Chapter 3 The Mirror

By Asher

The elevator chimed, a sleek, digital ping that echoed through the empty penthouse lobby of Sterling Media. It was 10:45 PM. The glass-and-steel skyscraper was a ghost town, but the ambient blue accent lighting along the walls gave it the sterile, predatory feel of an aquarium at night. This was Harrison Sterling’s kingdom. Every minimalist leather chair, every multi-million-dollar abstract painting, and every employee’s career lived and died by his nod.

I swiped my keycard at the heavy glass doors of the executive suite. They slid open with a quiet hiss.

The bullpen was pitch black, but Harrison’s corner office at the end of the hall was glowing. I walked inside, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. The desk was immaculate. No papers, no stray pens. Just a sleek monitor and a stark, obsidian nameplate: Harrison Sterling. Chief Executive Officer.

I sank into my chair at the assistant desk just outside his door, pulling the thick compliance portfolios toward me. My hands were still shaking from the blowout with Chloe in the driveway. Her ultimatum rung in my ears: Commit to a real future with me, or I am walking away. Tomorrow.

"Focus," I muttered to myself, rubbing my eyes. "Just fix the data."

For the next two hours, the only sounds were the furious clicking of my mouse and the hum of the air conditioning. I buried myself in the numbers, matching logistics spreadsheets with marketing compliance codes. If I made one mistake, Harrison would tear me apart in front of the board. He didn't tolerate weakness, and he certainly didn't tolerate errors.

Around 1:15 AM, the main glass doors hissed open again.

I bolted upright, expecting Harrison’s towering figure, my heart hammering against my ribs. Instead, the sharp, rhythmic click of designer heels echoed down the hallway.

A woman stepped into the light of the executive suite. She wore a tailored cream coat over a silk dress, her dark hair pinned back perfectly, though a few stray strands gave away her agitation. It was Clara Sterling.

She stopped when she saw me, holding a sleek leather document portfolio in her hand. "Asher? You're still here?"

"Mrs. Sterling," I said, quickly standing up and smoothing down my wrinkled button-up shirt. "Yes, ma'am. Mr. Sterling needed the quarterly compliance files restructured before five in the morning. Is he expecting you? He hasn't arrived yet."

Clara let out a soft, bitter laugh that didn't reach her eyes. She walked over to Harrison’s desk, tossing the leather portfolio onto the polished wood.

"He forgot his personal ledger for the morning board meeting," Clara said, her voice dripping with an elegant sort of fatigue. She didn't leave. Instead, she leaned against the edge of Harrison’s mahogany desk, crossing her arms and staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the blinking lights of the Los Angeles skyline. "He always forgets things when it comes to the house. But never when it comes to this place."

"I can make sure he gets it the second he walks in," I said, offering a polite, professional smile. I wanted her to leave. I had enough relationship drama waiting for me at home; I didn't need to be sucked into my boss's orbit any more than I already was.

Clara turned her gaze to me. Her eyes were sharp, evaluating. "How long have you worked for my husband now, Asher? A year?"

"Fourteen months, ma'am."

"Fourteen months," she repeated, tracing the edge of a silver paperweight on the desk. "Then you probably see him more than I do. Tell me something... does he ever talk about home? About me?"

The question felt like a trap. I tightly gripped the edge of my desk. "Mr. Sterling keeps things strictly professional, Mrs. Sterling. We only discuss account management and corporate compliance."

Clara stepped away from the desk, walking closer to my station. The faint scent of expensive French perfume followed her. "Strictly professional. Yes, that sounds like Harrison. He’s a machine, isn't he? Perfect data, perfect execution, perfect public image." She paused, her voice dropping into a raw, quiet register. "But machines don't feel anything, Asher. Do you know what it’s like to live with a man who looks right through you?"

"Mrs. Sterling, I really shouldn't…"

"He doesn't touch me," she interrupted flatly, her eyes locking onto mine with a desperate, heavy intensity. "He hasn't slept in our bedroom in six months. When I try to hold his hand, he pulls away like I’m made of ice. He says it’s stress. He says the board is breathing down his neck." She took a step closer, her voice trembling slightly. "Is it stress, Asher? Or is there someone else? Tell me the truth. Is he seeing a woman from the marketing agency? One of the models from the campaign?"