I walked into his office precisely at 9:58 AM, two minutes ahead of his arbitrary deadline. The smell of fresh coffee and the usual expensive scent of his cologne almost choked me. Noah Oliver was seated at his massive desk, his focus entirely on the laptop screen before him, fingers flying across the keys.
"You're finally here," he stated, his voice a low monotone, never lifting his eyes from the screen.
I placed the mug of coffee—perfectly sugared, perfectly black—on the coaster. "Thank you for the bonus, the flowers, and everything else, Mr. Oliver."
His hands finally stilled. He looked up, and the intensity in his eyes felt like a physical touch. He didn't thank me for the coffee.
"There are better ways you can thank me, Knowles," he replied, his voice dropping, taking on a husky e
