If there was a red carpet to hell, Sienna Cole had just walked it in three-inch heels and a blazer that smelled faintly of desperation.
She stood frozen just inside the top-floor lobby of Blake & Co., watching as the workplace of her dreams quickly revealed itself as a battlefield. At precisely 7:29 a.m., the office was already alive — not with casual Monday chatter or the soft hum of motivation, but with cold efficiency.
Phones rang. People moved like they were wired to caffeine and corporate fear. Papers rustled, screens blinked, and someone down the hallway was yelling into a headset about a "branding emergency" like they were negotiating a hostage release.
Sienna clutched her worn leather tote and whispered under her breath,
"Welcome to war."
Before she could take a single step forward, Lillian — the ever-chic gatekeeper from Friday — materialized at her side like she'd been summoned from the shadows.
"Miss Cole," Lillian said with zero warmth. "You're cutting it close."
Sienna blinked at the time. 7:29:54.
"Technically, I'm early."
"You'll find 'technically' doesn't work here."
Lillian handed her an iPad with a stylus clipped neatly to the side. "Your temporary station is by the glass. Sit. Watch. Listen. At 7:30 sharp, you'll join Mr. Blake in Conference Room 3. Speak only if spoken to."
"Got it," Sienna muttered. "Is breathing still allowed?"
Lillian's mouth didn't even twitch. "For now."
⸻
Her desk was minimalism in its most aggressive form — matte black, spotless, and intimidating. No coffee mug. No motivational quotes. Just a white folder stamped with the company seal and a single sheet of thick paper clipped to the front:
7:30. Conference Room 3. Do not be late.
— JB
Sienna rolled her eyes. "Charming."
She glanced at the wall clock.
7:31.
"Shit."
She practically jogged down the corridor, heels clacking like warning signals. People stepped aside without looking up. At Blake & Co., eye contact was apparently discouraged unless it came with a contract and a lawsuit.
She yanked open the glass door of Conference Room 3 and immediately regretted not knocking.
A dozen well-dressed executives turned in unison.
At the head of the table sat Julian Blake, in another soul-black tailored suit, typing something on his laptop like the world depended on it.
He didn't look at her.
But he said, without missing a beat, "You're late."
Sienna exhaled sharply. "By thirty seconds."
"Thirty seconds is the difference between a sold-out deal and a lawsuit."
She slid into the empty seat next to him without responding, her ears burning.
Let it go, Cole. Don't lose your job on day one.
Julian finally looked up and addressed the room. "This is Sienna Cole. She'll be assisting me directly on the Nylo campaign. She's new. Don't break her. I'll handle that myself."
A few chuckles — nervous ones — rippled around the table.
Sienna forced a tight smile and resisted the urge to stab him with her pen.
The meeting launched into high-speed chaos. Within minutes, she was flipping through graphs she didn't fully understand, writing terms she'd never heard before: "market segmentation optimization," "value-based repositioning," and "Q3 ROI syncs." Someone pulled up a slide deck so long it could've qualified as a novella.
Julian, meanwhile, asked questions like knives. "Why is the ROI down 12.6%?" "Why is the engagement chart two weeks old?" "Why is this campaign still in pre-roll?"
Every question sent someone into a quiet spiral. Sienna could practically feel the collective blood pressure rising.
He wasn't yelling. He didn't need to.
Julian Blake commanded the room like it was his natural habitat. His voice was measured. Cool. Strategic.
And somehow… magnetic.
She hated that about him.
Every time he leaned forward with his sleeves rolled just so, or adjusted his watch with quiet precision, her brain betrayed her with one unprofessional, dangerous thought:
Of course he's attractive. Of course.
Sienna scribbled notes harder.
⸻
The meeting ended two hours later, leaving behind a trail of casualties — mostly in the form of shattered egos and people who looked like they aged five years.
Julian stood. "Cole. Office. Now."
She startled, but followed.
⸻
His office was somehow colder than she remembered — sleek, gray, all glass and metal, with an obscenely perfect view of the skyline. A trophy wall of power. It smelled faintly like citrus and dominance.
Julian gestured toward the door with a glance. "Close it."
She did.
He didn't look up from his desk. "You were unprepared."
Sienna blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You didn't speak. You didn't challenge. You didn't ask why our market data was missing key engagement variables. You sat quietly and observed. This isn't court, Ms. Cole. You don't win by silence."
Sienna inhaled slowly. "Would you have preferred I interrupt your team to correct them? On day one?"
"If you're right, yes."
"And if I'm wrong?"
He finally looked up. There it was — that glacier stare. "Then you'll learn. Loudly."
She folded her arms. "You said this job would challenge me. You didn't say it would publicly humiliate me."
He stood and walked around the desk until he was inches from her. Not in a threatening way — just close enough to make her breathing shallow.
"I don't have time to coddle feelings," Julian said quietly. "You want to be here? Prove it. Be smarter. Be faster. Speak up. Or leave."
His tone wasn't cruel. It wasn't even angry.
It was worse — indifferent.
And yet somehow, his words struck a nerve far deeper than any insult ever could.
Sienna straightened. "I'm not going anywhere."
Julian's lips curved. Barely. "Good."
He walked back to his desk and sat. Just like that, she was dismissed.
But before she reached the door, his voice stopped her again.
"Cole."
She turned.
"No coffee stains tomorrow. And fix your shoes."
She glanced down.
Damn it — she'd worn the mismatched pair again.
⸻
The rest of the day blurred into chaos.
Lillian moved like a human algorithm, teaching her everything without saying much at all. There were meetings to schedule, people to screen, rooms to book, orders to manage, and at one point, Sienna was instructed to re-type an entire proposal simply because the font "felt weak."
Her stomach growled around 1 p.m., but there was no sign of lunch — not for her, not for anyone.
At 3:45, she dropped a stapler and bent to pick it up, only to knock over a coffee she didn't even remember making. It splattered across her notes and shoes.
Lillian didn't look up. "You'll need better reflexes."
By 5:12, Sienna finally found the break room — if you could call a shoebox-sized space with lukewarm tea and a sad vending machine a break room. She chewed on a protein bar like it was punishment.
Her phone buzzed.
Maya:
Still alive?
Sienna:
Barely. He's worse than I thought.
He doesn't yell. He dissects.
Maya:
Ugh. That's even hotter.
Send pics.
Sienna:
I'd rather send my resignation.
⸻
That night, lying in bed with aching feet and a racing mind, Sienna stared at the ceiling and whispered into the dark:
"I survived."
Barely.
But she had.
And tomorrow?
She'd walk back in, heels higher, mouth sharper.
Because she was done being underestimated.
Even by Julian freaking Blake.