Emma dashed towards the bathroom, her stomach churning like a washing machine. She barely made it before a wave of nausea crashed over her, stealing her breath and leaving her gasping for air. The stale, sterile air of the office bathroom did little to calm her rattled nerves.
She gripped the cool porcelain edge of the sink, her knuckles white. Her reflection stared back at her, a stranger with haunted eyes and a face etched with exhaustion. The usually bright sparkle in her eyes was gone, replaced by a dull, weary look. Her shoulders were hunched, tight with tension, as if she were carrying the weight of the world.
It was only her first day at Westwood Designs, and she already felt like she was drowning in a sea of impossible demands. She'd envisioned challenges, of course, new jobs always had a learning curve. But this... this was something else entirely.
Damian Westwood was relentless, a force of nature disguised in an expensive suit. He didn't just push her to her limits—he crushed her under the weight of his expectations, demanding perfection with zero margin for error. Every task, no matter how trivial, had to be completed flawlessly and at lightning speed.
And the worst part, the truly demoralizing part? She felt like she was failing. Miserably.
Maybe I'm not good enough for this job…
The thought, unbidden and unwelcome, wormed its way into her mind. A thick lump formed in her throat, choking her. She swallowed it down hard, refusing to give in to the rising panic.
No. I won't let him break me.
She inhaled deeply, forcing back the frustration, the exhaustion, the growing, insidious self-doubt that threatened to consume her. She had fought tooth and nail to get this opportunity, sacrificed countless hours, and endured endless interviews. She wouldn't let Damian Westwood's impossible expectations, his cold and callous demeanor, destroy her dream.
Straightening her posture, she splashed cold water on her face, the icy shock temporarily clearing her head. She took another deep breath, trying to find the last vestiges of her resolve, and marched back out of the bathroom, ready to face her tormentor.
But the moment she stepped into her tiny, cramped workspace, her phone buzzed, a jarring reminder of the pressure that awaited her.
Damian: New task. 20-minute deadline. No errors.
Her pulse spiked, a frantic drumbeat against her ribs. Twenty minutes? Was he serious? She barely had time to breathe, let alone complete another complex task at breakneck speed and with perfect precision. Her entire day had been a relentless cycle of pressure, perceived failure, and curt, often humiliating, correction. Every success was met with silence, every mistake amplified and thrown back in her face.
She hadn't even had a proper lunch break. She'd scarfed down a granola bar at her desk, feeling Damian's eyes boring into the back of her head the entire time. He was always watching, always scrutinizing, always finding fault.
And then—as if on cue, as if the universe was conspiring to make her day even worse—a new email notification popped up in the corner of her screen.
From: Damian Westwood Subject: Your Performance
Her stomach twisted into a knot so tight it stole her breath. The simple subject line felt like a punch to the gut.
She hesitated, her hand hovering over the mouse. She knew what awaited her in that email. Rejection. Criticism. More fuel for the fire of her self-doubt.
But she couldn't avoid it forever. With a deep breath, she clicked the email open.
Miss Carter,
Your work today has been sloppy, slow, and inefficient. Westwood Designs has no place for mediocrity. Improve, or don't bother coming in tomorrow.
—Damian Westwood
Emma's chest tightened, the words searing themselves into her brain. Sloppy. Slow. Inefficient. Mediocrity.
Don't bother coming in tomorrow.
The threat hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Tears burned behind her eyes, but she stubbornly refused to let them fall. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
She had never worked this hard in her life. She had poured her heart and soul into every task, even the most mundane ones. She had sacrificed weekends, social life, and even sleep, just to get here, to prove herself. And this man—this cold, arrogant, impossible man—was already treating her like she was disposable, like she was nothing more than a replaceable cog in his well-oiled machine.
For the first time since stepping into this office, a genuine, bone-chilling fear crept in. What if she really lost this job? What if she couldn't meet his impossible standards? What if she failed so spectacularly that she was back to square one, unemployed and riddled with self-doubt?
The pressure was suffocating, a crushing weight on her shoulders. She felt like she was drowning, gasping for air in a sea of impossible demands and unrealistic expectations. Her dream, the one she had worked so hard to achieve, was slipping through her fingers.
But as her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides, something else flickered beneath the exhaustion and fear. Something stronger, something more potent.
Anger.
A slow, burning rage began to simmer within her, a fierce defiance against the unfairness of it all. She wouldn't quit. She absolutely refused to be defeated by this man and his impossible demands.
He thought he could break her? He thought he could dismiss her with a few cutting words? He was wrong.
No. She wouldn't let him. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her crumble.
If he wanted a flawless assistant, she'd become one. She would learn his quirks, anticipate his needs, and master every task he threw her way. She would become the most efficient, most indispensable assistant he had ever seen.
She would transform herself into the perfect employee, not because she was afraid of losing her job, but because she was determined to prove him wrong. To show him that she was capable, resilient, and far more than just "mediocre."
But one day—one day soon—she'd make him regret ever underestimating her. One day, she would prove to him, and to herself, that she was not someone to be dismissed or taken for granted.
The anger fueled her, pushing back the exhaustion, the self-doubt, and the fear. It gave her a renewed sense of purpose, a determination to not only survive but to thrive.
She sat back in her chair, her eyes narrowed, and stared at the new task on her screen. Twenty minutes. No errors. He wanted a challenge? Fine. She'd give him one.
She took a deep breath and began to work, her fingers flying across the keyboard with a newfound focus and intensity. The anger was her fuel, her weapon, her shield against the relentless pressure.
Damian Westwood may have thought he could break her, but he was wrong. He had just lit a fire within her, a fire that would burn until she proved him wrong and achieved her goals. The game was on.