Between walls and hearts

The morning sun spilled golden light across the skyline, casting long, warm rays through the window of Jessica Simpson's modest apartment. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, brushing down the hem of her pale pink blouse, the one she reserved for occasions that demanded a touch of courage. Today was one of those days.

Her fingers trembled slightly, betraying the confidence she tried so hard to project.

You've got this, Jess, she told herself. You're smart, capable, and you didn't survive four years of sleepless nights and insane professors just to be ignored now.

Graduation had come and gone three months ago. With a bachelor's degree in Business Administration in her pocket and ambition in her heart, Jessica had been determined to land her dream job. But dream jobs were elusive in a city saturated with hopefuls. Every job listing came with a tidal wave of competition. And with every polite rejection email, her heart sank a little further. Her student loans loomed in the background like a dark cloud threatening to pour.

Still, she wasn't one to quit easily. Not Jessica Simpson.

She tied her curls into a neat ponytail, checked her reflection one last time, and forced a smile. The kind of smile that said "I belong here" even when everything inside her screamed otherwise. She grabbed her CV, slung her brown leather bag over her shoulder, and stepped into the morning bustle.

Her heels clacked against the pavement as she made her way toward Whitmore Industries, a towering glass-and-steel building nestled in the heart of the financial district. It was all sharp edges and gleaming surfaces, the kind of place that demanded perfection. The kind of place where careers were either made... or crushed.

She stopped a few steps away from the entrance, tilting her head up to take in the building's overwhelming height. You can do this. It's just another interview, she reminded herself. Just another chance.

Taking a deep breath, she walked in.

The lobby was pure intimidation. Marble floors so polished they reflected the sky, a gold-accented chandelier that screamed wealth, and receptionists who looked like they'd stepped off a fashion magazine cover. Everyone seemed to glide. No one stumbled, no one hesitated.

Jessica's heart hammered in her chest.

She approached the front desk, forcing her voice not to shake. "Good morning," she said, trying to smile. "I'm here to see Mr. Whitmore. The elder Mr. Whitmore."

The receptionist didn't even look up at first. With a swift motion, she checked her appointment book, nodded, and motioned to the elevator. "Tenth floor. He's expecting you."

As the elevator doors slid shut, Jessica caught her reflection in the mirrored walls. You don't look like you belong here, a small voice in her head whispered.

She ignored it.

The numbers ticked upward. Her pulse quickened with every ding. When the doors opened, she stepped into an elegant office suite that felt more like a library in an old mansion, dark wood shelves lined with leather-bound books, oil paintings, and the scent of leather, old paper, and expensive cologne hanging in the air.

A tall man with salt-and-pepper hair sat behind a massive oak desk. His face, though aged, was strong and commanding. His presence filled the room. He looked up from a document and gestured for her to enter.

"Miss Simpson," he said, scanning her résumé. "Graduated top of your class. Impressive."

"Thank you, sir," she replied, her tone steady.

"I'll be honest with you. There's only one vacancy at the moment," he said, leaning back in his chair. "And it's under my son, Brian. He manages one of our subsidiaries. He's young, brilliant, but... difficult."

Jessica raised a brow. "Difficult?"

"He's arrogant, rude, and doesn't get along with people. Especially those I send to him. He's rejected every candidate I've recommended in the past year."

Something sparked in Jessica's chest. A challenge.

She smiled faintly. "Maybe it's time he met someone different."

The elder Whitmore gave a low chuckle. "You're bold. I like that. Let's see how long you'll last."

He picked up the phone, pressed a button, and said, "Send her to Brian's office. Let's see what he thinks."

As she followed the assistant down the hallway, her nerves returned in full force. This is it. Make or break. Show no fear, she coached herself.

The assistant stopped at a glass-walled office. "Good luck," she said flatly, as if she already knew how this would end.

The door opened.

He was there.

Brian Whitmore.

Leaning back in a leather chair, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a phone tucked between his shoulder and cheek. His fingers typed rapidly on the keyboard as he glanced briefly at her, then back to his screen. His dark brown eyes were sharp, assessing, uninterested. His jaw was sharp, his features annoyingly perfect-like he had been carved from stone just to piss people off.

Jessica stepped in. "I'm here to apply for the assistant position," she began.

He didn't look up.

"I'm Jessica..."

"I don't care," he cut her off coldly. "Come back in two weeks."

Jessica blinked, stunned. "Two weeks?"

"That's the earliest I can spare time to interview you. If you can't wait, there's the door."

For a moment, she just stared at him. Was this some kind of test? Or was he genuinely this insufferable?

Her chest rose and fell as anger bubbled inside her. Not rage, not fury-just that deep, familiar ache of being dismissed. Overlooked. Like she was invisible.

She stepped forward, placed her CV on his desk, and said firmly, "Keep it. You might need it when you realize no one else is willing to tolerate you."

He finally looked up, eyes narrowing.

But she didn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. She turned and walked out, head held high, heart pounding.

Behind her, Brian's smirk deepened.

No one had ever spoken to him like that.

And for some strange reason... he wasn't angry.

He was intrigued.

Two and a half weeks passed.

Jessica kept herself busy with more interviews, more polite nods, and more second-place finishes. The city didn't care how smart or determined you were. It cared only about who you knew or how far you were willing to bend.

Still, she didn't regret walking out of that office. If anything, she felt stronger. She knew her worth.

Then, on a quiet Friday morning, her phone buzzed.

Subject: Job Offer

From: Whitmore Industries

Dear Miss Simpson,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for the position of Personal Assistant to Mr. Brian Whitmore...

She read it once. Twice. Then again.

Her mouth fell open slightly. Relief. Surprise. A flicker of satisfaction. And, yes, maybe just a little vindication.

So he did remember me. He did need me, she thought with a small smile.

She wasn't sure why she felt so triumphant. Maybe because in that moment, it felt like she'd finally won a round against the world.

Monday couldn't come fast enough.

Her first day at Whitmore Industries was a whirlwind.

Brian Whitmore was no less rude. In fact, if possible, he was worse in a professional setting. He issued commands over the phone like a military general, barely sparing her a glance. He didn't ask if she was settling in. Didn't introduce her to anyone. Her desk sat just outside his office, separated by a glass wall, where he could see her but rarely acknowledge her.

She reminded herself this was a job, a good one. With benefits. She could endure anything. She'd done worse.

By noon, her phone buzzed.

"Come in," his voice crackled through the intercom.

She stepped into his office, clutching her notebook. "Yes, sir?"

He didn't look up. "Why did you take so long to respond?"

Jessica blinked. "I came the moment you called, sir."

He looked up then, eyes sharp. "Don't talk back at me."

"With all due respect, I'm not," she replied, keeping her voice calm. "But if you want people to work efficiently, you need to learn to talk to them like human beings. We're not slaves."

For a split second, the air crackled with tension.

Then he leaned back in his chair, studying her like a specimen under a microscope. "Leave my sight," he said coldly. "And be warned, pull this nonsense again, and you're fired."

Jessica walked out without a word, but inside, her chest thudded with adrenaline.

And even as she sat back at her desk, pretending to focus on the files in front of her, she could feel it-the weight of his gaze through the glass.

Watching. Studying.

And somehow, she knew this job was going to be anything but ordinary.