cross doesn’t tolerate lateness.”
“Oh, Mr. Cross is about to learn that sometimes life doesn’t tolerate schedules,” Olivia smoothed down her skirt and tried to look professional.
“Is he available?”
Jennifer hesitated, then picked up her phone. “Mr. Cross, the candidate is here. Yes, I know she’s 40 minutes late. No, I don’t think you’ll be impressed.”
She hung up and pointed toward the elevator. “42nd floor. Try not to touch anything.”
