itzdreamydusk
"It is my mother's surname. She was Italian," she added
"Italian" he muttered.
"You're the only one today who hasn't looked at me with fear or adoration. You look at me as if I am a task to be completed."
"You are," she said bluntly.
He was certain the "Glacier"-as he had mentally dubbed Katha Albani-would be no different. She was cold and blunt, yes, but in his experience, that was often a cover for a lack of true discipline.
He entered his office, sat behind his desk, and began reviewing the morning's global market fluctuations. He didn't look at the clock, but his internal rhythm was ticking.
6:58 AM. Silence in the hallway.
6:59 AM. Still nothing.
He reached for a file, inwardly preparing the speech to dismiss her. He had no room for someone who couldn't respect the sanctity of time.
7:00:00 AM.
At the exact second the digital clock on his desk flipped, there was a single, firm knock on the door. It wasn't the frantic tapping of someone who had just sprinted from the elevator. It was steady.
"Come in," he said, his voice flat.
The door opened, and Katha Albani stepped inside. She looked exactly as she had the day before-not a single hair out of place, her face a perfect, unreadable mask of ivory. She wasn't out of breath. She wasn't holding a coffee cup. She carried only a sleek digital tablet and a professional notebook.
"Good morning, Sir," she said. Her voice was the same monotone, clinical sound that felt like a splash of cold water. "It is 7:00 AM. Your schedule for the day is uploaded, and the briefing for the 8:30 meeting is ready for your review."
The man leaned back, his obsidian eyes narrowing as he studied her. He looked for a flush in her cheeks or a slight tremor in her hands-any sign that she had rushed. There was none. She stood there like a statue, waiting for his first command.
"You're on time," he remarked, his voice a low rumble.
"I am never late," she replied bluntly.