The coffee machine hissed like a disgruntled cat, spitting out Adrian's double espresso just as my phone vibrated against the marble counter. I glanced at the screen, Urgent: Board Meeting Reschedule, and stifled a groan. It was 6:47 AM, and the day was already sprinting ahead of me. I grabbed the steaming cup, adjusted the stack of folders under my arm, and hurried out of the executive lounge toward Adrian Sinclair's office.
"Morning, Emily!" Sophia called from the receptionist's desk, her red curls bouncing as she waved. "You look like you're running a marathon."
"Feels like it," I shot back, flashing a grin I didn't feel. "If I survive Adrian's schedule today, I deserve a medal."
She laughed, but I was already halfway down the hall, my heels clicking against the polished floor. The Sinclair Enterprises tower was a labyrinth of glass and steel, every corner screaming wealth and precision, just like the man I worked for. Adrian's office door loomed ahead, and I took a breath before pushing it open.
He was at his desk, tie perfectly knotted, dark hair swept back, his blue eyes scanning a tablet with the intensity of a predator. He didn't look up. "The Tokyo jet. Confirmed?"
"Good morning to you too," I said lightly, setting the espresso on his desk. "Jet's booked for 3 PM. Pilot's on standby, and I've got catering sorted, gluten-free for Mr. Hayashi, per his assistant's very specific email."
Adrian nodded, still not looking at me. "And the board?"
"Rescheduled to tomorrow. I sweet-talked Mrs. Langley into calming down after she threatened to storm out over the Q2 projections. You're welcome."
He grunted, which was as close to praise as I ever got. I slid the folders onto his desk, contracts, press releases, and a briefing for his lunch with a senator. "Everything's color-coded. Red tabs are urgent. Sign the blue ones by noon."
"Fine." His voice was clipped, distracted. He was already typing, probably firing off an email to someone more important than me. I lingered for a second, hoping for… what? A smile? A thank you? But Adrian Sinclair didn't do warm fuzzies. Not for me, anyway.
"Anything else?" I asked, adjusting my glasses.
"No." He didn't even glance up.
I turned to leave, my chest tightening in that familiar way. Five years as his assistant, and I was still invisible, except when he needed a miracle. Like today.
The morning blurred into a frenzy. By 8:15, I was on the phone with a PR firm, smoothing over a leaked memo about Sinclair Enterprises' latest acquisition. The reporter on the other end was fishing for dirt, but I kept my voice steady, promising an exclusive interview with Adrian if they held off publishing.
"Make it quick, Ms. Carter," the reporter snapped. "This hits the wire by noon."
"You'll have your quote by 10," I said, already texting Adrian's speechwriter. I hung up and darted into the elevator, heading to the 42nd floor for an impromptu meeting with the legal team. My phone buzzed again, Nathaniel, my brother. I ignored it. No time for his lectures about "wasting my life" on Adrian.
The legal meeting was a minefield. One of the junior attorneys had missed a filing deadline, and the senior counsel was tearing into him. I stepped in, redirecting the conversation to damage control. "I've already called the clerk's office," I said, pulling up the email on my tablet. "They'll accept a late submission if we courier it by 2 PM. I'll handle it."
The senior counsel blinked at me, then nodded. "Good. Get it done."
I was out the door before he finished, my to-do list growing faster than I could check it off. By 9:30, I'd coordinated a last-minute venue change for Adrian's charity gala, reassured a panicked intern who'd spilled coffee on a client's contract, and tracked down a missing shipment of prototype tech for next week's product launch. All while fielding texts from Adrian: Where's the senator's dossier? Confirm Hayashi's hotel. Why isn't the PR statement done?
I answered each one instantly, my fingers flying over the screen. He didn't know how many fires I was putting out. He never did.
At 10:05, I slipped into the executive lounge to grab a water, my head pounding. The room was empty except for Margaret Sinclair, Adrian's mother, perched on a leather sofa like a queen holding court. Her silver hair was pinned up, her navy dress immaculate. She was speaking to someone on the phone, her voice low but sharp.
"…I'm telling you, Charles, the real bride might not show. Victoria's been dodging my calls, and Adrian's too stubborn to see it."
I froze, my hand halfway to the fridge. Bride? Victoria? My heart thudded. Adrian's wedding was today, 4 PM at St. Patrick's Cathedral, the event of the season. I'd spent weeks coordinating vendors, security, even the press embargo. Victoria Monroe, Adrian's fiancée, was supposed to be the perfect match, elegant, poised, a darling of high society. But… not show?
Margaret's eyes flicked to me, and I busied myself with the water bottle, pretending I hadn't heard. She hung up and stood, her gaze cold. "Emily. Shouldn't you be working?"
"Just grabbing this," I said, holding up the bottle. "Everything's on track for the wedding."
She raised an eyebrow. "Is it? I hope so. For Adrian's sake."
Her tone sent a chill down my spine. I mumbled a goodbye and hurried out, my mind racing. Victoria, not showing? Impossible. She adored the spotlight, the idea of being Mrs. Adrian Sinclair. But Margaret's words gnawed at me, and I couldn't shake the image of Adrian standing alone at the altar.
Back at my desk, I threw myself into the next crisis. The senator's office had changed their lunch location, again. I was on hold with the restaurant when Sophia poked her head in. "Em, you okay? You look like you're about to snap that pen in half."
I forced a smile. "Just another day in paradise. What's up?"
She leaned against the doorframe, her eyes narrowing. "You're killing yourself for him, you know. Adrian doesn't even see you."
"He's my boss, Soph. It's my job."
"It's more than that, and we both know it." She sighed. "Look, I'm meeting Nate for lunch. Come with us. Take a break."
"Can't," I said, gesturing to my screen. "Too much to do."
She shook her head but didn't push. "Fine. But if you change your mind, text me."
As she left, my phone buzzed again. Another text from Adrian: Where's the updated guest list? I sent it instantly, along with a note about the lunch change. No response. Typical.
By 11:45, I'd finalized the PR statement, couriered the legal documents, and confirmed the gala's new venue. I was about to grab a sandwich when Daniel Grayson, Adrian's best friend, strolled in, his usual smirk in place.
"Carter, you're a machine," he said, dropping into the chair across from me. "How do you keep up with His Majesty's demands?"
"Practice," I said, not looking up from my laptop. "What do you need, Daniel?"
"Just checking in. Big day, huh? Wedding of the century and all that."
I hesitated, Margaret's words echoing in my head. "Yeah. Big day."
He tilted his head, studying me. "You sure you're okay? You look… tense."
"I'm fine." I forced a laugh. "Just juggling a few dozen things."
"Like always." He stood, but his smirk faded. "Hey, if you ever need to vent, you know where to find me."
"Thanks," I said, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. But as he left, my phone buzzed again, this time, not a text.
It was a photo, sent from an unknown number. I opened it, and my breath caught. A chapel, empty except for scattered rose petals on the floor. The timestamp read: Today, 10 AM. Below it, a single line: Where's the bride?
My hands trembled as I stared at the screen. The wedding wasn't until 4 PM, but this… this was St. Patrick's. I knew those stained-glass windows, that altar. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
And Adrian had no idea.