Quin
Day two at Hernandez Tech Company, and I already felt like I'd lived a lifetime here. Or at least, observed one.
One – the coffee machine on our floor wasn't just temperamental; it was a moody, passive-aggressive beast that actively sabotaged productivity. Pretty sure it glares at me.
Two – the elevators only cooperated if you weren't in a hurry. Which, naturally, I always was. Today, it was practically a scenic tour of every floor.
Three – Tristan Hernandez, Head Manager of Operations, was a human-shaped whirlwind of perpetual motion. It was almost noon, and the man hadn't so much as blinked outside his glass office. Not for coffee, not for food, not even a human stretch. The dude was a robot fueled by ambition and… well, probably nothing at this point.
His personal assistant? Still a ghost. Yesterday, she'd been a fleeting glimpse before the corporate chaos swallowed her whole.
Today? Just a gaping void where she should be. No note, no email, just… gone. Which, of course, meant that on my second official day, I was unofficially moonlighting as a crisis manager.
Taking a deep breath, I gave his glass door a soft tap – mostly for my own benefit – and stepped in. He didn't even flinch. His fingers flew across his keyboard, a symphony of rapid-fire clicks.
"Move the four o'clock with procurement to Monday," he rattled off, eyes still glued to his screen.
"It's already on Monday," I said, my voice carefully even.
"You moved it this morning."
His fingers froze mid-air. A beat of silence.
"…Right." The way he said it made me question everything I thought I knew about Monday.
I took another step closer to his impossibly tidy desk.
"You also skipped lunch. Again."
"I'm not hungry." The words were clipped, dismissive.
"That's what you said yesterday," I pointed out gently, crossing my arms. He finally looked up, those sharp, intelligent eyes, a little too tired around the edges, landing squarely on me.
"I'm fine, Quin." It was a statement, but it sounded more like a self-convincing mantra.
"With all due respect," I started, picking my words carefully, "you look like you've been fighting a bear with a spork."
A single brow lifted, slow and deliberate. "You've known me for two days."
"Close to forty-eight hours," I corrected, a small, involuntary smile playing on my lips. "Fatigue has a very distinct glow, Mr. Hernandez."
For a fleeting second – blink and you'd miss it – the corner of his mouth twitched. A ghost of a smile. Before he could respond, his phone vibrated, an insistent buzz against the polished wood. He glanced at the screen, and something in his posture shifted. Not annoyance, not even stress. Something… heavier. Like a weight had just settled on his shoulders.
He let it ring once. Twice. On the third, he answered. "Yes."
A deep, authoritative voice boomed from the speaker, even through the speaker. I pretended to be engrossed in my tablet, though I was meticulously studying a blank screen.
"Yes, I'll be there," Tristan said, his voice a carefully neutral tone. A pause. "I understand." Another pause, longer this time. "Yes, Father."
Ah. Peter Hernandez. The CEO. The man whose name was plastered on every company memo, every major announcement. The man I'd been 'researching' last night. For professional reasons, of course. Totally. Not because a certain Head Manager had a way of making my brain short-circuit.
"I said I'll be there," Tristan repeated, a hint of steel in his voice before he ended the call, placing the phone face-down on the desk as if it were a ticking bomb.
The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a knife. "Everything okay?" I asked, my voice softer than I intended.
"It's nothing." The words were out before he even thought about them. But his sigh, a long, drawn-out exhale, told a different story.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes on the ceiling.
"Family dinner tonight," he murmured, almost to himself.
"That sounds nice," I offered, genuinely trying to be helpful.
"It's not dinner," he corrected flatly, meeting my gaze. "It's an evaluation."
Oh. That explained the storm cloud. "My father hosts them whenever he feels the need to 'review progress,'" he added, a wry twist to his lips.
"And your mother?" I asked, curiosity piqued.
A subtle softening crossed his features, a glimpse of something warm.
"She's… different. She sides with us. Always." There was a genuine affection in his voice that was utterly disarming.
"But your father doesn't." It wasn't a question.
"He's the CEO," Tristan stated, as if that explained everything. "He evaluates performance. At work. And apparently, at dinner."
I folded my arms lightly, a small frown creasing my brow. "Your brother will be there?"
"Yes." Mikell Hernandez. Vice CEO. The golden boy. Every article about him featured a confident smile, headlines touting bold deals and strategic brilliance. He was the kind of man who looked effortlessly composed even when the market was crashing. I'd stumbled upon him last night during my 'professional research' into Tristan. Again, mostly professional.
"He closed a major acquisition this week," Tristan added, his gaze drifting back to his silent phone.
"That's good for the company."
"It is."
"But…"
"It will be discussed. Compared. Measured. Stacked side by side." The words were flat, devoid of emotion, but I could hear the undercurrent of resignation.
"You don't have to win every room you walk into," I heard myself say, the words slipping out before I could censor them.
Silence. His eyes slowly lifted, meeting mine, a spark of surprise there. "Don't I?" he asked, his voice low.
"No," I replied, my gaze steady. "You just have to decide which rooms are worth competing in. Some are just… family dinners."
The air in the room shifted, not dramatically, but subtly. Like a pressure valve had been eased just a fraction. He studied me then, not dismissively, not impatiently, but thoughtfully. Like he was seeing me for the first time.
"You're comfortable giving advice for someone on her second day."
"I specialize in efficient observations," I said, a small smirk playing on my lips.
"It saves time."
That earned me something rare. A faint, almost imperceptible smile. Small, yes, but undeniably real. He finally reached for the neglected coffee on his desk and took a slow, deliberate sip. Progress.
"Reschedule my six-thirty meeting," he said, his voice back to its usual crisp tone. "Move it to Monday."
"Done."
"And Quin."
"Yes?"
"Be here at eight tomorrow. We'll review the quarterly projections."
"I'm always here at eight."
"I know." The way he said it, the pause that lingered a fraction longer than necessary, it wasn't boss to assistant. It wasn't manager to employee.
It was just… acknowledgment.
As I stepped out of his office, quietly closing the glass door behind me, I allowed myself one small, triumphant breath.
Tristan Hernandez didn't need admiration. He was probably swimming in it. He didn't need someone dazzled by titles – not his father's, not his brother's. He needed someone who saw the man beneath the relentless drive, the pressure behind the polish.
And on day two… I had a feeling he was starting to see me, too. Which was, let's be honest, slightly dangerous. Because I was definitely noticing him far more than I probably should.