Gaining Sucess (f) (complete)

Chapter 1

The glass-and-steel canyon of the city’s financial district gleamed under a sharp, autumn sun. Elena Thorpe navigated its depths with the practiced ease of a predator, her reflection a swift, sharp-moving blur in the polished granite of skyscrapers. At thirty-two, she was a woman engineered for success. Her stride was long and purposeful, each step a testament to the five-miles-a-day habit she maintained without fail. The charcoal Tom Ford suit she wore was not just clothing; it was armor, tailored to perfection over a frame that was more athlete than accountant—toned legs and a lean waist honed in the gym at dawn and polished by a nutritionist’s precise hand.

She checked her Patek Philippe—a reward for her last successful turnaround. 8:45 AM. Right on schedule.

The elevator to the 40th floor of the Apex Tower was silent. She stood perfectly still, her ice-blue eyes scanning the digital display as it climbed, mentally reviewing the file she’d already memorized.

Vance & Co. A once-venerable manufacturing firm, now a leaking ship taking on water. Mismanagement, outdated practices, a stock price in freefall. She’d been hired by the parent company, Titan Group, to plug the holes, right the course, and get it sold for parts or back to profitability. She didn’t care which, as long as her bonus was paid.

The doors opened into a reception area that screamed ‘faded glory.’ The carpet was plush but worn, the art was generic, and the air held the faint, sweet smell of desperation and stale coffee. A harried-looking receptionist glanced up, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of her. She was a different species from the people who usually walked these halls.

“Elena Thorpe for Mr. Henderson,” she said, her voice a low, calm alto that seemed to absorb the room’s nervous energy.

“Y-yes, of course, Ms. Thorpe. They’re expecting you. Right this way.”

She was led through a maze of cubicles where heads popped up like prairie dogs, watching the new predator enter their territory. The whispers started before she’d even passed. “That’s her? The fixer? She looks like she could break in half.” She ignored them, her focus absolute.

The corner office at the end of the hall was her destination. Inside, Walter Henderson, the soon-to-be-former CEO, was a man composed of equal parts flop sweat and regret. He stood up, his own suit straining at the buttons over a considerable paunch.

“Elena! Welcome, welcome!” Henderson’s handshake was damp. “We’re so glad you’re here. The board has told me all about your… methods.”

“I’m here to assess the situation and execute a strategy, Walter,” Elena said, her tone neutral, offering no comfort. “The first step is a full diagnostic. I’ll need access to everything. Every ledger, every contract, every email.”

“Of course, of course. Consider me your guide. And we’ve arranged for you to have full executive support. Speaking of which…” Henderson buzzed his intercom. “Tom, could you come in please?”

The door opened, and for the first time that morning, Elena’s impeccable focus flickered.

He was, in a word, striking. But it wasn’t the obvious beauty—the tall, athletic build hinted at beneath a perfectly cut suit, the dark hair swept back from a strong brow. It was the way he held himself. A quiet, unshakable competence radiated from him. His eyes, a warm, intelligent hazel, took her in with a single, efficient glance, missing nothing, yet his expression remained one of serene professionalism.

“Ms. Thorpe, this is Tom Summers. Your personal assistant. Tom, Elena Thorpe, our new Chief Financial Officer and acting head of operations.”

“Ms. Thorpe,” he said, his voice as smooth and warm as aged whiskey. He offered his hand. His grip was firm, confident. “It’s a pleasure. I’ve been briefed on your role and I’m here to facilitate your transition in any way you require.”

“Thank you, Mr. Summers,” Elena replied, recovering her composure. She was used to handsome men, but she wasn’t used to them being a logistical asset. It was an intriguing combination.

“Tom’s contract is a bit… unique,” Henderson interjected, mopping his brow. “Titan Group insisted. He’s not just your departmental secretary. He’s to be your dedicated personal assistant. Your schedule, your travel, your… well, your everything will go through him. Think of him as your chief-of-staff, tasked with removing any and all obstacles so you can focus purely on the crisis.”

Elena’s eyebrow raised almost imperceptibly. This was unusual. Lavish, even. “I’m accustomed to managing my own obstacles.”

Tom’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “I’m sure you are, ma’am. But my purpose is to ensure you don’t have to. Your time is more valuable spent on the fifth-floor production line analysis than arguing with a hotel about a lost reservation. Or ensuring your lunch doesn’t interrupt a crucial flow state.”

She couldn’t argue with the logic. Efficiency was her religion.

“Very well,” she nodded. “My first obstacle is this office. I need a space, now. Somewhere central.”

“It’s already handled,” Tom said, turning. “If you’ll follow me?”

He led her back down the hall to an office that was clearly freshly cleaned and prepared. It was smaller than Henderson’s, but it had a wall of windows and was positioned so she could see the entrance to the finance and operations pits. A new computer hummed on the desk, two large monitors already set up. A fresh legal pad and a row of her preferred brand of black rollerball pens were laid out with geometric precision.

“I took the liberty based on your profile from Titan HR,” he said, noting her glance at the pens. “I hope it’s to your liking.”

“It’s adequate,” she said, though she was privately impressed. She sat in the high-backed leather chair—it was ergonomic, supportive, perfect for long hours. Another point in his favor.

The next eight hours were a whirlwind. Tom was a ghost, appearing exactly when needed and vanishing just as quickly. He delivered files with a soft, “The Q3 vendor contracts, ma’am,” and retrieved them an hour later. He seamlessly managed a stream of department heads who came to introduce themselves, their anxiety palpable, filtering the necessary from the sycophantic.

At 1:15 PM, he entered without a knock, the subtle aroma of seared steak and herbs preceding him. He placed a to-go box from a renowned, upscale gastropub nearby on the corner of her desk.

“Your lunch,” he stated. “The prime rib sandwich on sourdough, horseradish aioli on the side, with a rocket and parmesan salad. And a sparkling water.”

Elena looked up from a spreadsheet bleeding red ink. “I didn’t order lunch.”

“You didn’t have to,” he replied smoothly. “It’s past one. Your brain needs fuel. This is efficient. The alternative is you getting lightheaded at three PM and losing forty-five minutes of productivity.”

She was about to argue, to say she usually had a protein shake or a grilled chicken salad at her desk, but the smell was undeniably enticing. Her stomach, empty since a 5 AM protein bar, gave a low rumble.

“The company account?” she asked.

“Naturally.” That faint smile again. “Consider it a welcome lunch.”

He left, and she opened the box. The sandwich was a masterpiece of decadence—thick, pink slices of prime rib, garlic aioli, fried onions spilling out over the crusty bread. It was huge. It was the antithesis of her normal, controlled diet. But he was right. She was hungry. She took a bite. And then another. It was incredible. She ate the entire thing, the rich food sitting heavily but pleasantly in her stomach, fueling her through the afternoon’s analysis.

By 7:30 PM, the floor was empty except for the cleaning crew’s distant hum. Elena was still there, surrounded by a fortress of paper. The problem was worse than she’d thought. The hole was deeper.

A soft knock. Tom entered, holding two cardboard cups. “I thought you could use this.”

He handed her one. It was black coffee, exactly how she liked it.

“You’re still here,” she noted.

“My job is to support you. If you’re here, I’m here.” He leaned against the doorframe, sipping his own coffee. “First day impressions?”

“It’s a dumpster fire,” she said bluntly, surprising herself with her candor. She usually maintained a wall of professional detachment. There was something about his quiet presence that made it easy to state the bare facts.

“I know,” he said, his voice softening. “They’ve been circling the drain for a year. They need someone like you. Someone who isn’t afraid to make the hard calls.” His eyes scanned her face, taking in the sharp lines of her jaw, the focused intensity. “You look like you make hard calls before breakfast.”

It was almost a flirtation, but delivered with such professional sincerity that it couldn’t be construed as such. It was merely an observation.

“It’s what I’m paid for,” she said, holding his gaze for a moment longer than necessary.

“Then we should make sure you’re paid well,” he replied, pushing off the doorframe. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering dinner. It should be here in twenty minutes. Don’t work through it.”

He left, and the office felt suddenly quieter, emptier. Elena leaned back in her chair, the leather creaking. She looked down at the empty prime rib sandwich wrapper in her trash can. She hadn’t eaten like that in years. It had been… satisfying. Deeply satisfying.

Tom Summers was an enigma. Handsome, yes. But more than that, he was unnervingly capable. He anticipated needs she hadn’t even voiced. The lunch, the coffee, the dinner she hadn’t asked for but was now admittedly looking forward to. It was a level of service that bordered on decadent. A part of her, the disciplined, controlled part, wondered if it was a good idea. This kind of comfort could make a woman soft.

The other part, the part that had just enjoyed a massive prime rib sandwich and was staring at a mountain of problems, was profoundly grateful.

The dinner arrived precisely as he’d said. It was from an Italian place she’d read about but never tried. Braised short rib pappardelle, rich and aromatic, with a side of roasted vegetables and a slice of tiramisu. The portion was, once again, generous. Famously so.

She ate at her desk, shoveling in the rich, hearty pasta as she scanned financial reports. The food was a comfort, a tangible pleasure in a sea of corporate misery. She finished the entire thing, wiping the plate clean with a piece of bread. The tiramisu was light yet decadent, the coffee and mascarpone cutting through the richness of the pasta.

Finally, at 10 PM, she called it a night. Her stomach was full, almost bloated. Her skirt’s waistband felt noticeably tighter when she stood up. She’d have to double her cardio tomorrow, she thought absently.

She found Tom at his desk outside, the glow of his monitor illuminating his face. He was just as put-together as he had been that morning.

“Heading out?” he asked.

“Yes. Thank you for the dinner. It wasn’t necessary, but it was appreciated.”

“It’s my job, Ms. Thorpe,” he said, but his eyes crinkled at the corners. “To make the unnecessary, appreciated.” He powered down his computer. “Your car is waiting downstairs. I’ve scheduled a 7:30 AM meeting with the head of procurement. I’ll have coffee and a breakfast pastry waiting for you.”

A breakfast pastry. More carbs. More sugar.

“Just coffee will be fine, Mr. Summers,” she said, her tone firming up, reasserting a boundary.

He didn’t argue. He simply nodded. “Of course. Just coffee.”

She walked towards the elevator, feeling his eyes on her back. She stood straighter, sucking in her stomach slightly, the faint pressure of the large meals a strange, new sensation.

As the elevator descended, she replayed the day. The chaos of Vance & Co., the mountain of work ahead. And Tom Summers. His efficiency. His perceptiveness. The way he had looked at her—not with the fear everyone else had, but with a calm, assessing curiosity.

She stepped out into the cool night air, the big meal sitting warm and heavy in her gut. For the first time in her life, Elena Thorpe, the human weapon of corporate turnaround, felt a flicker of something unfamiliar.

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Author's note: There are two different versions of this same story. The other one has a male character as the boss and the one who's gaining.