Chloe's Pov

Monday morning arrived with all the enthusiasm of a root canal appointment. I stood outside Baldwin Industries at seven-thirty, wearing my new corporate costume and trying to convince myself that the nausea was from the expensive coffee I'd bought to fit in, not from the fact that I was about to spend eight hours working for Danny's killer.

Sandra Kim met me in the lobby with the kind of smile that suggested she'd already had three cups of coffee and was ready to conquer the world. "Ready for your first day, Chloe?"

"Absolutely," I lied.

The elevator ride to the thirty-second floor felt like ascending to some corporate version of Mount Olympus. Sandra filled the silence with a rapid-fire overview of office politics, coffee preferences, and the complex scheduling system that apparently required a PhD in advanced mathematics to navigate.

"Mr. Baldwin's schedule changes constantly," she explained as we walked down a hallway lined with what looked like original artwork. "He expects his staff to anticipate these changes and adapt accordingly."

"Adapt accordingly" sounded like corporate speak for "read his mind or suffer the consequences."

The executive assistant workspace was nicer than any apartment I'd ever lived in, complete with a view of the city that probably inspired lesser mortals to write poetry. My desk sat outside massive double doors that led to what I assumed was the inner sanctum where Alec Baldwin made his billion-dollar decisions.

"He's in meetings until ten," Sandra said, handing me a tablet that looked more advanced than NASA equipment. "Familiarize yourself with his calendar system. When he's free, I'll introduce you."

For the next two hours, I studied Alec Baldwin's life through his schedule. The man was booked solid from six AM to eight PM every day, with meetings that had titles like "Quarterly Acquisition Review" and "Strategic Development Initiative." His lunch breaks were exactly thirty minutes, scheduled down to the minute.

Either he was incredibly organized or completely obsessive. Possibly both.

At exactly ten o'clock, the double doors opened and Alec Baldwin walked out.

I'd seen pictures of him online during my research, but seeing him in person was different. He was tall, probably six-two, with dark hair and the kind of presence that made everyone in the room unconsciously straighten their posture. He moved like someone who'd never doubted he belonged wherever he was standing.

This was the man who'd killed Danny and driven away. This was the target I'd married a crime boss to destroy.

He looked nothing like a monster.

"Mr. Baldwin," Sandra said, appearing beside him with supernatural timing. "I'd like you to meet Chloe Rodriguez, your new assistant."

Those were the first words I'd ever heard Alec Baldwin speak in person: "Have you briefed her on the Henderson project?"

Not "hello" or "nice to meet you" or even "welcome to the team." Just straight to business, like I was a piece of equipment Sandra had ordered for his convenience.

"Not yet," Sandra replied. "I thought you might want to—"

"Handle it. The presentation is due Wednesday." He turned to me for exactly three seconds. "Ms. Rodriguez, I expect competence and discretion. Anything less is unacceptable."

Then he walked back into his office and closed the doors.

"Well," Sandra said cheerfully, "that went better than usual. He didn't mention firing anyone."

"Does he always..." I gestured toward the closed doors.

"Talk to people like they're furniture? Yes. Don't take it personally. He treats everyone that way."

The rest of the morning was a crash course in being Alec Baldwin's assistant, which apparently involved managing a schedule that changed every fifteen minutes, handling phone calls from people who spoke entirely in acronyms, and learning to decode his extremely brief and somewhat hostile emails.

Sample email from my new boss: "Meeting moved. Fix it. AB."

My job was apparently to figure out which meeting, moved to when, and how to "fix" a schedule that was already booked solid until next month.

"He's testing you," Sandra explained when I asked for help deciphering another cryptic message. "Previous assistants usually quit by lunch on their first day."

"How many assistants has he had?"

"This year? You're number seven."

Seven assistants in less than twelve months. Either Baldwin Industries had the worst HR department in corporate history, or my new boss was exactly as impossible as advertised.

Around noon, I knocked on his office doors because his calendar showed he was supposed to be in a meeting that apparently no one had told him about.

"Come in."

Alec Baldwin's office was bigger than most people's entire apartments, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a view of the city that probably came with its own gravitational pull. He was sitting behind a desk that looked like it cost more than a car, focused on papers that were apparently more interesting than acknowledging my existence.

"Mr. Baldwin? You have the Morrison Industries call in five minutes."

He looked up, and for a split second, our eyes met. His were gray, like storm clouds, and there was something in them that I hadn't expected. Not cruelty or coldness, but exhaustion. Like he was tired in a way that sleep couldn't fix.

"Cancel it," he said, looking back down at his papers. "Reschedule for next week."

"The Morrison team flew in from Chicago specifically for this call."

"Then they'll fly back and come again next week."

I stood there for a moment, trying to process the casual way he'd just dismissed what was probably a million-dollar deal because he didn't feel like taking a meeting. "Should I give them a reason for the cancellation?"

"Tell them something came up."

"Something came up?"

He looked at me again, and this time there was a hint of irritation in those gray eyes. "Ms. Rodriguez, are you having difficulty understanding simple instructions?"

"No, sir. I just thought—"

"I don't pay you to think. I pay you to execute instructions efficiently and without question."

The words hit me real hard, and for a moment, I forgot all about being Chloe Rodriguez, professional assistant. This was Alec Baldwin talking to me like I was nothing, like my thoughts and opinions were worthless, like I existed solely for his convenience.

Just like he'd treated Danny's life that night—worthless enough to drive away from.

"Of course, Mr. Baldwin," I said, my voice perfectly steady despite the rage building in my chest. "I'll handle the Morrison cancellation immediately."

"Good."

I walked out of his office with my jaw clenched so tight I thought my teeth might crack. Sandra took one look at my face and nodded knowingly.

"He got to you."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not. You look like you want to throw something expensive at his head." She handed me a stress ball shaped like a tiny office building. "Trust me, we all feel like that sometimes."

"Does it get easier?"

"Working for him? No. But the paycheck helps you forgive a lot of personality flaws."

I spent the afternoon making phone calls to reschedule meetings for a man who apparently changed his mind as often as other people changed clothes, all while reminding myself why I was really here. This wasn't about being a good employee or earning his respect. This was about getting close enough to find his weaknesses.

Although so far, his biggest weakness seemed to be an inability to treat other human beings like they actually mattered.

By five o'clock, I'd successfully rearranged his entire week, fielded approximately thirty phone calls, and learned that Alec Baldwin drank his coffee black, never ate lunch, and had the social skills of a particularly unfriendly robot.

I also learned that he stayed in his office long after everyone else went home, working by himself until the building was empty.

Walking to the bus stop, I called Cargo to report on my first day.

"How did it go?"

"He's exactly as charming as advertised," I said. "But I'm in. Tomorrow I start phase two."

"Which is?"

"Learning how to hate him properly."

Because after eight hours of watching Alec Baldwin treat everyone around him like disposable conveniences, I was starting to think that destroying him might actually be easier than I'd thought.

The hard part was going to be remembering that underneath all that corporate armor was the man who'd killed my best friend.

I just had to make sure I never forgot that, no matter how human he occasionally looked.