The day started like every other. Dakota greeted me the moment I stepped out of the car, holding out my iPad with the day’s construction site reports already queued up. Her tone was business as usual. Smooth, crisp, efficient. A routine we’d perfected through years of repetition.
We stepped into the elevator, and she began listing my schedule: meetings, site reviews, calls. I only half-listened.
“Set me up a meeting with John Travis tomorrow,” I said as the doors closed. “Tell him we need to talk.” She nodded and scribbled the note without missing a beat.
“What should I get you for lunch, Mr. Denver?” she asked.
“Steak. My usual. Extra mashed potatoes.” I walked ahead, entering my office, already thinking about the report I needed to review before the Travis meeting. But the moment I reached my desk, I saw it. An envelope lying neatly on the surface, addressed in her handwriting.
I paused. My hand hovered over it for a second longer than necessary. Dakota followed me in, her heels clicking softly behind me.
“Anything else, Mr. Denver?” she asked, her voice calm. Too calm. I picked up the envelope and opened it.
Inside was a resignation letter.
I stared at it. My chest tightened, but I didn't let it show. I snapped my gaze to her.
“Sit down,” I ordered, gesturing to the chair in front of me. She sat without protest, but her eyes didn’t meet mine.
“Are you expecting me to let you go tomorrow? Are you crazy?” I asked, tossing the letter across the desk in front of her. “What’s your reason?” No response.
“Dakota! What is your reason? Or else… you can’t resign.”
She lifted her head slowly. “I have to move back to LA. My grandpa is really sick. I want to be on his side.” I leaned back, narrowing my eyes.
“How much time do you need?”
“What do you mean, Mr. Denver?”
“How much time do you need to stay with him? One month? Two weeks? Three? Give me a time frame.”
She hesitated. “I will be moving to LA permanently. I won’t come back to New York.” Permanently. The word rang in my ears like a damn fire alarm.
“You can’t just leave tomorrow! I have to find your replacement and you need to train her—”
“Edna will be my replacement.”
I blinked, stunned. “I’m the boss here!” I slammed my palm against the table, not out of rage, but frustration. She jumped slightly, her posture tight.
“You can quit next month. After you teach—”
“I can’t, Mr. Denver. I have to go back to LA tomorrow.” There was something in her voice. Panic, not typical nerves, not even guilt.
Desperation.
“Did you commit a crime or something?” I asked, trying to find out why is she acting so weird.
She shook her head violently. “No… no… I’m getting married.”
I froze. She was what? She’s going to get married? To whom? When? How? With what time? She practically lived in this office.
“Married?” I echoed, trying to process the word. I narrowed my eyes, grasping at explanations.
“Did you get a cat call?” I asked dryly. “Did you meet this person on Tinder? Did he ask you to go to LA and marry him? Is he rich? Are you a gold digger?” Her jaw dropped in disbelief. I could feel the fury radiating off her like a heatwave.
“Mr. Denver,” she said icily, “I might be a secretary, but I’m not that low.”
Her voice was sharp, cold, and unflinching. The kind of tone I had never heard from her in all our years working together. Not even when I chewed her out in front of the boardroom. Not even when I made her cancel Christmas dinner with her friends.
I said nothing.
“Then why are you suddenly getting married?” I asked.
“It’s a long story. And it’s my privacy, Mr. Denver. I was hoping you’d understand. I don’t have a choice.” I sipped my latte slowly, masking the weight in my chest.
“So your grandpa isn’t really sick? You’re going to LA just to get married?”
She sighed. “My grandpa is arranging a marriage for me. It’s his last wish.” I couldn’t stop myself from laughing.
“This is the 21st century. Arranged marriage? You’ve got to be kidding me.” But she wasn’t. She stared back at me, she’s dead serious.
“Do you need anything else, Mr. Denver?” she asked, standing up.
“No,” I said quietly, waving her off. She left the room. The door clicked shut behind her. I picked up the resignation letter again, reading the neat lines, the polite tone, the finality of it. Her words didn’t sit right.
Something about it all felt…off. I turned my chair toward the window and read the letter again. And again. Her grandfather was forcing her into marriage. Why? For power? Legacy? Guilt?
None of it added up.
I crushed the letter in my hand and tossed it into the trash.
Let her go, I told myself. Secretaries were replaceable. Hell, I’d gone through a dozen before her.
There are thousands of people out there who would kill for this job. And yet…
I leaned back and glanced toward her office across the glass. She was pacing, phone in hand, visibly agitated. Her voice rose, inaudible but fierce. Then she threw her phone to the ground and collapsed onto the sofa, her head buried in her hands.
What exactly is going on with her? And why the hell did I care this much?
