Chapter 4

Kayna’s POV

I woke before my alarm.  My heart already pounding like I’d been summoned.

For a moment, I forgot where I was. The pale ceiling above me wasn’t the one I’d stared at in my cramped apartment for the last year. The air smelled faintly of clean linen and fresh coffee drifting from somewhere below. Then it hit me.

Day two at Marshall & Co.

I pushed myself upright, the events of yesterday flashing back like quick cuts in a trailer—the endless onboarding forms, the carefully worded conversation with Damian Marshall, and the phone call.

That phone call.

A chill tried to creep into my chest, but I forced it down. If someone wanted to rattle me, they’d have to try harder than distorted threats whispered over a bad connection. This job was my shot, and I refused to let fear cost me my place before I’d even earned it.

I dressed quickly, choosing a fitted navy pencil skirt, cream blouse and minimal jewelry. Nothing to hide behind . Not flashy, but sharp. The kind of outfit that said I belonged in glass towers and boardrooms…well barely. Pretending wasn’t an option—Damian Marshall struck me as the type who saw through façades before you even finished building them.

When I stepped into the office, the atmosphere was nothing like yesterday’s. Yesterday had been about orientation, polite introductions, names I half-remembered. Today was pure velocity.

Phones pressed to ears. Junior associates scurrying with binders balanced nicely in their arms. A printer hammering out contracts like it was running out of time. Through the glass walls, I caught flashes of different staff members in their elements, executives speaking in clipped tones while analysts scrambled to project numbers on the screens.

And then there was him.

Damian stood at the far end of the hallway, speaking to a man in a sharp charcoal suit. His stance was absolute control—hands in his pockets, weight balanced, shoulders squared, head tilted slightly as he listened. Even with his back to me, his presence carried a kind of undeniable pull. The kind that drew attention without demanding it.

The man left. Damian’s gaze flicked up and found me across the room. For a single heartbeat, the busy hallway faded. He didn’t smile, didn’t nod, but the way he paused told me one thing—he’d noticed.

“Ms. Scott,” he said as I passed.

“Good morning, Mr. Marshall.”

My voice sounded steady. My pulse disagreed.

By mid-morning, I had buried myself in his calendar—streamlining, rescheduling, cross-referencing three projects that had been layered with careless overlaps. It wasn’t easy. His schedule was a minefield of last-minute calls, fragile client egos, and impossible time zones. But slowly, I began turning the chaos into something functional.

The work was intense but oddly satisfying, like solving a puzzle only you knew had missing pieces. Still, I was hyper-aware of him. He never hovered, yet each time he passed my desk, I felt the current shift. His gaze lingered just long enough to remind me he was always calculating, always measuring whether I’d fold under the pressure.

And then there were the moments I caught myself watching him too.

The way he rolled up his sleeves mid-call, revealing strong tatted forearms inked faintly with veins. The way his jaw tightened when someone on the other end of the line pushed too far. The way he leaned back, eyes narrowing, and the whole room seemed to pause around his silence.

It was dangerously distracting.

Just before lunch, he emerged from his office.

“Ms. Scott.”

“Yes?”

“I need you in the Cosmo prep meeting. Bring your notes.”

The meeting. My first real test.

I followed him into the glass-walled conference room where six department heads were already seated, papers spread in front of them. No one introduced me, but they didn’t have to—the moment I walked in behind Damian, their eyes slid toward me, weighing, assessing. New assistant. New variable.

Damian took the head seat, and without asking, I slid into the chair at his right. The meeting snapped open like a starting gun—figures thrown across the table, projections clashed with doubts, and more than one voice tried to dominate the others.

I kept my pen moving, mapping everything, color-coding details in shorthand, flagging potential conflicts with tomorrow’s schedule. It wasn’t just about writing what they said, it was about catching what they didn’t.

Twice, I felt his gaze flick toward me. Quick, subtle, but unmistakable. Checking if I was still in the game.

By the time the meeting wrapped, my notes looked less like scribbles and more like a war map. Damian stood, shook one hand, dismissed the others with a nod. Then he turned to me as we left, his words clipped.

“You kept up.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Wasn’t that the job description?”

Something shifted in his expression—like the shadow of a smile he didn’t allow to surface. And then it was gone, replaced with the cool composure of a man who didn’t waste expressions easily.

Another test. Another pass. Maybe.

......

The rest of the day spun fast. Dubai report summaries. A last-minute reschedule with Tokyo. Flight confirmations for Los Angeles. My inbox was a storm, but there was no time to flinch. I worked, I adjusted, I anticipated.

Still, that phone call from last night clawed at the edges of my focus. I told myself it was nothing, but the memory of the distorted voice lingered like static in the back of my head.

At five-fifteen, his shadow fell across my desk.

“You’re staying late?”

I didn’t flinch. “I’m finishing the Dubai report you asked for.”

He studied me, eyes sharp, unreadable. Then he nodded once. “Don’t make a habit of it. Burnout doesn’t help me.”

From anyone else, it would’ve sounded cold. From him, it was something else entirely. Not softness, but not indifference either. A line of pragmatism edged with something faintly protective.

When I finally shut down my computer, the office was nearly deserted, the city outside pulsing with early evening light. I lingered a moment in the elevator, glancing back.

His office door was still open, golden light spilling into the hallway. He sat behind the glass, leaning back in his chair, one hand pressed to his chin as he stared at the skyline.

For some reason, I had the sense he was thinking about something—or someone—he would never admit aloud.

And for reasons I didn’t want to untangle, I wanted to know what it was.