I had worked for Mr. Richard Bennett for seven years.
Seven years was long enough to know which coffee he wanted before a morning meeting.
Long enough to recognize the sound of his footsteps approaching my desk.
Long enough to know that when he removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, something had gone wrong.
And long enough to believe—perhaps foolishly—that I knew him.
When I first met Richard, I was twenty-four years old.
I had almost no professional experience.
My résumé was thin, my confidence was thinner, and during the interview, my hands shook so badly that I nearly spilled water onto his desk.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
Richard Bennett noticed everything.
He was already in his early seventies then, though no one would have dared call him old.
He was tall, lean, always impeccably dressed, with silver hair combed neatly backward and a pair of dark-rimmed glasses that seemed permanently balanced at the end of his nose.
People were afraid of him.
Not because he shouted.
Richard almost never raised his voice.
He didn't humiliate employees.
He didn't slam doors.
He simply had a way of looking at you that made you examine your entire life and wonder what mistake you had made.
During my interview, he studied my résumé for nearly a minute.
Then he looked at me.
“You're nervous.”
I swallowed.
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“Because I need this job.”
He leaned back.
“That isn't a good reason.”
I stared at him.
He continued.
“A person who needs a job will accept anything. A person who wants to work will fight to become useful.”
I didn't know what to say.
So I told him the truth.
“Then I want to become useful.”
For the first time, the corner of his mouth moved.
Not quite a smile.
But close.
“You start Monday.”
That was how my life at Bennett & Cole began.
I started as a junior administrative assistant.
I made mistakes.
A lot of them.
I once scheduled Richard for two meetings at the same time.
Another time, I accidentally sent an unfinished presentation to one of our biggest clients.
Once, I forgot to remind him about a dinner with an investor, and he arrived twenty minutes late.
I thought I was going to be fired after every mistake.
But Richard never did.
Instead, he would look at me over his glasses and say things like:
“Fix it.”
Or:
“Don't make the same mistake twice.”
Or sometimes, when I was obviously panicking:
“Emily, breathe. The building is still standing.”
Slowly, I learned.
I learned the business.
I learned the clients.
I learned Richard.
Eventually, I became his personal assistant.
I knew his schedule better than he did.
I knew which clients he trusted, which ones he tolerated, and which ones he never wanted to see before noon.
I knew that he hated meetings before coffee.
I knew that on rainy days, he preferred to work quietly.
I knew that when he said, “We'll discuss it later,” he usually meant, “I don't like this.”
And I knew something else.
Richard trusted me.
At least, I thought he did.
Seven years passed.
I wasn't twenty-four anymore.
I was thirty-one.
My mother had moved in with me after her health began to decline.
My younger brother, Daniel, was still in university.
I was the person paying the mortgage.
The person handling groceries.
The person making sure there was enough money for my brother's tuition.
My salary wasn't extravagant, but it was stable.
And stability had become the most valuable thing in my life.
Then, one Monday morning, Richard called me into his office.
“Emily.”
“Yes?”
“Close the door.”
My stomach tightened.
I sat across from him.
He was staring out the window.
“Do you have anything planned after four on Friday?”
I frowned.
“No.”
“Good.”
He turned around.
“Then meet me downstairs.”
“Do we have an appointment?”
“No.”
He paused.
“Only you and me.”
I waited for an explanation.
None came.
“All right.”
I left his office feeling uneasy.
By Tuesday, that uneasiness had become anxiety.
I was walking toward accounting when I saw our accounting manager, Mr. Harris, carrying a thick folder.
He looked uncomfortable when he saw me.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Morning.”
He walked past me.
I glanced down.
My name was printed on the folder.
EMILY PARKER.
I stopped.
“Mr. Harris?”
He turned.
“Yes?”
“Is that my personnel file?”
He hesitated.
Then he smiled awkwardly.
“Just some administrative paperwork.”
“What kind?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
He walked away.
Nothing you need to worry about.
Those words almost always meant there was something to worry about.
That afternoon, Richard disappeared into his office for nearly two hours.
When I brought him documents to sign, I heard voices inside.
One belonged to our company attorney.
The other was Richard's.
I knocked.
The conversation stopped.
“Come in.”
I opened the door.
The attorney immediately closed his laptop.
Richard looked at me.
“Leave those on the desk.”
“Of course.”
I turned around.
Then I noticed something.
A folder beside his hand.
Again, my name was on it.
I pretended not to see it.
But my heart was beating so loudly that I could barely hear myself breathe.
Wednesday was worse.
Richard called the company attorney twice.
The second time, he closed his office door.
I sat at my desk staring at my computer screen without actually reading anything.
At noon, one of my coworkers approached me.