After taking control of the situation and ensuring his boss actually finished reading the proposal, Ian went straight to the legal and business department to check on how things were going.
As soon as the elevator doors opened, a young woman appeared right in front of him.
"Ian! I was just about to come look for you!"
"Good morning, Emma. How are things down here?"
"Mmm... everything is pretty much in order, thanks to you!" She handed Ian some documents as they walked together toward her team's office. "Seriously, thank you for making the CEO sign those papers so quickly. The streaming platform was about to back out of the deal, but you completely saved it."
Ian smiled, skimming the papers she had just handed him. "Just doing my job. I know how important that contract was. What do you have for me now?"
"The legal checklist for our new movie,"
Emma said as they stepped into her team's bustling office. "We finally got permission to use that famous song for the soundtrack. But now, someone is arguing over whose name goes first in the credits like a pack of rabid hyenas. I wrote a quick fix for it, but I need the CEO to approve a small budget increase to pay off the difference."
"Okay, I'll handle it." Ian said, tapping the folder. "I'll get him to look at it before his next meeting."
Emma sighed in pure relief. To Ian it seemed as if she was about to cry from commotion. "You're a lifesaver, Ian. If you didn't help us get these contracts signed so fast, our legal team would be drowning in paperwork and drama by noon."
Ian offered her a pleasant smile, waved goodbye, and pressed the elevator button. As the doors began to close, he clearly caught something Emma murmured as she took her seat.
"Thank God we have him to train and beat our boss into getting things done," she said casually, right before slapping the back of a coworker's head who was mindlessly playing with a pen in his mouth.
Ian blinked, his mouth open, about to comment on her wording—but the elevator doors snapped shut, cutting him off.
'Does our director have at least one person in this building who respects him?'
He let it go.
Yes, it was best to just let it be.
He decided to head to the building's café. He hadn't eaten anything for breakfast, and now, with his little "soldier" on board, he couldn't even think about skipping meals.
He approached the counter, scanning the menu options to figure out what to order.
Even if he could technically still drink a tiny bit of coffee, he knew himself perfectly well—after one cup, he wouldn't be able to stop. With a long, tragic sigh, he passed the coffee section, almost crying, and forced himself to look at the other drinks.
'Matcha... can I drink that?'
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and, after double-checking that nobody was standing near him, frantically searched the internet.
'How much matcha can pregnant people drink?' 'I've seen a lot of people drinking this, so it should taste fine.'
When the search results revealed that the limit was about two cups a day, he nearly threw his phone across the café.
'So... what CAN I actually drink excessively without it being dangerous for the baby?! At this rate, I wouldn't be surprised if I end up giving birth to a picky eater!!!'
When it was finally his turn to order, he simply asked for an apple juice and some toast. He took a seat near the window, specifically positioning himself so he could see if anyone in the company decided to initiate a physical brawl. It was a common occurrence. It happened most often between the development and production teams when a certain creative idea couldn't possibly be executed on a reality-TV budget.
He took a slow sip of his apple juice, the ice clinking against the glass, and watched a Development Assistant dash past the window crying into a handful of color-coded sticky notes.
Just an average Tuesday.
'It wouldn't be normal if the days went any differently, anyway. And it's not as if I have to handle these things directly... right?'
Most of the time he handled them. In fact, he always did.
'I'm pregnant, so I should really get some kind of special pass for work. Otherwise, I can't guarantee people will survive me by the end of the week...'
Ian took another, much less delicate gulp of his apple juice, his knuckles turning white around the glass.
*Clack.
The sound of his glass hitting the table coincided perfectly with a sudden, furious commotion echoing from the main lobby corridor.
"I don't give a damn about your corporate scheduling! Get the head of production out here right now, or I walk off this set permanently!"
Ian froze.
Julian Vance.
A particular annoying Beta actor, the star of their upcoming project, and a ticking public relations time bomb. As a Beta, Julian was completely oblivious to secondary genders and pheromones, meaning he didn't care who he was intimidating—and right now, he was being a furious menace.
Ian at that moment: "..."
'REALLY? DID EVERYBODY AGREE ON DISTURBING ME TODAY?'
Ian abandoned his breakfast and stepped into the corridor.
The scene was intense. Two security guards were actively backing away from Julian, who was clad in a sharp designer trench coat, dark sunglasses, and radiating pure, toxic anger. He wasn't crying or whining.
It was worse.
He looked ready to tear the building down.
"My contract explicitly stated no synthetic fabrics!" Julian snarled, slamming his fist against the corridor wall and making a nearby intern jump out of their skin. "The costume department just tried to hand me a polyester blend! POLYESTER!!! Do you think I'm a joke?! HA?!! Do you think my safety is a joke?! The production team is deliberately sabotaging me, SABOTAGE! And I want answers NOW!"
As employees locked themselves inside their cubicles, Ian put on his best professional smile and stepped forward. "Mr. Vance, I'm Ian, the Chief Assistant. If you could step into a private room, we can call production—"
"Get out of my face," Julian spat, turning his furious glare onto Ian. He took a predatory step forward, "I'm not hiding in a room. I'm staying right here until the head of production comes down and accounts for this disrespect. And if anyone tries to move me, the press will hear about how this studio treats its talent before lunch!"
Julian crossed his arms, planting his boots firmly on the corporate carpet, glaring daggers at anyone who dared make eye contact. He was entirely controlling the room through raw, aggressive intimidation. And it was somehow working.
How bad that something inside Ian snapped.
Maybe it was the lack of caffeine. Maybe it was the fact that he was currently surviving on apple juice. The pleasant Chief Assistant vanished. The terrifying force that routinely bullied the executive suite into signing contracts took his place.
Ian took a single step forward, looming directly into Julian's personal space. The temperature in the corridor seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Julian," Ian said, dropping the 'Mr. Vance' entirely. His voice didn't rise, but it possessed an icy, dangerous gravity that cut straight through the actor's rage.
Julian blinked, caught off guard by the sudden defiance.
"First of all," Ian said, his eyes flashing with an unyielding, predatory glare of his own.
"The wardrobe department is using a high-grade silk-satin blend for the stunt choreography to prevent friction burns. If you actually read your contract instead of throwing tantrums, you would know that. Second of all..."
Ian leaned in closer, radiating a pure, unadulterated menace that made Julian's aggressive posture immediately falter.
"...if you voice one more threat in this corridor, I will personally rewrite the script, replace your character with a CGI dancing monkey, and ensure your only screen time is a voiceover of you barking. Do I make myself clear?"
The corridor went dead silent.
Julian stared at Ian, his angry bravado completely paralyzed by the raw, terrifying authority of an assistant pushed to his absolute limit.
The actor visibly swallowed, took a step back, and adjusted his coat. His aggressive edge was completely broken.
"Well," Julian muttered, his voice suddenly tight and quiet. "If it's a silk-satin blend... that's fine. I'll be in my trailer."
Julian turned and marched toward the elevator as his tense energy was replaced by a hasty retreat.
As the corridor cleared in record time, Ian turned back toward the café to finally get his toast. He subtly placed a hand near his stomach, a hidden thought crossing his mind.
'I told them. By the end of the week, it'll be a miracle if anyone is left alive.'