Chapter Text
The receptionist didn't even look up.
"Appointment?" she asked—perfectly manicured, flawlessly bored.
Orm shifted on her heels, clutching her folder like it could somehow make her blend in with the marble walls and designer silence of the Kwong Group's lobby. This place wasn't made for people like her—people with creased skirts and hope barely holding them together.
"I need to speak with the CEO," Orm said, trying to sound firm instead of terrified. "Ling Ling Kwong. It's urgent."
That earned her a slow blink. The receptionist gave her a once-over—eyes dragging across her tired face, messy ponytail, and the fraying edge of her blouse.
"I'm sorry," she said flatly, "Ms. Kwong doesn't take unscheduled appointments."
Orm inhaled. Then walked past the desk.
"I'll wait."
She didn't care how desperate she looked.
Desperation was the plan.
The security guard had barely taken two steps toward her when a voice, sharp and smooth as cut glass, cut through the air.
"Let her in."
The entire lobby fell silent.
And there she was.
Ling Ling Kwong. Standing at the far end of the room like some villainess in a prestige drama. All sharp lines, black heels, and unreadable grace. She was as stunning as the rumors claimed—and twice as terrifying.
"You're interrupting my board meeting," Ling said. Her tone didn't rise. It didn't need to. "This better be worth it."
Orm's mouth went dry, but she stood her ground.
"You rejected my application," she said. "I just wanted a chance to explain."
Ling's eyes narrowed—just a little. A flicker of interest or annoyance, it was hard to tell.
"I reviewed what I needed to," she replied.
Orm stepped forward, offering the folder.
"This café... it belonged to my grandmother. It's everything I have. I'm not asking for charity. I'm asking for a real shot."
Ling took the folder but didn't open it. Her attention never wavered.
"If you're that determined," she said coolly, "come back tomorrow. Nine sharp. I'll give you five minutes."
And then she turned and walked away.
Like a queen dismissing her court.
Orm barely slept.
She made it back to Becky's house somehow—her head spinning, her limbs heavy. Becky was already in the kitchen, still in her work slacks, ranting over a tub of mango ice cream.
"And then she just sits on the edge of the table. In the middle of my meeting. Like it's her office. Or her living room. I don't even know anymore!"
Orm gave a tired smile.
"Freen again?"
"Who else?" Becky snapped her spoon down into the tub. "That woman is the human embodiment of disruption. And glitter. And probably an expensive perfume I'm now allergic to."
Orm didn't respond.
Not about the café, or the email, or the woman who had looked her in the eye like she was just another footnote.
She couldn't.
Instead, she waited until the house was quiet—Becky upstairs, the lights low—and slipped out.
Back to her grandmother's café.
The lights flickered. The air inside smelled like cinnamon and old memories. She walked behind the counter, fingers brushing faded recipe cards still pinned to the corkboard.
A photo of her and her grandmother, laminated years ago, smiled from the register.
"I'm trying," she whispered.
The next morning, Orm arrived at Kwong Group's skyscraper right at nine.
This time, the receptionist didn't even bother questioning her. She was escorted straight up to a glass-walled conference room, where Ling Ling Kwong was already seated.
As perfect as yesterday.
As unreadable as ever.
"Three minutes," Ling said, not looking up from her tablet.
Orm launched into her pitch. Her voice didn't shake this time.
She talked about community. About the regulars who still came, the little social media buzz they'd started. The idea of rebuilding, not replacing. Of turning a tiny café into something meaningful.
Ling finally set her tablet down.
"There is one option," she said. "It would require something... unconventional."
Orm blinked. "Unconventional?"
Ling reached for a black envelope sitting on the table. She slid it across the glass like it contained state secrets.
"Review this. No pressure. But if you want to save your café, you'll know what to do."
That was it.
No more words.
No hint of what was inside.
And yet somehow, it felt heavier than any rejection Orm had ever received.
That night, Orm sat cross-legged on Becky's bed, the envelope in her lap like it was ticking.
Becky was in the shower, humming something angrily off-key. Orm debated hiding the envelope entirely.
She didn't.
She opened it.
Fifteen pages. Clean formatting. Small font. And so many clauses.
No title.
No department.
No mention of Kwong Group.
Just one clear role
S ix months of personal service to Ling Ling Kwong.
Full access.
Full discretion.
Full obedience.
Clause 7.5 made her stop and reread.
The assistant shall not question the nature or reason of tasks assigned, including but not limited to: executive errands, public appearances, family functions, private engagements, and discretion in all unofficial matters.
Orm let out a slow breath. "Private engagements?" she muttered.
"What is she, a mob boss?"
And then—the benefits.
She stared at the list.
Complete debt clearance
Full renovation funding
Business development support
Monthly stipend
Six-month mentorship access
Everything the café needed.
Everything she needed.
Becky's voice floated from the bathroom. "Orm? You okay?"
Orm blinked, her eyes stinging.
"Yeah," she called out. "Just reading."
She picked up the pen that had fallen into her lap.
Her hand hovered.
Then—she signed.