The Assistant - Elle Brace

Elle Brace - The Assistant

The Assistant
Elle Brace



He was tall.

At about 6’1”, he towered over my 5’4” height and made me feel shorter than I usually did.

I watched as yet another female walked out of his office, looking flustered and flushed with embarrassment as she readjusted her business skirt.

“Ms. Johnson?” An old lady wearing a pink plaid jacket called out, pushing her glasses back up the bridge of her nose as she scanned the waiting area.

I stood up at the sound of my name and greeted her with a nervous nod and a smile that probably turned out more like a grimace.

“This way please.” The lady said, escorting me into the office that nine other girls had previously entered – and exited - before me.

I clutched tightly at the folder containing my carefully listed skills and qualifications; I had worked all week to perfect it, just for a chance at this job.

“Thank you,” I muttered. She gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder before exiting the room quietly and shutting the door behind her with a soft ‘thud.’

I let out a nervous sigh before turning around to meet the man I’d only ever seen on billboards, the internet and magazines. It was the first time I would see him in person.

“Name,” he stated, a deep British accent lacing the singular, blunt word.

I cleared my throat and wiped my sweaty palms on my grey pencil skirt. “Hello,” I said, “My name is Emily Johnson.” I smiled nervously at the authority figure seated on a large leather chair behind a dark, polished marble desk so large it almost took up the entire length of the office.

He didn’t glance in my direction as I walked forward and placed my resume on his desk with shaky hands.

“Take a seat,” he muttered, still staring intently at his computer screen.

I nodded, even though I knew he wasn’t going to be paying attention to the gesture. “Thank you.” I took a seat in one of the navy coloured leather chairs that were placed in front of his desk, and gripped the arm of the chair with such force that I watched my knuckles turn white.

A few silent moments passed before his hazel green eyes flickered in my direction briefly, and then doing a double take.

I felt my eyes widen slightly and I visibly swallowed from nervousness. Was I not wearing the correct clothing? Did he recognise me from somewhere? The nerves creating the knot in my stomach became stronger, and I felt the knot begin to expand.

“Ms. Johnson, was it?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as his gaze slowly scanned my attire before coming back to meet my eyes.

I gulped and nodded, causing him to smirk and get out of his seat.

“I- I have a resume…” My voice trailed off, the thought continued only by the finger I pointed toward the folder I had so painstakingly spent hours on. He wasn’t paying attention to that. Instead, he walked over to where I was sitting until he stood directly in front of me.

“Get up.” His tone was commanding, and I felt my body jerk out of the seat before my brain could process what was happening.

Looking at him in closer now, I saw that the magazines and pictures I had seen him in did not do him justice.

Who was he, exactly? He was Adrian Kingston, the 25-year-old-billionare-playboy who owns Kingston Corp. His father spent 23 years building the company, which now includes over 350 hotels and offices in New York City alone. I knew this because I had done my research before arriving for this job interview – to