Olivia’s POV
I ran across the street towards the office, almost bumping into innocent pedestrians. I noticed Patricia standing up with a smile but I ignored her and ran towards the elevator, frantically punching the executive floor button.
The elevator ride seed to take forever, but finally I arrived without any stops.
I checked my ti as I quickly hurried towards his office. Eight minutes late. Just eight minutes. Maybe he won’t even notice.
But even as I thought it, I knew I was kidding myself. Maxwell Wellington noticed everything, especially when it ca to my failures.
I burst through his office door, slightly out of breath, and imdiately felt the temperature in the room drop about twenty degrees.
Maxwell sat behind his desk, but he wasn’t working. He was just sitting there, staring at the door like he’d been waiting for .
"I’m so sorry I’m late, sir," I began imdiately, moving toward my desk. "The line at the restaurant was longer than expected, and..."
"Co sit down, Oliver."
His voice was quiet - too quiet. The kind of quiet that was very dangerous.
I slowly walked towards his desk and lowered myself into the chair across from him. My stomach twisting into knots as I t his eyes.
"Do you know what I’ve been doing for the past eight minutes?" Maxwell asked, his cold eyes never leaving my face.
"Working, sir?"
"No." He leaned back in his chair, "I’ve been sitting here, watching the clock, wondering if my new assistant understood the concept of punctuality. Wondering if perhaps I’d made another mistake by hiring you. Because since you resud here, Hopton, you’ve been nothing but a pain in my neck."
Heat crept up my neck. "Sir, it was only eight minutes..."
"Only eight minutes?" Maxwell’s voice rose slightly, "Mr. Hopton, let explain sothing to you about the value of ti in my company."
He stood up from his chair and walked around the desk until he was standing directly in front of . I had to crane my neck to look up at him, feeling suddenly small and vulnerable.
"Five minutes of my ti is worth approximately four hundred and seventeen dollars," he said, his voice a dangerous whisper. "Five minutes of wasted productivity can an the difference between closing a deal and losing a client. Five minutes of disrespect toward your employer can cost you your career. And you’re not just five minutes late, but eight."
I opened my mouth to apologize again, but he held up a hand.
"I gave you very specific instructions, Mr. Hopton. One hour for lunch. Exactly one hour. Not sixty-eight minutes. Not ’approximately’ one hour. Sixty minutes. Did I stutter when I said that?"
"No, sir."
"Then explain to why you thought those rules didn’t apply to you."
I stilled, my mind suddenly blank, with no way to speak up or figure out so believable excuse.
"I said explain yourself," Maxwell repeated, his voice harder now.
Sothing in snapped just then. "You want an explanation?" I said, standing up so abruptly that my chair rolled backward. "Fine. I was late because I was having lunch with a friend who was giving advice about how to deal with impossible, tyrannical bosses who get off on making their employees feel like garbage."
Maxwell’s eyes widened slightly, clearly not expecting that response.
"How to deal with bosses," I continued, "who fire people like it’s cool, who demote qualified attorneys to fetch coffee, who think basic human decency is a sign of weakness."
"Mr. Hopton..." Maxwell’s voice carried a warning, but I was past caring.
"You want to know why I was late? Because for five minutes in that cafe - five precious minutes - I could breathe clean normal air and not the suffocating air in this office. And frankly, sir, those five minutes were worth every penny of your four hundred and seventeen dollars."
The office fell into complete silence. Maxwell stared at with an expression I couldn’t read, and I realized what I’d just done.
Damn, girl. Why did you do that?
Maxwell walked slowly back to his desk, his gaze still fixed on . When he reached his chair, he didn’t sit down. Instead, he placed his good hand on the desk and leaned forward.
"Are you finished?" he asked quietly.
I lifted my chin slightly. "Yes, sir. I am."
"Good." Maxwell straightened up, "Now, turn around and leave the way you ca in. You’re fired, Mr. Hopton."
"Oliver? Oliver? Hey!" I felt a slight nudge in my ankle, bringing back to reality.
"Yes, Yes sir. You said sothing?" I breathed, shifting uncomfortably in my seat from that weird trance.
"I said, explain to why you’re late." He repeated. "In fact, you know what?" He said, standing up and moving back behind his desk. "I don’t need your flimsy excuses."
He opened his drawer and picked up a manila folder and held it out to . "These are employee evaluations that need to be typed up and distributed to HR by end of business today. Single-spaced, perfect formatting, no errors."
I took the folder, still feeling disoriented from that little dream of finally standing up to Maxwell.
"There are forty-seven evaluations in that folder," Maxwell continued, settling back into his chair. "Each one is approximately three pages of handwritten notes that need to be transcribed into our standard format. I estimate it will take you roughly six to seven hours to complete, assuming you type at an average speed and don’t make any mistakes that require starting over."
My stomach sank as the reality of what he was saying hit . "Sir, it’s already past one o’clock..."
"Which ans you’ll be working late tonight," Maxwell said with satisfaction. "Very late. Perhaps next ti you’ll think twice about spending extra ti on lunch breaks."
I stared down at the thick massive folder in my hands, "But I’m not finished with the other one sir. This is... this is..."
"Your job, Mr. Hopton," Maxwell interrupted. "Now, get to work."
"Okay sir," I said through gritted teeth, turning to leave.
"Oh, and Oliver?" Maxwell’s voice stopped in my tracks. "While you’re at it, I’ll need you to go down to Taylor’s and get my coffee."
"But sir, I asked if you needed anything..."
"I’m going to be needing my coffee every two hours." He interrupted like I hadn’t said anything.
"Every two hours?"
"Yes," he confird. "And this ti around, there’s a little change in my order."
"What would you like, sir?" I asked, my voice barely steady.
"My usual large black coffee, but with one packet of raw sugar. Not white sugar, not brown sugar - raw sugar. If they don’t have raw sugar, you’ll need to go to the organic market and buy so yourself."
"Yes, sir," I managed.
"Now run along, you have work to do."
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