Bea’s POV
“Maybe,” I mumbled, my voice shaking, “if you weren’t always... um, yelling at me like I’m... like I’m doing everything wrong, maybe I wouldn’t mess up so much.”
He looked at me, his eyes narrowing, and I could feel the chill of his gaze. “Maybe if you actually did something right for once, I wouldn’t have to be so harsh with you.”
The words stung more than I wanted to admit. My hands were shaking, and I couldn’t seem to stop fidgeting with the papers in my hands. “I-I’m sorry,” I said quietly, hoping he wouldn’t notice how much it hurt. “I just... I try, but it’s never enough, is it?”
He sighed, that annoyed, dismissive sigh that made me feel like I was just in the way. “If you could actually do your job, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we?”
His words hit me like a slap, and I could feel the sting in my chest, my heart racing. “I... I know,” I whispered, my voice faltering. “I’m sorry, I really am. I just... I just want to do things right.”
But that wasn’t enough. He didn’t look at me with anything other than cold indifference. “Maybe if you stopped making excuses and actually focused, things wouldn’t be such a disaster around here.”
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. I didn’t know what to say anymore. It felt like everything I said only made it worse. My hands were shaking more now, and I just wanted to leave, but I couldn’t. I had to stay, and had to keep trying. “I’m trying...” I said weakly, my voice so small it almost felt like I wasn’t even there.
“Trying?” he scoffed, crossing his arms, glaring at me. “Trying isn’t enough, Martinez. Trying doesn’t get the job done.”
I bit my lip, fighting back the tears that were threatening to fall. Why was everything so hard? “I just... I want to help,” I whispered. “I want to do my best... I just don’t know how to do it right.”
Then, just when I thought I couldn’t take another second of this, the door flew open, and Lydia stepped in, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.
“Enough!” she snapped, eyes wild and fierce. “The boardroom’s down the hall, if you two are really set on ruining your careers, you can do it somewhere else. Lower your voices or I’ll lower them for you.”
Lydia’s glare flicked between us like she was about to step in and break this whole thing up, and I couldn’t help but feel a little relief that someone else was here to stop it. I wanted to shrink into myself, but instead, I just nodded silently, too humiliated to speak.
I took a breath and turned toward the window, refusing to let the burning in my eyes turn into tears. Julian didn’t say a word. Just looked away, jaw clenched, as if the room had started spinning too fast even for him. Lydia crossed her arms, watching us both like we were toddlers caught fighting over a toy neither of us deserved.
“Get out,” he said, low and bitter. I didn’t argue. I just walked out, shutting the door behind me with enough force to make a point.
The break room was empty, thankfully. I poured water from the dispenser into a paper cup and leaned against the counter, breathing deep. My chest still ached, my hands still shook. I hated how much he got to me. Hated that his voice could undo me with a few sharp words. Hated that I let it get this far. I stared into the cup like it held all the answers, like it might drown the heat still rising in my throat. I was his assistant, not his emotional target. I wasn’t hired to survive him—I was hired to support him. And I was done confusing the two.
I worked in silence for the rest of the day. Answered emails. Delivered memos. Smiled politely. Made myself smaller. Every time he walked past, I didn’t flinch, didn’t look, didn’t breathe. I was paper. Quiet. Flat. Replaceable.
At 5:42, my inbox pinged with an email marked URGENT.
Subject: PARIS TRIP – CONFIRM IMMEDIATELY
From: Wolfe & Whitmore International Events
You’ve been assigned to accompany Mr. Wolfe to Paris Fashion Week as executive operations support. Departure: 7:25 AM tomorrow. Attach passport and pack professionally.
My pulse jumped. Paris? Fashion Week? After that fight? I reread the email three times, looking for signs it was a prank. But it wasn’t. It was real. The logistics were real. The itinerary was attached. I stared at the screen, stunned.
After all that, he still wanted me in Paris?
It wasn’t kindness. It wasn’t forgiveness. It was controlled. Power. A chess move. And if he wanted to test me in Paris, I’d show up ready to burn the board.
I replied: Confirmed.
***
The airport was already buzzing when I arrived, four bags rolling behind me like tiny stressed-out ducklings. I hadn’t packed light, I wasn’t built for “essentials only.” Fashion Week meant options. Backups. Weather changes. Emotional security. My hair alone required an entire carry-on. Julian, naturally, was already there—black coffee in one hand, boarding pass in the other, dressed like a luxury ad that refused to smile. His eyes tracked my arrival, slowly dragging down to the bags trailing behind me.
He raised one eyebrow, unimpressed.
“You get one,” he said flatly, taking a sip of his coffee. “I’m not paying for your emotional baggage too.”