The Young Master's Secretary

Chapter 1 – The Interview

The soft hum of the central air-conditioning blended with the quiet clicking of polished leather shoes against the marble floor. Everything in the Azhari Group headquarters gleamed—glass, metal, and silence. Efficiency hung in the air like expensive cologne.

Nadira Salma adjusted her glasses for the fifth time that morning, her fingers trembling slightly though her face remained unreadable. A beige blazer fit snugly around her slim frame, matched with a pencil skirt and a pair of modest black heels. Everything about her was neat, precise, and composed—on the outside.

In her hand, she held a black leather folder with her CV printed on premium linen paper. On the inside, her thoughts spiraled in meticulously organized chaos.

“Calm,” she whispered to herself, her lips barely moving. “He’s just another CEO. No different from the others you’ve worked for.”

Except he wasn’t.

Reyhan Azhari wasn’t just any CEO. He was the CEO. A genius in business, cold-blooded in execution, and known to fire high-level employees with a single glance. Rumor had it that he rejected three assistants in a single week. His perfectionism wasn’t just legendary—it was feared.

"Miss Nadira Salma?" a crisp voice called from the reception desk.

She stood at once. “Yes.”

“Mr. Azhari will see you now. Eighteenth floor.”

The receptionist handed her a temporary ID card. Nadira took it without hesitation and walked toward the private elevator reserved only for executive access.

The ride up felt like being pulled into a different world—each number lighting up like a countdown to her judgment day.

When the doors opened, the hallway stretched long and silent, flanked by frosted glass walls. A young man stood near the double oak doors at the end, tablet in hand.

“You’re Nadira?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m Adrian, Mr. Azhari’s executive assistant. You’ll be reporting directly to him if you’re hired. He's in a meeting right now, but he doesn't like people waiting outside. Just go in. Sit down. Speak when spoken to.”

“Understood,” she replied smoothly.

“Good luck,” Adrian added with a tone that made her question if it was a warning or genuine encouragement.

With one final breath, she pushed the door open.

The office was enormous, silent, immaculate. The entire far wall was made of glass, overlooking Jakarta’s skyline. A sleek black desk stood in front of it, empty for now, save for a MacBook, a Montblanc pen, and an antique brass clock.

She walked in with steady steps and sat on the visitor’s chair facing the desk. She set the folder neatly on her lap and folded her hands over it.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

At precisely minute eleven, the door behind the desk opened.

Reyhan Azhari stepped in, phone pressed to his ear, his other hand flipping through a document.

“No. If the numbers don’t make sense, we’re not touching it,” he said coldly. “Call me back when you’ve fixed the proposal.”

He ended the call and finally looked up.

Their eyes met.

For a heartbeat, Nadira felt something strange. Déjà vu? Recognition? His eyes narrowed—just a flicker—and then resumed their usual glacial calm.

“You’re early,” he said.

“I was told to go straight in,” she replied, tone neutral.

He said nothing, just walked to his chair and sat, folding his long fingers over the desk.

“I’ve reviewed your file. You graduated top of your class in business administration. Fluent in three languages. Previous positions—assistant to the VP of Mulya Group, and the legal director of Kencana Corporation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did you leave Kencana?”

“I reached the ceiling of professional growth. I wanted a challenge.”

“Challenge?” he repeated, eyebrow arching slightly. “You think working for me is a challenge?”

“I believe you are a challenge, sir.”

A pause.

Then, a soft sound that might’ve been a chuckle escaped him.

“You’re bold.”

“I’m honest.”

He studied her in silence for a long second. She didn’t squirm. She didn’t break eye contact. He liked that. Most applicants stammered. She held herself like someone who didn’t crumble easily.

He opened her folder without looking down.

“I run on precision, Miss Salma. I do not tolerate delays. I hate emotional decision-making. I dislike small talk. I expect my assistant to think before I do, and act before I ask. I don’t repeat instructions. If I have to, you’re fired.”

“Understood.”

“You will work late. Often.”

“I have no social life to interrupt.”

“You’ll handle sensitive information.”

“I’ve handled worse.”

“You may travel on short notice.”

“I keep a bag ready.”

“And if I shout?”

“I’ll ask what’s wrong, not cry.”

Another pause. His fingers tapped against the desk. Slow. Measured.

“What’s your biggest weakness?” he asked.

“I don’t tolerate inefficiency.”

He smirked. “We’ll get along just fine, then.”

Then he leaned back, his gaze more scrutinizing.

“There’s something about you…”

“Sir?”

“You remind me of someone.”

“I get that a lot.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t forget faces. Especially not ones from fifteen years ago.”

His voice was lower now, almost absentminded. As if his mind drifted into a memory he wasn’t prepared for. A girl. A pair of thick-rimmed glasses. A bright laugh in a dim orphanage hallway.

It couldn’t be.

He stood abruptly.

“You start tomorrow. 7:00 a.m. sharp. Don’t be late. Ever.”

“I won’t.”

“Adrian will send you your access credentials.”

She stood too, bowing slightly. “Thank you, Mr. Azhari.”

She turned to leave.

Just before the door closed behind her, he said quietly, “Let’s see how long you last.”