I wake before the alarm.
It's a habit I'm learning—this alertness, this readiness. The dread of being late again, of hearing his voice say you're late in that flat, cutting tone. My eyes open in the dark of my bedroom, and for a moment, I don't move. I let the silence hold me.
Then I reach for my phone. 5:47 AM. I have time.
---
The Night Before
I came home last night with my head still pounding, my body heavy. I dropped my bag by the door, kicked off my heels, and stood in the middle of my apartment for a long moment, trying to remember the last time I'd eaten.
Breakfast, I realized. Toast. Before the subway. Fourteen hours ago.
I made myself a sandwich I didn't taste, ate it standing at the counter. Then I opened my laptop and checked everything. Twice. The Aspen itinerary. The St. Bart's summaries. The flower order confirmation. The calendar for tomorrow. I scrolled through emails, making sure nothing had come in after I left, nothing I'd missed.
My brother texted: You okay? Haven't heard from you.
I typed back: Busy with new job. All good. Love you.
I stared at the message. Three dots appeared, then disappeared. He didn't push. He never pushes. That's how we survive—by not asking each other the hard questions.
I set my alarm for 5:45 AM. I laid out my clothes. I packed my bag. I made sure the subway card was in the front pocket, the tablet with the schedule in the main compartment. I did everything I could to control what was controllable.
And then I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, counting cracks, until exhaustion finally pulled me under.
---
Morning
Now I'm standing in front of my bathroom mirror, and I don't recognize the woman looking back.
The lighting is unforgiving. It catches every hollow, every shadow. There are dark spots under my eyes, purple and smudged, like bruises. My cheekbones look sharper than they did a week ago. My lips are pale, cracked from chewing them when I'm concentrating.
I lean closer, turning my face to the light. And despite the exhaustion, despite the dread coiled in my stomach, I see what other people see when they look at me. Full lips. High cheekbones. Skin the color of warm honey. Eyes that are too large for my face, dark and soft, the kind of eyes that make people want to tell you their secrets.
Beautiful, my mother used to say, cupping my face in her hands. Don't ever let anyone make you feel small.
I press my palms against the cool sink and exhale. Beauty doesn't matter in Damon Blackwood's office. Beauty doesn't make the work go faster. Beauty doesn't make him look at me like I'm anything other than a tool he's been forced to use.
I fix my hair, touch up the concealer under my eyes, and leave the mirror behind.
---
The subway is quieter this early. I find a seat, close my eyes, and let the rhythm of the train carry me. When I open them again, I'm pulling into the station near the Blackwood tower.
I walk through the lobby at 7:15 AM. The receptionist isn't at her desk yet. The security guard nods as I swipe my card. The elevator is empty.
Thirty-seventh floor. The doors open to silence.
He's not here.
I stand in the waiting room for a moment, letting the reality sink in. His door is closed. The lights are off. For the first time since I walked into this building, I am here before him.
I set my bag down at my desk. I power on the computer. I organize the files for the day. And then, because my stomach is hollow and my head is already threatening another headache, I walk toward the break room.
---
The break room on the executive floor is small but elegant—marble counters, a coffee machine that costs more than my rent, a small table with two chairs by the window. I pour myself a cup, black, and stand by the window, looking down at the city waking up.
"You're here early."
I turn. Leo is standing in the doorway, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, a grin spreading across his face. He's holding two paper cups.
"I could say the same to you," I reply.
He shrugs, walking in. "Third-floor coffee is terrible. I come up here sometimes when I need the good stuff." He sets one cup on the table and slides it toward me. "That one's yours. Figured you'd need it."
I look at the cup, then at him. "You don't have to keep doing this."
"I know." He pulls out a chair and drops into it, easy, comfortable, like we've been friends for years instead of days. "But you look like you haven't slept, and I know you haven't eaten, and I'm the kind of person who can't watch someone run on empty without doing something about it."
I hesitate. Then I sit.
---
The conversation is easy in a way nothing else in this building is.
Leo talks about his work in marketing—the campaigns he's pitching, the creative director who loves his ideas but steals the credit, the new project he's excited about that might actually get him noticed. He's funny, self-deprecating, the kind of person who makes you forget, for a few minutes, that the world outside this room is cold and demanding.
"What about you?" he asks, leaning back in his chair. "How did you end up on the thirty-seventh floor? Did you lose a bet?"
I laugh—a real laugh, the first one in days. "Something like that. My old boss sold me out. Literally. Damon needed someone, and George saw dollar signs."
Leo's expression shifts, something protective flickering in his eyes. "That's brutal."
"That's the business."
He studies me for a moment. "You're not going to quit, are you?"
"No."
"Why not?"
I think about the check in my bag. About my brother's next therapy appointment. About the cracks in my ceiling and the way they multiply when you ignore them. "I have reasons," I say. That's as much as I'm willing to give.
Leo nods, doesn't push. "My mom always said the hardest jobs teach you the most. She was a nurse. Used to come home with bruises from patients who didn't know what they were doing. But she never quit."
"Your mom sounds strong."
"She was." His voice softens. "She passed two years ago. Cancer."
I set my coffee down. "Leo, I'm sorry."
He waves it off, but his eyes are distant. "It's okay. She taught me everything. How to work hard. How to laugh when things get heavy. How to bring coffee to people who look like they need it." He looks at me, and there's something in his expression—something he's about to say, something that feels important.
He leans forward. "Maya, I—"
I glance at my watch. My stomach drops.
7:58 AM.
"I have to go." I stand so fast the chair scrapes against the floor. "He's going to be here any minute. I'm sorry, I—"
"Hey, it's okay." Leo stands too, hands up, easy. "Go. But here—" He pulls a granola bar from his bag and presses it into my hand. "Eat this. Before he sees you. Please."
I look at the granola bar, then at him. "Thank you. For the coffee. For this. For..."
"For being the only person on this floor who doesn't look at me like I'm about to fire them?"
I laugh again, softer this time. "Something like that."
He grins. "Go. I'll be here if you need a break. Third floor. You know where to find me."
I turn to leave, then stop at the doorway. "Hey, Leo. The thing you were about to say—"
"Another time," he says, and there's something in his voice—warm, patient, maybe a little nervous. "Go. Survive the day."
I go.
---
I'm at my desk at 7:59 AM. The granola bar is in my drawer, untouched. I'll eat it later, I tell myself. When there's time.
The elevator dings at 8:03.
Damon Blackwood walks out in a charcoal suit, today. Dark gray, sharp lines, a white shirt open at the collar. No tie. His cufflinks are silver this time, simple, elegant. The watch catches the light as he passes my desk.
He stops.
I look up. His eyes are fixed on the doorway behind me—the hallway that leads to the break room. Where Leo walked out thirty seconds ago.
He doesn't ask. He doesn't have to.
"Ms. Santos."
"Good morning, Mr. Blackwood."
His gaze shifts to me, and it's like being pinned under something cold and heavy. "Did you finish the St. Bart's client summaries?"
My stomach tightens. "I have the final version ready for your review. I wanted to confirm the exchange rates before printing—"
"So no."
"I wanted to ensure accuracy before submitting."
He walks around my desk, not toward his office, but stopping directly beside me. Close enough that I can smell that scent again—clean, expensive, something woody. Close enough that I have to tilt my head up to meet his eyes.
"Accuracy," he repeats, like the word tastes strange in his mouth. "And while you were ensuring accuracy, you were in the break room. Drinking coffee. Talking to someone from marketing."
I keep my face still. "I took ten minutes. I hadn't eaten."
His eyes drop to the drawer where I shoved the granola bar. When they come back to mine, there's something there—not anger, exactly. Something sharper.
"You want to eat, Ms. Santos? You want to make friends? Do it on your own time. While you're on my floor, while you're handling my work, you're mine. Do you understand?"
Mine.
The word lands in my chest like a stone.
"I understand," I say, and my voice doesn't crack.
He holds my gaze for a moment longer. Then he turns and walks into his office. The door doesn't close. He expects me to follow.
I pull the granola bar from my drawer, drop it in my bag, and pick up the St. Bart's file.
---
The morning is worse than yesterday.
He calls me in three times before noon, each summons a fresh reminder that I'm not fast enough, not good enough, not enough. He doesn't mention Leo again. He doesn't have to. The silence is its own punishment.
I work through lunch. I don't go to the break room. I don't look at the hallway that leads to the elevator that would take me to the third floor.
At 6:30, I finish the last of the tasks he set for me. I power down my computer. I pack my bag. I walk to the elevator with my head high and my shoulders straight.
The lobby is quiet. The security guard nods as I pass.
I step outside into the cool evening air, and there, leaning against a dark sedan in the parking lot, is Leo.
He pushes off the car when he sees me. "You look like you've been through a war."
"I have. I lost."
He smiles, but there's concern in his eyes. "I've been waiting. Thought you might need a ride."
I blink. "You waited? For how long?"
"Hour. Hour and a half." He shrugs like it's nothing. "Figured if you didn't come down by seven, I'd send a search party."
I should say no. I should walk to the subway, go home, collapse in my bed, and do it all again tomorrow. But I'm so tired. And the idea of sitting in a quiet car instead of a rattling train, of having someone beside me who isn't demanding something from me—
"Yes," I say. "Thank you."
His smile widens. He opens the passenger door for me, and I slide in. The seat is warm. The car smells like coffee and something clean.
He gets in, starts the engine, and for a moment, neither of us speaks.
"You don't have to tell me," he says finally, pulling out of the lot. "But if you want to talk, I'm here."
I lean my head against the window. The city lights blur past.
"He downgraded me," I say quietly. "Because I took ten minutes to talk to you."
Leo's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "That's—"
"That's what he does. He makes sure you know you're never doing enough. That you're always behind. That you're lucky to be there at all."
The silence stretches. I watch the buildings pass, the lights reflecting off the windows.
"He called me his," I say, and I don't know why I'm telling him this. Maybe because he waited. Maybe because I'm too tired to hold it in. "He said while I'm on his floor, handling his work, I'm his."
Leo doesn't say anything for a long moment. When he does, his voice is low, careful.
"You're not anyone's, Maya. You're your own."
I close my eyes.
"I'm looking for an exit, but I'm lost inside my head."
The words drift through my mind, soft, familiar. I let them carry me, just for a moment.
When I open my eyes again, we're pulling up to my building.
Leo puts the car in park and turns to me. "Same time tomorrow? I'll bring coffee."
I look at him—his warm eyes, his easy smile, the kindness he offers without asking for anything in return.
"I'd like that," I say.
He grins. "Then it's a date."
He says it lightly, casually. But something in his voice catches, just for a second. Something that makes me pause before I open the door.
I don't examine it. I'm too tired. Too careful.
"Goodnight, Leo."
"Goodnight, Maya."
I walk up the steps to my building. I don't look back. But as I unlock my door and step into my dark apartment, I find myself smiling. Just a little. Just for a moment.
Tomorrow, I'll go back. Tomorrow, I'll sit at that desk and take his orders and pretend his words don't cut.
But tonight, someone waited for me. Tonight, someone sees me as more than a tool, more than a tool, more than his.
And that, I think, is enough to keep going.
---