Gaining Success (m) (complete)

Chapter 1

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

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

The elevator to the 40th floor of the Apex Tower was a silent, pressurized capsule. He stood perfectly still, his ice-blue eyes scanning the digital display as it climbed, mentally reviewing the file he’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 Mismanagement, outdated practices, a stock price in freefall. He’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. He didn’t care which, as long as his bonus was paid.

The doors whispered open 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 him. He was a different species from the people who usually walked these halls.

“Ethan Cross for Mr. Henderson,” he said, his voice a low, calm baritone that seemed to absorb the room’s nervous energy.

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

He 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 he’d even passed. That’s him? The fixer? He looks like he could break me in half. He ignored them, his focus absolute.

The corner office at the end of the hall was his 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.

“Ethan! 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,” Ethan said, his 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. “Chloe, could you come in please?”

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

She was, in a word, stunning. But it wasn’t the obvious beauty—the long, honey-blonde hair swept into a sleek, professional knot, the figure hinted at beneath a simple but elegant emerald-green sheath dress. It was the way she held herself. A quiet, unshakable competence radiated from her. Her eyes, a warm, intelligent hazel, took him in with a single, efficient glance, missing nothing, yet her expression remained one of serene professionalism.

“Mr. Cross, this is Chloe Summers. Your personal assistant. Chloe, Ethan Cross, our new Chief Financial Officer and acting head of operations.”

“Mr. Cross,” she said, her voice as smooth and warm as aged whiskey. She offered her hand. Her 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, Ms. Summers,” Ethan replied, recovering his composure. He was used to beautiful women, but he wasn’t used to them being a logistical asset. It was a intriguing combination.

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

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

Chloe’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “I’m sure you are, sir. 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.”

He couldn’t argue with the logic. Efficiency was his religion.

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

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

She led him 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 he 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 his preferred brand of black rollerball pens were laid out with geometric precision.

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

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

The next eight hours were a whirlwind. Chloe was a ghost, appearing exactly when needed and vanishing just as quickly. She delivered files with a soft, “The Q3 vendor contracts, sir,” and retrieved them an hour later. She 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, she entered without a knock, the subtle aroma of seared steak and herbs preceding her. She placed a to-go box from a renowned, upscale gastropub nearby on the corner of his desk.

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

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

“You didn’t have to,” she 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.”

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

“The company account?” he asked.

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

She left, and he 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 his normal, controlled diet. But she was right. He was hungry. He took a bite. And then another. It was incredible. He ate the entire thing, the rich food sitting heavily but pleasantly in his stomach, fueling him through the afternoon’s analysis.

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

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

She handed him one. It was black coffee, exactly how he liked it.

“You’re still here,” he noted.

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

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

“I know,” she said, her 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.” Her eyes scanned his face, taking in the sharp lines of his 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,” he said, holding her gaze for a moment longer than necessary.

“Then we should make sure you’re paid well,” she 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.”

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

Chloe Summers was an enigma. Beautiful, yes. But more than that, she was unnervingly capable. She anticipated needs he hadn’t even voiced. The lunch, the coffee, the dinner he hadn’t asked for but was now admittedly looking forward to. It was a level of service that bordered on decadent. A part of him, the disciplined, controlled part, wondered if it was a good idea. This kind of comfort could make a man 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 she’d said. It was from an Italian place he’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.

He ate at his desk, shoveling in the rich, hearty pasta as he scanned financial reports. The food was a comfort, a tangible pleasure in a sea of corporate misery. He 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, he called it a night. His stomach was full, almost bloated. His belt felt noticeably tighter when he stood up. He’d have to double his cardio tomorrow, he thought absently.

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

“Heading out?” she asked.

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

“It’s my job, Mr. Cross,” she said, but her eyes crinkled at the corners. “To make the unnecessary, appreciated.” She powered down her 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, Ms. Summers,” he said, his tone firming up, reasserting a boundary.

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

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

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

He stepped out into the cool night air, the big meal sitting warm and heavy in his gut. For the first time in his life, Ethan Cross, the human weapon of corporate turnaround, felt a flicker of something unfamiliar.

-

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