Lesley walked into the building like she owned it.
Which she did.
The lobby of Prime Guard+ Technologies gleamed in that aggressively polished way that suggested both success and a very expensive cleaning contract. The marble floors reflected the morning light, the scent of roasted coffee drifted from somewhere near reception, and the security guard straightened the second he saw her.
"Good morning, Ms. Ashford."
"Morning." She gave him her signature CEO smile—efficient, symmetrical, market-approved.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. A handful of employees shuffled to make room for her.
"Good morning, Ms. Ashford."
"Morning."
"Love the blazer, ma'am."
She nodded once. "Thank you."
The doors closed. Silence fell. Someone coughed nervously.
She watched the numbers climb and mentally organized her day: quarterly review, system upgrade briefing, budget adjustments, and—she inhaled—
Nothing.
No reminder to check if Denisse had rearranged the 10:30.
No sticky note in bold handwriting that read: You WILL forget this, so don't.
No overly cheerful "Good morning, Ms. Ashford," delivered with suspicious brightness.
The elevator opened.
Her smile faded mid-step.
Outside her office, beyond the glass wall, sat the assistant's station.
Empty.
Not "out for coffee" empty.
Not "in the restroom" empty.
Just... empty.
The chair was tucked in too neatly. The desk was painfully organized. The monitor dark. A single pen lay precisely parallel to the keyboard, like it had been placed there for a furniture catalog.
Lesley slowed.
She didn't slow. She was not someone who slowed.
And yet.
She stopped beside the desk, staring at it as if it might explain itself.
Denisse usually sat there in full operational mode by 8:01 a.m., armed with a planner, three tabs open, and a mildly judgmental expression whenever Lesley tried to skip lunch.
The silence felt... loud.
Ridiculous, she told herself.
It's one desk.
A desk does not have a personality.
A desk does not argue with you about your caffeine intake.
A desk does not call you "Ms. Ashford" in that tone.
She straightened, brushing imaginary lint from her sleeve. "Focus," she muttered under her breath, and walked into her office.
She sat, opened her laptop, and began typing. Emails. Approvals. Numbers. Very serious, very important things.
Her eyes drifted to the empty station.
She looked back at her screen.
Typed two sentences.
Looked again.
Her brain, entirely unhelpful, supplied a memory.
"You cannot move the board meeting just because you're 'not in the mood,'" Denisse had once said, arms crossed.
"I'm the CEO. I can absolutely move it."
"You can. But you shouldn't."
"And why is that?"
"Because you'll regret it and then you'll blame me."
"...Fair."
Lesley blinked and shook her head lightly, as if clearing water from her ears.
Why is it so quiet?
She told herself it was productivity. Peaceful. Efficient.
It was none of those things.
By early afternoon, she sat at the far end of the boardroom table, polished walnut stretching between her and the rest of the executive team. The overhead lights were bright and clinical, casting sharp shadows beneath sharp suits. A faint scent of brewed coffee and dry-erase markers lingered in the air.
The screen at the front of the room glowed with charts and percentages.
"As you can see," began Victor, the Marketing and Sales Executive, adjusting his glasses as he clicked to the next slide, "our first-quarter sales have increased by twelve percent compared to last year's figures."
A bar graph appeared. Blue columns rising steadily.
"The system upgrade is performing especially well in domestic markets," he continued. "Particularly the enhanced user interface and automation features. However, Europe remains slightly below projection. We believe a more aggressive advertising strategy could close that gap."
Lesley watched the presentation. Her eyes tracked the pointer as it circled figures, but the numbers felt distant, like static.
"Additionally," Victor said, clearing his throat, "customer retention has improved significantly. We've received feedback that they don't want to miss the improvements in this new version."
"Miss—"
The word glowed from the presentation slide in clean corporate font.
Miss.
Yeah. I miss—
She froze.
No.
Absolutely not.
She did not miss her assistant.
She missed efficiency. Structure. Order.
That was all.
"No. I don't miss her," she muttered under her breath.
The room went quiet.
Her head snapped up a second too late.
Victor stood near the screen, remote in hand, blinking at her. "What was that, Ms. Ashford?"
Several executives slowly turned in her direction. Someone coughed. Someone else pretended to study the sales graph very intensely.
Lesley felt heat climb up her neck, but her expression shifted into polished composure with impressive speed.
"What was what?" she asked smoothly.
Victor hesitated. "You just said—"
"I said," she cut in lightly, offering a thin, professional smile, "we can't miss the market opportunity in Q2."
A beat.
Victor glanced at the slide. "Oh. Right. Yes. Exactly."
Around the table, a few people nodded as if that made perfect sense. It did not.
Lesley folded her hands neatly on the table, posture impeccable. "Please continue."
Victor cleared his throat and clicked to the next slide. "As I was saying, if we increase the advertising allocation by fifteen percent—"
She focused on the screen, willing her heartbeat to settle.
You are fine.
You are in control.
You are not having an internal argument in the middle of a board meeting.
Across the table, someone was still giving her a curious look.
She held their gaze calmly until they looked away.
Composure restored.
Mostly.
"Ms. Ashford, I think we should increase the advertising budget for the new product rollout?"
She inhaled, sat straighter. "Yes. Increase it. And highlight the upgrades clearly. Make sure the campaign stresses what they'd be missing if they stick with the previous version."
She did not like how that word felt in her mouth now.
"Understood," Victor nodded, making a note. "We'll adjust the proposal and circulate the revised budget by tomorrow."
The meeting continued. Numbers. Charts. Strategic nodding. Lesley contributed at all the appropriate intervals, sharp and precise.
But her mind kept drifting to the empty chair outside her office.
It's temporary, she reminded herself.
Temporary.
By the time the meeting adjourned, her composure had settled back into place like a well-tailored jacket.
She walked back toward her office, heels quieter now against the thick carpet.
And then she stopped.
Someone was sitting at the assistant's station.
Her heart did something completely unnecessary.
"Denisse?" The name slipped out before she could stop it, and warmth rose instinctively to her face. A small smile tugged at her lips, fragile and hopeful.
The woman looked up.
Not Denisse.
"Oh! Sorry, Ms. Ashford," the woman said quickly. "Mr. Davis said I could cover this station while Denisse is out."
Out.
Right.
"Yes. Of course," Lesley said, smoothing her expression into something neutral. "That's fine."
Gigi smiled brightly. "I've already reviewed your schedule and reorganized—"
"Please don't reorganize it," Lesley said automatically.
Gigi blinked. "Oh. Okay."
A beat.
"...Unless it needs reorganizing," Lesley added.
Another blink. "Right."
Lesley gave a tight nod and walked into her office.
She sat.
Stared through the glass.
Gigi typed differently.
Denisse typed like she was challenging the keyboard to a duel.
Gigi typed gently.
The desk looked... off.
She stood abruptly.
This was absurd.
She was the CEO of a multi-million-dollar company. She did not unravel over an assistant.
And yet the office felt hollow.
She stood abruptly, the sudden movement scraping her chair slightly against the floor.
"Fuck it," she muttered under her breath.
She stepped out of her office again, Gigi glancing up immediately.
"When someone looks for me," Lesley said, already halfway turned toward the elevators, "tell them I went outside."
"Yes, ma—"
But Lesley was already walking away.
Her pulse was louder than the quiet hum of the executive floor as she pressed the elevator button. The doors slid open with their usual mechanical grace, and she stepped inside alone this time.
As the doors closed, sealing her in the mirrored box, she caught her reflection again.
Composed. Controlled.
Except her eyes gave her away.
They looked like someone who had just realized what it meant to miss someone—and had no idea what to do about it.