Chapter 4: The Crimson Gambit
872 Words
I arrived at 7:50 a.m. Ten minutes early. The unicorn mug was already on my desk, washed and gleaming. When the heavy oak doors swung open, Sterling Prescott stood framed in the doorway, a storm cloud poured into a charcoal grey suit. He was holding my report.
"My office. Now," he commanded.
I widened my eyes, pitching my voice into the key of eager-to-please. "Of course, Mr. Prescott! Was the report okay? I can use more colors in the graphs next time, if you'd like!"
A muscle in his jaw jumped. It was becoming my favorite tale. "Just… come in, Miss Davis."
I followed him into his corporate sanctum. He didn't pace the room; he stalked it, a panther confined to a cage far too small for his power. He tossed the report onto his desk. "This," he began, turning to face me, his blue eyes like laser-sights, "is a paradox. The presentation is insulting. The analysis is not."
I clasped my hands, feigning bashful pride. "Oh, thank you! I tried my best. I'm pretty good with the internet."
"You found proprietary data on executive health, patent litigation risks, and a C-suite power struggle at a privately held firm by being ‘good with the internet’?" His voice was laced with ice. "You projected a five-year profitability model with a margin of error my analytics team would kill for. In four hours."
I blinked, feigning confusion. "Oh, was it too much? I'm so sorry. The assignment sheet said 'full analysis,' so I took 'full' literally." The perfect defense: weaponized incompetence.
"And Helios Innovations," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. "Why them?"
I bit my lip, feigning a moment of intense thought. "Oh, them! I just liked the name. Helios, like the sun god. And their website had nice pictures. It just… felt important. A gut feeling."
A gut feeling. The words were ash in my mouth. My ‘gut feeling’ was born from a forty-tab deep-dive into supply chain logistics and a cross-analysis of a chief engineer’s disgruntled posts on a private forum.
He stared, his mind warring between two conclusions. The first: I was a spy, a plant of the highest order. The second, far more ridiculous possibility: I was an i***t savant, a clueless prodigy who stumbled into brilliance. The second option was a profound insult to his intelligence, which is precisely why he'd be forced to consider it. No one wants to admit they were outmaneuvered by a girl with a unicorn mug.
A decision settled in his eyes. "Fine, Miss Davis," he said, the word heavy with unspoken suspicion. "You will manage my schedule. It is… demanding. The last three assistants found it untenable."
He was pulling me closer, daring me to c***k under the pressure.
"Oh, wow! Thank you, Mr. Prescott! I won't let you down!" I gushed, my voice dripping with saccharine gratitude.
He gave a curt nod. "Dismissed."
A shiver of pure triumph traced its way down my spine. I clenched my fists to keep from smiling. He had no idea he’d just handed the fox the keys to the henhouse. His schedule wasn't just a calendar; it was a treasure map to his entire life.
Managing Sterling Prescott’s life was an exercise in controlled chaos. On Tuesday, I slipped a single, contraband cupcake onto his lunch tray. A tiny rebellion, but it was mine.
The real test came on Thursday. A 7 p.m. dinner at Aureole with Senator Rawlings. At 4 p.m., the senator’s office called to cancel.
I walked into his office without knocking, a mask of wide-eyed distress on my face. "Mr. Prescott, terrible news. The Senator cancelled."
He looked up, annoyed. "Reschedule."
"I tried. He's booked solid for two weeks," I said, wringing my hands. "The reservation at Aureole is non-refundable. For two. At seven. It's going to waste."
He waved a dismissive hand. "It's a rounding error, Davis. I have work to do."
My opening.
"Well," I began, my voice hesitant, "since it's already paid for… and since you haven't eaten a meal all week that didn't come from a cardboard box… perhaps… You could take me?"
The silence was absolute. He stared at me as if I’d just spoken in an alien tongue he was slowly, painfully translating. The sheer audacity of the suggestion seemed to stall his formidable brain.
"You," he said, his voice flat, "are asking me to dinner."
"Only because it's paid for!" I added quickly. "It would be fiscally irresponsible to let it go to waste. You understand fiscal responsibility."
I had him trapped in his ruthless logic. He ran a hand through his perfect hair, disrupting it for the first time. He looked cornered. He looked… human.
"Fine," he bit out, the word a surrender. "Be in the lobby at 6:45. And for God's sake, Davis, try to look like you belong there."
I beamed. "You won't even recognize me, Mr. Prescott."
He groaned, burying his face in his hands.
I had done more than secure a dinner. I had breached the fortress. Forced him from his controlled environment and onto my territory.
Tonight, I wasn't his assistant. I was his date. And the real reconnaissance was about to begin.
- Writer
