Chapter 5 A Matter of Order

Ben pulled the sleek black town car to a smooth stop at the curb. He glanced at her in the rearview mirror with a half-smile. “You ready for your first day?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Amelia said, tucking her phone into her bag.

He stepped out, came around to open her door, and offered his hand. “At least it’s not raining.”

“That’s something,” she said, accepting his hand as she stepped out. She gave him a small, genuine smile.

The chill in the early October air brushed against her cheeks, carrying the scent of roasted coffee from a nearby cart and the faint maple sweetness drifting from the trees lining the avenue.

Above her, the building’s mirrored facade reflected the gold and crimson leaves, the glass rising in a sharp, clean line against the sky. Hearst & Pierce Global — the name was etched in steel above the entrance, understated but unmissable.

It was a partnership built on two legacies. The Hearsts were old money — financiers with decades of capital investment in landmark properties — while the Pierces had made their fortune in the dirt and steel of construction, turning blueprints into skylines. For years, the two families had been rivals until their Great grandfathers struck a deal, merging capital and craftsmanship into one of the most powerful luxury real estate firms in the country.

Bryson Hearst had taken over as CEO at twenty-six, after his father stepped back. Carl, three years older, had stepped into a senior role in acquisitions and development. It worked, though everyone in the industry knew Bryson was the one shaping the company’s future. Where Bryson was precise and controlled, Carl was flashier — more about the handshake than the follow-through.

Amelia had heard the stories, of course, but she’d only been in Bryson’s orbit a handful of times. And each time, she’d noticed the same thing: he was polite, but there was a reserve to him, a watchfulness that made you wonder what he was thinking behind those pale grey eyes.

Inside, George looked up from the security desk and grinned. “Morning, Mrs. Pierce — or should I say, welcome to the team.”

“Morning, George,” she said warmly, stepping closer to the desk. “And it’s just Amelia, please. I’m starting to think there’s a nation-wide memo telling everyone to call me Mrs. Pierce.”

George chuckled as he reached into a drawer and pulled out a sleek black-lanyard badge. “Your new pass. Gets you anywhere you need to go.”

“Thank you, George,” she said, slipping it over her head.

The elevator doors slid open to the quiet hum of Bryson’s floor. The tone here was different from Carl’s — steadier, quieter, a sense of precision in the air.

At the front desk, Evelyn, Bryson’s receptionist, looked up from her monitor. “Good morning, Mrs. Pierce—sorry, Amelia,” she corrected once seeing Amelia's knowing glance. “Welcome back. You’ll find everything you need waiting on your desk. And if you need anything else at all, just let me know.”

“Thank you, Evelyn,” Amelia said warmly. “It’s good to see you again.”

Evelyn nodded, returning to her work as Amelia crossed the lobby. She didn’t need directions this time; the desk she’d seen yesterday stood just outside Bryson’s office — neat, impersonal, waiting.

She set down her bag and began to make it her own. Her leather-bound notebook went to the right of her laptop, pen balanced neatly across the top. A slender glass vase held a single cherry blossom branch she’d picked up from a boutique florist — imported, a small indulgence she couldn’t quite resist. — found its place near the corner. From her bag, she pulled a small silver frame with a photo of her parents on the Amalfi Coast, her father’s arm around her mother, both laughing. It was understated, but it made the space feel less like a temporary landing spot and more like hers. A crisp white folder lay in the center of the desk — a welcome packet from HR with her network passwords, security codes, and a printed copy of Bryson’s current schedule. She flipped it open briefly, scanning the neat blocks of time filled with names and numbers. It was meticulous, but she could already see where she’d rearrange things to give him breathing room.

Beside the folder, she set down her miniature fidget puzzle — a polished wooden cube with shifting tiles she’d had for years. She didn’t play with it often, but whenever her mind was chewing over a problem, the feel of it in her hands helped her focus.

She was halfway through reviewing Bryson’s call list when a voice came from behind her.

“You’re early,” Bryson said.

She turned, finding him in the doorway — suit jacket on, tie perfectly knotted, posture composed. The morning light from the windows caught on the steel of his cufflinks, the neat edge of precision in everything about him.

For a brief, disorienting second, the room seemed to still — not from attraction, she told herself, but from contrast. Bryson Hearst carried quiet the way other men carried noise..

One corner of his mouth lifted, but only slightly. “I like to know who’s in my office before I am.”

“I like to be prepared before I have to be,” she countered.

That earned her a brief flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes before he nodded toward his office. “Calendar meeting in ten.”

When she stepped into his office, she noticed the organized chaos — contracts stacked in uneven piles, a heavy paperweight holding down a scatter of handwritten notes, and the faint scent of cedar, amber with a blend of oceanic mist and coffee in the air.

She sat across from him and began flipping through the printed schedule, pen in hand. As they reviewed his appointments, her gaze drifted to the nearest stack of files spread across his desk. The papers weren’t messy, exactly, just… restless — contracts half-signed, notes clipped unevenly, follow-ups buried beneath new drafts.

Without quite realizing it, she began to straighten them. Each document got a quick, practiced glance — date, signature line, company name — before she set it into a neater pile. Urgent items edged closer to the center, anything clearly marked for later found its way to the side.

Bryson’s grey eyes flicked to her hands, then back to her face. “You always rearrange other people’s desks, or is this special treatment?”

She paused, caught mid-motion, then gave a small, rueful smile. “Force of habit. I like to know what I’m looking at before it turns into chaos.”

“Distracting for who?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

“For me,” she said, matching his tone, even as the smallest smile tugged at her mouth.

A pause passed between them — short, but weighted. Then he nodded to the schedule. “Go on.”

They went through the rest of the morning’s calls, his tone brisk but not unfriendly — a man who didn’t waste words.

“Anything else?” she asked, capping her pen and glancing up.

He studied her for a beat. “You’ve been checking the clock since you sat down. Something I should know about?”

She hesitated. “I have a small gala tonight.”

His brow rose. “Company-related?”

“No. Children’s art program I’ve been organizing for months.”

For a second, his gaze held hers, assessing. “That’s why you were moving tables in heels yesterday?”

She blinked. “You heard about that?”

“I hear about most things,” he said simply.

Her lips curved faintly. “Well, if you’re interested, you could always stop by. We’re serving the best mini crab cakes in the city.”

That earned the smallest flicker of amusement from him. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She rose, tucking her notebook under her arm. “I’ll get started on your calls.”

When she was gone, Bryson leaned back in his chair, scanning the now neatly divided stacks of work. Without realizing it, she’d cut through the usual clutter, putting the most urgent files within easy reach. It was a small thing, but when he glanced at the clock and saw he had five minutes before his first call — instead of the usual scramble to find the right contract — he felt it.

Efficient. Self-starting. And she’d done it without being asked.

For the first time in a long while, he thought his day might actually run on time.

The morning had passed in a blur of calls and file-sorting — all the things Bryson’s former assistant clearly hadn’t had time to do correctly. Amelia had worked through the more urgent files, too, ranging from million-dollar contracts to a handwritten reminder to call his tailor. She didn’t even realize she’d started reordering his work into neat “urgent” and “follow-up” piles until Bryson leaned against his doorway, arms folded, watching her.

“You hungry?” he asked, the corner of his mouth just barely lifting. “Or do you plan to reorganize my entire office before lunch?”

She glanced at the clock. “I was going to check with Carl, see if he wanted to eat together.”

Bryson asked, leaning against the frame, sleeves rolled, expression dry.

“Check,” Bryson echoed like it was a curious choice of word. “Not just tell him?”

“That’s not how my husband works,” she said, already reaching for her phone.

Bryson’s brow lifted slightly, but he only said, “If you want, I can add your lunch to mine. I’m putting in an order from the deli down the street.”

“That’s kind of you,” she said. “Let me see what Carl says first.”

He gave a single nod and, without another word, stepped back toward his office, slipping his hands into his pockets. She realized as he went that he was deliberately giving her space — a small courtesy, but one that didn’t go unnoticed.

Amelia pressed Carl’s number and waited, tapping her pen against the edge of her notebook until his voice came on the line.

“I’m in the middle of something,” Carl said immediately.

“I was going to see if you wanted to have lunch,” Amelia said.

“Can’t. I’ve got back-to-backs until three, maybe later,” Carl replied. “Eat without me.”

The call ended without a goodbye.

As Amelia was about to slip the phone back into her bag, her screen lit up with Claire’s name. She glanced toward Bryson’s office “Claire,” she greeted, answering with a faint smile.

“Please tell me you’ve checked the final media rundown. I just need to confirm we’re aligned before I send the press team to the venue.”

“I haven’t had a second,” Amelia said, lowering her voice. “It’s my first day in Bryson Hearst’s office.”

There was a pause, then a sharp intake of breath. “Wait — you’re doing what?”

“Carl volunteered me to fill in as his assistant. Starting today.”

“On the day of your gala?” Claire’s voice rose, incredulous. “That’s— I mean, do you even hear yourself? He doesn’t take your work or your time seriously. He never has.”

Amelia sighed quietly. It’ll be fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Claire said firmly. “He just threw you into a job without even asking. And you’re letting him.”

“I’m choosing not to waste my energy on him today,” Amelia said evenly.

“Then let’s get lunch. You need a break before tonight. Deli down the street — our place. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

A small smile tugged at Amelia’s lips. “Alright. But if you’re late, I’m ordering without you.”

“Not happening,” Claire promised.

When the call ended, Amelia rose from her desk and crossed to Bryson’s doorway.

Before heading out, Amelia stopped at Bryson’s office door. He was just hanging up the phone, a pen still in his hand.

“I’m going to step out for lunch,” she said.

He glanced up from his notes. “Enjoy.” There was no question, no hesitation, just that single word before he turned back to the file in front of him.