Mr CEO’s personal assistant

Chapter 1

The church was so silent that only the sound of breathing remained. The air smelled of white lilies and damp stone walls. Aria stood in the first row, only three steps away from the dark walnut casket. In her hand, she held a Montblanc fountain pen, its metal body already warm from her palm.

Julian had given it to her. Three years ago, after she had stayed up all night finishing an analysis report on a merger case, she brought it to his office at five in the morning. He flipped through it, said nothing, then took this pen from his inner suit pocket and placed it gently on the file.

“A good assistant shouldn’t use a cheap pen that leaks ink,” he said, his voice betraying no emotion. “Next time, use this.”

Now, Aria’s fingers unconsciously traced the tiny letters engraved on the pen— “J.C.” The pastor on the podium read the eulogy. Words like “business legend,” “philanthropist,” “visionary” reached her like sounds through frosted glass—muffled, indistinct.

She only remembered that last month, after attending another director’s funeral in this same church, Julian had said to her in the car: “Aria, if I die, those vultures will hold a board meeting on my coffin.”

She had frowned. “Don’t say that, Mr. Julian.”

“Call me Julian.” He gazed at the fast-moving nightscape of New York outside the window, his profile in the neon lights looking particularly weary. “And remember, tears are the most useless thing. But if that day really comes… be sure to keep an eye on things for me.”

Keep an eye on things. On what? On how many of these people in black Armani, lowering their heads and pretending to wipe tears, were already calculating in their minds how many shares they could get?

“May his soul rest in peace,” the pastor concluded.

“Amen,” the crowd murmured in response.

Aria did not speak. Her throat was tight.

Outside the church, a fine rain was falling. Black umbrellas spread like mushrooms at the bottom of the steps. Cameraflashes exploded in the rain, casting stark white light.

“—Damian Caldwell’s flight arrived at JFK Airport this morning!”

“—According to inside sources, the heir, who has lived overseas for many years, has suddenly returned, and it is directly related to the fight for corporate control!”

“—How will he, known as the ‘corporate predator,’ restructure the business empire his father left behind?”

The reporters’ voices drifted faintly through the thick oak doors. On one side of the banquet hall, a wall-mounted television played the news on mute. A photo flashed across the screen: a man standing on the boarding stairs of a private jet, wearing a black coat, his profile sharp and cold, his gaze looking directly through the lens—without any warmth.

The caption rolled across the bottom: “The Barbarian Returns: Can Damian Caldwell Take Control of the Caldwell Group?”

Aria looked away and took a glass of water from a server’s tray. Champagne was too bright; it didn’t suit the day.

“Aria, my condolences.” A board member walked over and shook her hand, his grip firm. “Julian’s passing was sudden. The group needs loyal people like you to steady the ship.”

“Thank you, Director Richard. It’s my duty.” She withdrew her hand, her tone calm.

“Of course, of course.” Richard lowered his voice. “About the successor… you know, we are all worried. That Damian, his methods in Europe… weren’t exactly respectable.”

“The will will be read tomorrow.” Aria cut him off, not wanting to continue this topic. “Everything will proceed according to Mr. Julian’s wishes.”

Richard gave an awkward smile, patted her shoulder, and melted back into the crowd.

Aria breathed a sigh of relief, looking for a quiet corner. When she turned, she collided with a gaze.

At the other end of the banquet hall stood Damian Caldwell.

He looked like his photo, yet not quite. Taller. Broader shoulders. A pure black custom-made suit wrapped around a powerfully built body. He wasn’t speaking to anyone, just standing there, holding a glass of amber liquor, his gaze cutting through the moving figures, locking onto her with precision.

Cold. Scrutinizing. And with a hint of undisguised assessment—as if appraising an object, or an obstacle to be removed.

Aria’s spine stiffened instantly. She did not look away. She lifted her chin and met his gaze.

The air seemed to freeze. The low murmur of conversation, the clink of glasses, even the sound of rain—all faded into a blurred background. Only that gaze remained, icy, heavy, pressing down with an invisible force.

She saw him raise an eyebrow almost imperceptibly, as if surprised that she was holding his stare. Then his eyes lingered on her face for a few seconds—from her slightly reddened eyes, to her tightly pressed lips, to the glass of water in her hand, untouched.

Finally, his gaze settled on her other hand—the pen she was clutching tightly.

Aria unconsciously tightened her fingers. The metal body of the pen dug into her palm.

The corner of Damian’s mouth seemed to twitch almost imperceptibly—it wasn’t a smile, more like a cold acknowledgment. Then he looked away, as if she was no longer worth his attention, downed the rest of his drink, and turned to walk toward another group of people waiting for him.

The pressure vanished. Aria exhaled softly, realizing she had been holding her breath. Her palms were slightly damp.

“Just a paper tiger,” she murmured to herself, unsure whether she was referring to Damian or trying to boost her own courage.

Late at night, on the top floor of the Caldwell Group building. Julian’s office door was closed. The smaller assistant’s office next door still had its lights on.

Aria took off her high heels and walked barefoot on the soft carpet. Outside the window, New York’s lights never went out, but the room was eerily quiet. She poured herself a glass of water, leaned against her desk, and looked at the photo of Julian and her on the opposite wall—taken at a charity gala, he was smiling, a rare sight, his hand resting on her shoulder.

Fatigue washed over her like a tide, mingling with the grief she had suppressed during the day.

Her eyes swept across her desk—and stopped.

A pure white envelope sat squarely on her keyboard. No postmark, no delivery label. On the envelope, her name was written in elegant italics: Ms. Aria Vance.

She picked up the envelope. It was light. She opened it. Inside was a thick, cream-colored sheet of paper. At the top was the embossed gold seal of a law firm—Whitman & Locke.

Her eyes quickly scanned the formally worded text:

“…on behalf of the estate of the late Mr. Julian Michael Caldwell … you are hereby notified that, as a key party named in the will, you are requested to attend the reading of the last will and testament of Mr. Julian Michael Caldwell at ten o’clock in the morning on the fifteenth day of April, at the offices of this firm…”

In the lower right corner was the florid signature of the lawyer.

Aria stood in the silent office, holding the letter, for a long time. The lights from the window played across her face, flickering on and off.

Key party.

She slowly sank into her chair, placed the letter gently on the desk, and her fingertip unconsciously traced the words on the page.

Ten o’clock tomorrow morning.

All the questions, all the questions of staying or leaving, all the uncertainties about the future, and that man’s cold, appraising gaze… would all have an answer.

Or perhaps, only a beginning.