Chapter 2: The Boss’s Impossible Demands

The moment Emma's shoes clicked against the polished floor outside Damian's office, she felt like she could finally exhale. The interview, the initial awkwardness, it was all over. She was in. But the brief respite she craved was snatched away before it even began.

Thump.

A heavy stack of manila folders landed in her arms, nearly knocking the wind out of her. She staggered, instinctively tightening her grip to prevent the cascade of papers from spilling onto the floor. The sheer volume was overwhelming, easily thirty files thick. Who needed this many files in the digital age?

"Take these to the design department," a clipped, authoritative voice barked.

Emma turned, her head snapping around to see a man already striding away. It was Nathan, one of the senior designers, judging by the nameplate she'd briefly glimpsed during her rushed tour. He was tall and lean, with a sharp, angular face and an air of detached coolness that seemed almost deliberate.

Emma struggled to maintain her hold on the precarious tower of paperwork. "Where exactly—?" she began, hoping for at least a direction, a floor number, anything.

Nathan didn't even break his stride. He barely spared her more than a fleeting sideways glance, his expression indifferent. "Figure it out. Welcome to Westwood Designs."

With that dismissive pronouncement, he disappeared around a corner, vanishing into a maze of corridors and frosted glass doors. Emma was left standing alone in the middle of the bustling hallway like a shipwrecked sailor on a foreign shore, the weight of the files pressing uncomfortably against her chest.

A sigh escaped her lips, a sound like the air leaking from a punctured tire. This was it, then. The real initiation. She straightened her shoulders, adjusting the awkward bundle in her arms. She wasn't about to ask Vanessa – the glacial HR rep – for help. Asking for help this early would be seen as weakness.

She took a tentative step forward, then another, carefully navigating the crowded hallway. Assistants zoomed past, clutching tablets and steaming cups of coffee. She side-stepped a gaggle of chattering interns, their faces bright with nervous excitement, and dodged a trolley laden with fabric samples. The building felt like a living, breathing organism, constantly in motion, and she was struggling to find her place within it.

The folders were heavier than they looked, and her arms were beginning to ache. She tried shifting the weight, balancing them against her chest and supporting them with her elbows, but nothing seemed to alleviate the strain. Every step felt like a minor victory, every corner a potential disaster. She narrowly avoided a collision with a woman carrying a precarious stack of hatboxes, both of them muttering apologies as they recovered their balance.

Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of wandering, near misses, and increasingly sore arms. Twenty minutes of feeling utterly lost and out of place. But finally, after consulting a barely legible directory posted by a water fountain and following a vague trail of scattered design sketches, she found it. A large, open-plan office buzzing with creative energy. The Design Department.

With a final heave, she deposited the mountainous stack of folders on a designated "Incoming" tray, the satisfying thud echoing in the surprisingly quiet space. A wave of relief washed over her, momentarily erasing the fatigue and frustration. She exhaled, letting her shoulders slump forward.

Buzz. Buzz.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket, shattering her brief moment of peace. She pulled it out, her heart sinking as she saw the sender: Damian Westwood.

Damian: My office. Now.

Her stomach plummeted. Whatever fragile sense of accomplishment she'd managed to cobble together evaporated instantly. What now? Had she done something wrong already? Was this some sort of test?

She hurried back up to his office, her steps quicker this time, fueled by a potent cocktail of anxiety and adrenaline. She knocked lightly on the door, her knuckles rapping against the polished wood.

"Come in," his voice, sharp and impatient, cut through the silence.

She pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing it softly behind her. Damian was leaning back in his executive chair, his expression unreadable. His piercing gaze, the same one that had both intimidated and intrigued her during the interview, pinned her in place.

"You took twenty-five minutes to deliver some folders?" His voice was cold, devoid of any warmth or understanding.

Emma swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady. "I—It was my first time navigating the office, Mr. Westwood. I didn't know where the design department was."

He raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, his expression hardening. "Excuses," he said dismissively. "I need you to send an urgent email to our Paris clients. The details are in this folder. Send it in five minutes, no mistakes."

He slid a thin folder across the expansive desk towards her. Emma reached for it, hoping to glean some sense of what this email entailed, but he wasn't finished issuing demands.

"Also," he continued, his voice leaving no room for argument, "arrange ten coffee orders for the executive team—each with their specific preferences—and have them delivered to the meeting room in fifteen minutes."

Her eyes widened in disbelief. Ten coffees? With specific preferences? The task seemed impossible. "Ten coffees? But—"

He cut her off, his voice laced with icy warning. "Are you questioning me, Ms. Carter?"

Emma clenched her jaw, fighting back the urge to argue, to explain that she wasn't a coffee-fetching robot, that she was supposed to be his executive assistant. But she knew better than to push back this early.

"No, Mr. Westwood," she said, forcing the words out.

"Then go." His tone brooked no further discussion.

She turned and practically fled the office, her mind racing. Five minutes to draft and send an urgent email to Paris, ensuring every detail was perfect. Fifteen minutes to somehow decipher the coffee preferences of ten demanding executives and deliver them, piping hot, to the meeting room. And she still had no idea where the break room, let alone the coffee machine, was located.

She barely managed to scan the contents of the folder – a confusing jumble of project updates and financial figures – before furiously typing out the email. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, triple-checking every detail, every comma, every period. She knew that one small mistake could have serious consequences.

With seconds to spare, she hit send, a wave of nervous relief washing over her. But there was no time to savor the moment. She grabbed her notepad and pen and sprinted towards the elevators, desperately trying to remember if she had seen a cafe or breakroom on the way in.

After a frantic search, she found a small café tucked away on the ground floor. The line was long, and her heart sank. She pushed her way to the front, explaining her situation to the bewildered barista.

The barista, a young woman with bright pink hair and multiple piercings, moved with agonizing slowness, meticulously crafting each drink according to its precise specifications. Time slipped away as Emma impatiently tapped her fingers on the counter, memorizing each order: Latte with almond milk, extra foam; Americano, black, two sugars; Cappuccino, half-caf, no cinnamon…

Finally, the last cup was filled, and Emma carefully placed them on a large tray, balancing it precariously as she made her way back to the elevators. The elevator ride felt like an eternity.

By the time she reached the meeting room and carefully placed the tray of coffees on the table, two minutes had elapsed. Two minutes late.

Damian's cold, unwavering stare met hers as she set the tray down. The air in the room seemed to crackle with tension.

"You're late again," he stated flatly, his voice like chipped ice.

Emma swallowed hard, resisting the urge to defend herself, to explain the impossible circumstances he had placed her under.

"Noted, sir," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze intensifying. "Next time, you'll be fired."

And just like that, Emma understood. This wasn't just a job. This was a trial by fire. This was only the beginning of the personal hell Damian Westwood had planned for her. She was no longer sure if this was a dream job or a nightmare beginning, but she knew one thing: she had to survive.