I woke at 5:47 anyway.

Three years, two months, eleven days working for Jackson Pierce had trained my body better than any alarm clock.

By 6:52, I was inside Pierce Global’s Midtown tower.

Margot looked up from the assistant pool.

“He’s already here.”

“Since?”

“Six-ten.”

I stopped taking off my coat.

“That bad?”

“He sent Finance back a forty-eight-page deck at six-twenty.”

“Wonderful.”

At 6:58, Jackson’s email arrived.

Harrington deck needs restructuring before nine. Lead with domestic projections. Board breakfast is wrong. Fix both.

No hello.

No please.

That was Jackson.

Thirty-eight. CEO of Pierce Global. Charcoal suits. Black shirts. Tattoos that occasionally showed above his collar and across his hand when he removed his jacket.

To Wall Street, Jackson Pierce was an aggressive businessman.

In certain private rooms in Manhattan, his last name meant something else.

His family had connections people rarely discussed aloud.

Jackson never discussed them at all.

I rebuilt six slides in ninety minutes and caught the catering error before anyone served a board member something that would send him to the hospital.

At 8:51, Jackson replied.

Good.

His version of a standing ovation.

At 1:47, my sister Sophie texted.

You’re definitely coming Friday and Saturday, right? Mom keeps asking for the rehearsal headcount. Maid of honor cannot ghost me.

I smiled.

I’m coming. Promise.

At 4:02, Jackson appeared beside my desk.

Everyone nearby suddenly became extremely interested in their monitors.

“The Harrington close moved up,” he said.

“How far?”

“Preliminary package Monday.”

I stared at him.

“That gives Legal less than four business days.”

“I’m aware.”

“I’ll rebuild the timeline.”

“And clear your weekend.”

My hands stopped.

“This weekend?”

“Saturday and Sunday. Full team.”

“My sister gets married Saturday.”

“Cancel.”

I thought I’d misunderstood.

“Excuse me?”

“The deal moved.”

“The wedding didn’t.”

Jackson’s expression barely changed.

“I need you here.”

“I’m maid of honor.”

“Carter.”

“I’ll work Friday night. I’ll come back Sunday morning. I can have the coordination matrix completed before the ceremony.”

“No.”

“Jackson—”

“I need you here.”

I stood.

“You have Finance, Legal, Strategy, and four directors who know this transaction.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“Then what is?”

His jaw tightened.

“This position comes with priorities.”

For years, I had canceled dinners.

Birthdays.

Flights.

Weekends.

Once, my father spent a night in the hospital while I revised Jackson’s quarterly presentation from the waiting room.

I had told myself it was ambition.

Suddenly, it just felt ridiculous.

“Saturday is not available.”

Jackson lowered his voice.

“I’m not asking.”

I looked straight at him.

“I accepted a job as your executive assistant. I did not become your property.”

Silence.

Even the keyboards around us seemed to stop.

Jackson stepped closer.

“If you’re not here Saturday, don’t come back Monday.”

Fear hit me immediately.

Salary.

Insurance.

Rent.

Three years of stability.

Then I remembered Sophie.

Promise.

I opened my bottom drawer.

Charger.

Flat shoes.

Umbrella.

And the framed photograph of Sophie and me at her college graduation.

Jackson watched me put everything into my tote.

“Elena.”

He almost never used my first name.

“You’re right,” I said.

His shoulders relaxed.

“This isn’t what I want to do.”

Then I picked up my bag.

“But it’s what I’m doing.”

The elevator doors opened.

I stepped inside.

“Elena.”

I turned.

Jackson stood outside.

For the first time since I had met him, he looked like a man who had given an order and discovered the world could say no.

The doors began closing.

His hand moved toward them.

Then stopped.

I looked directly at him.

“Goodbye, Jackson.”

The doors shut.

And I left.