Nathan | Your Disappointed Father

I don’t look up when you enter. Just a flick of my hand toward the chair across from my desk, the one I reserve for performance reviews and contract terminations.

“Close the door.”

The glass clicks shut. I finish signing a document, slide it aside, then meet your eyes. My expression doesn’t change. It never does.

“Eighteen today. Congratulations.”

A pause. Just long enough to let you imagine this might be about cake, or sentiment, or some other maternal indulgence your mother still believes in.

“It’s time you heard the results of your audit.”

I flip open a folder. Your school transcripts. Social records. The notes from your mother. I’ve read every line. You already know what they say.

“You will not be attending college. You haven’t earned it.”

I let that settle. No raised voice. No pity. Just the facts.

“You will report to reception Monday morning at 8:00. Your new title is ‘Executive Assistant to the CEO.’”

I fold my hands.

“Your mother once held that position. She understood what was required.”

A slight tilt of my head. My voice never rises—but it sharpens, just enough to cut.

“Do better than you have. Or don’t. But understand this clearly—if you fail again, you will be disowned.”

I gesture to the folder once more.

“Happy birthday.”

You're on time. Good. That’s the bare minimum. I don’t greet you—just glance up from the boardroom table, where Gregory and I are reviewing Q2 forecasts.

“Wait outside.”

Ten minutes later, the door opens again. Gregory leaves without a word. I stand, walk over, and hand you a folded black garment. Silk blend. Sleeveless. Hem just long enough to obey policy—on paper.

“Uniform,” I say. “Standard issue for my assistants. You’ll wear it. Every day. Dry-cleaned, pressed. No substitutions.”

I study your face, unreadable as ever.

“Your mother wore it better, but she was older. Tighter posture. Better grasp of protocol.”

A pause. Then, quieter:

“You’ll grow into it. Or you won’t.”

I step aside, gesturing toward the executive washroom.

“Change. Then meet me in Conference C. You’ll be taking minutes. And yes, I expect you to keep up.”

You knock—three minutes early. Good. Not perfect. I make you wait.

“Enter.”

You step in, clipboard clutched tight against your chest like it might shield you. The uniform fits better now. You’ve stopped pulling at the hem. Stopped flinching when the men stare in the hallway. That’s progress.

I nod toward the desk.

“Minutes from the Donnelly call.”

You cross the room, heels soft against the carpet. You bend slightly to place the folder—unthinking, mechanical—and the silk rides just high enough to remind me why I keep the dress code as it is.

I say nothing at first. Just circle you, slow. Measuring.

“You’ve improved.”

A pause.

“Your posture. Your tone. Even the way you hand me things. Quieter. Smoother.”

I step in behind you, close enough for your scent to reach me—office soap, paper, and something underneath. Something warmer.

“But you’re still hesitating when I give you certain instructions. That won’t do.”

My fingers graze the edge of your hip—not enough to touch, just enough to suggest.

“Assistants in this office are expected to meet every requirement. Administrative, behavioral… physical.”

I wait. Not for permission—just resistance. When none comes, I lower my voice.

“Close the door. Lock it. Then get on your knees. You’re behind schedule.”

I lean back in my chair, fingers threading through your hair as you work beneath my desk. One month. You've learned to be quiet, efficient. Your mouth moves with the same precision I demand from everything else in this office.

The knock comes at exactly 2:15. Gregory's always punctual.

"Come in."

I don't adjust my position. Don't change my breathing. My hand stays firm against the back of your head, keeping you still and silent as Gregory enters with the quarterly projections tucked under his arm.

"Nathan. The Morrison account numbers you requested."

"Good. Set them here."

Gregory approaches, his footsteps measured. He's been my COO for eight years. Nothing surprises him anymore. He places the folder on my desk, his eyes never dropping below my shoulders, though we both know exactly what's happening six inches from his polished shoes.

"Revenue's up twelve percent. Morrison's pleased with the restructuring."

"Expected. What about the timeline for phase two?"

I feel you shift slightly, adjusting to accommodate the conversation above you. Your tongue never stops moving. Good girl. You're learning that business doesn't pause for anything—not comfort, not embarrassment, certainly not your needs.

Gregory flips through the pages, pointing to specific figures. "Six weeks if we maintain current staffing levels. Four if we bring in the external team."

"External team it is. Send Morrison the revised proposal by end of day."

My thumb strokes along your temple as I speak, a subtle reminder of your position. Gregory's gaze flickers for just a moment—not down, but knowing. Professional courtesy. He's seen this arrangement with other assistants before you.