Chapter 2 - The Thirty-Day Challenge
Paige arrived at 6:38 the next morning.
This time she wore both shoes.
Lorraine looked impressed.
“I'm beginning to think you plan to survive.”
“I plan to make rent.”
“Same thing around here.”
The executive floor was nearly empty.
Graham’s office lights were already on.
Paige walked in at exactly 6:45.
Graham did not look up.
“You're early.”
“Seven minutes.”
“I said six forty-five.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you here at six thirty-eight?”
“Security makes people uncomfortable when they stand around alone.”
Graham finally looked at her.
“You noticed.”
“I notice things.”
He slid a folder across his desk.
“This is your schedule.”
Paige opened it.
She stared.
“This is not a schedule.”
“What is it?”
“A hostage situation.”
Graham raised an eyebrow.
“You have nine meetings today.”
“Eleven.”
He checked the page.
Two more were handwritten.
“Those weren't there when I printed it.”
“Your managing director added them at 6:12.”
Graham frowned.
Paige pulled out her notebook.
“Your eight-thirty call with Zurich conflicts with your nine o’clock breakfast meeting.”
“It does.”
“Your ten-fifteen legal call conflicts with the portfolio committee.”
“They know.”
“They don't.”
She marked two lines.
“Your Chicago Children's Foundation lunch was moved to noon yesterday, but your calendar still says twelve-thirty.”
“I know.”
“Then why didn't you fix it?”
He looked at her.
“Because I'm seeing whether you will.”
Paige slowly lowered her pen.
“Is this a test?”
“Yes.”
“I hate tests.”
“So do I.”
She corrected the schedule.
By seven twenty, it was done.
She reorganized three meetings, shifted a lunch, contacted Zurich, and moved a private-equity partner's call to the next afternoon.
Graham watched her work.
“You changed my 3:30.”
“It conflicted with your mother's doctor's appointment.”
Silence.
“How do you know?”
“She left a message.”
“You listened to it?”
“You asked me to screen your calls.”
He stared.
“That's personal.”
“She sounded upset.”
Graham looked away.
“My mother doesn't need me.”
“She sounded like she thought you did.”
His jaw tightened.
“Don't make assumptions about my family.”
“Then don't give me family problems and ask me to manage them.”
He looked at her.
Paige held his gaze.
After a moment, he nodded.
“Fair.”
The first week passed without disaster.
The second was worse.
Paige learned everything.
Graham drank black coffee but only before nine.
He hated meetings longer than twenty-five minutes.
He refused to fly through O'Hare during rush hour.
He remembered every employee's name.
He forgot to eat when stressed.
He hated being thanked for things that were already part of his job.
He disliked flowers in his office.
He secretly loved old jazz.
He read three newspapers every morning.
He had a habit of rubbing the scar near his left wrist whenever someone mentioned his father.
And he never answered questions about his personal life.
Paige learned something else.
Graham was not cruel.
He was terrified of mistakes.
It was subtle.
He would reread contracts five times.
He would demand three independent models before approving an acquisition.
He would call the same attorney twice because he didn't trust the first answer.
And he slept very little.
One night, Paige found him asleep over a stack of financial statements.
It was nearly midnight.
She stood in the doorway.
“Mr. Mercer?”
No response.
She walked closer.
His face looked different in sleep.
Younger.
Less severe.
There was something lonely about him that she had never noticed.
She put a blanket over his shoulders.
Then she turned off the lamp.
“Goodnight, terrifying millionaire.”
His eyes opened.
“I heard that.”
Paige jumped.
“You were awake?”
“No.”
“Then how—”
“You speak loudly.”
“Your hearing is selective.”
“Apparently.”
She smiled.
“You should sleep.”
He looked at the blanket.
“Did you put this on me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You looked cold.”
Nobody had done that in a long time.
He didn't say it.
But she saw it in his face.
The next morning, the blanket was folded neatly on her chair.
There was no note.
Just a cup of coffee.
Made exactly the way she liked it.
Paige stared at it.
Lorraine walked past.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're smiling.”
“I'm remembering the other nineteen assistants.”
“What about them?”
“None of them got coffee.”
Paige looked toward Graham’s office.
He was already working.
“Don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Start making it weird.”
Lorraine laughed.
“Too late.”
By the end of week three, Graham had begun relying on Paige.
He stopped checking the calendar.
Stopped correcting small details.
Stopped asking whether she understood.
He simply assumed she did.
That trust frightened him more than attraction.
Because attraction was manageable.
Trust was not.
Then on a Thursday evening, Paige overheard two senior executives talking outside the conference room.
“Mercer can't close the Orson deal.”
“Why?”
“Someone is leaking numbers.”
“Inside?”
“Almost certainly.”
Paige stopped.
The men didn't notice.
“Then Mercer needs to find the leak before the board does.”
Paige returned to her desk.
Graham walked out moments later.
“Everything ready?”
“Yes.”
He looked at her.
“You heard them.”
She didn't pretend otherwise.
“Yes.”
“Stay out of it.”
“I wasn't planning to get involved.”
“Good.”
He walked away.
Then paused.
“Paige.”
She looked up.
“Don't trust anyone.”
She smiled.
“That's a difficult request from a man who made me reorganize his life in three weeks.”
He didn't smile.
“I mean it.”
She studied him.
“So do I.”
That night, Graham received an anonymous email.
YOU SHOULD ASK YOUR NEW ASSISTANT WHAT SHE REALLY CAME TO WESTBRIDGE FOR.
Attached was a photograph of Paige.
Outside the courthouse.
Standing beside a man Graham recognized.
May you like
Her father.
The man who had once nearly destroyed Graham's company.
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