I learned quickly that the higher you rose, the less time you had to breathe.
The second week in my new role felt like someone had ripped the floor from under me and replaced it with glass—beautiful, polished, but always ready to crack. At any given moment, I was expected to anticipate decisions before they were made, handle questions before they were asked, and ensure everyone beneath me kept the engine running without even smelling smoke.
I was barely sleeping. Barely eating. But somehow, I was surviving.
What unnerved me most was how often I caught Richard watching.
He rarely said anything. Most of the time, it was a glance from the other side of the floor. Or a silent appearance during team meetings, where he sat at the back, watching me lead, watching others respond to me, watching everything.
He never smiled. Never frowned. Never offered advice.
He just watched.
And still, the smallest movement from him made my blood race.
It was Tuesday when I was called into the executive lounge.
Not a boardroom. Not his office.
The lounge was a quieter place. Less formal, more reserved. A space no one entered unless they were summoned.
I didn't know what to expect, but I braced myself as I knocked and stepped in.
Richard sat by the window, sleeves rolled up, a cup of untouched black coffee beside him. The skyline reflected in the glass behind him, a jagged line of light and shadow.
"Sit," he said, without looking.
I obeyed.
"You haven't made any errors yet," he said. "That's rare."
"I'm trying," I said cautiously.
He studied me for a beat.
"No. You're enduring."
That startled me. The way he said it, as if he saw straight through the quiet shell I wore to work every day.
He leaned back. "Tell me something. Do you want this position long-term?"
I didn't answer right away.
"I want to matter," I said finally. "I don't know if that means this job. But I want my work to mean something."
He nodded slowly.
"I can work with that."
I blinked. "Work with…?"
"You'll take over full time," he said. "Effective immediately."
"What about the board?"
"They'll adjust."
Just like that.
I should've been thrilled. But I wasn't.
I was terrified.
That night, I walked home instead of taking the metro.
I needed the air.
The city was still loud, still too fast, but somehow distant—as if I were watching from behind glass, removed from it all.
I reached the apartment building and stood in the dark stairwell, listening to the silence upstairs. Aunt Ramila would ask questions—none of them kind.
Why are you coming home so late?
Why do you look so tired?
Are they working you like a dog, or are you just too proud to quit?
I didn't want to answer any of them.
Instead, I sat down on the third step and leaned my head against the wall. My bag slipped from my shoulder, the weight of the files and data reports pressing against my leg.
And I thought about Richard.
Not in the way a girl thinks about a man. But in the way a storm thinks about the sea.
Unavoidable. Elemental. Inevitable.