Chapter 1

Claudia

I step off the elevator at 7:15 AM, the quiet hum of Hamilton Enterprises' 42nd floor greeting me like an old friend. The morning sun streams through the fragmented clouds, painting Manhattan in hues of gold and amber. Most of the office remains empty—just how I like it. These quiet moments before the chaos begins are precious. And a lot of work can be done in the meantime.

I make my way to my desk, positioned strategically outside Christian Hamilton's office. The CEO's son might not arrive until nine, but his executive assistant's day starts well before his.

"Good morning to you too, New York," I murmur, setting down my coffee and tote bag while taking in the skyline. From this height, the city looks almost peaceful—a temporary illusion that will shatter once rush hour hits full swing.

I power up my computer and pull out my leather-bound planner—call me old-fashioned, but there's something about physically checking off tasks that digital apps can't replicate. Today's schedule is color-coded, annotated, and meticulously organized. Red for urgent, blue for meetings, green for projects, and yellow for personal reminders.

The Hamilton Enterprises quarterly presentation is in three days, and Christian needs everything perfect. I create a separate checklist for this alone, arranging tasks by priority. First, finalize the slide deck. Second, distribute the meeting agenda. Third, confirm catering. Fourth, run through the presentation with Christian one final time.

I organize my desk with military precision. Files to the left, reference materials to the right, notepad centered beneath my keyboard. Everything within arm's reach, nothing unnecessary taking up space.

By 7:45, I've already answered the overnight emails from our Tokyo office and prepared briefs on three upcoming contracts that need Christian's attention. My coffee sits forgotten, gone cold as I compile the quarterly numbers into a digestible format that even the most financially illiterate board member could understand.

The phone rings at 8:03.

"Hamilton Enterprises, Claudia Coleman speaking."

"Ms. Coleman, it's Jerry from IT. The video conference system is acting up in the main boardroom again."

I pull up the day's schedule on my screen. "Christian has the investor call at eleven in that room. Can you have it fixed by ten-thirty at the latest?"

"We're swamped with the server migration and—"

"Jerry." My voice remains pleasant but leaves no room for negotiation. "I need that room operational by ten-thirty. The Tokyo partners are waiting for confirmation, and Mr. Hamilton needs to review the Asia-Pacific numbers before the call."

A pause, then a sigh. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"Perfect. I've emailed you the specific requirements for the call." I've already sent the message while we were speaking. "And Jerry? I owe you a coffee."

By 8:30, three more calls have come in, including an urgent message from the legal department about contract revisions needed before the end of day. I juggle these demands while simultaneously creating a presentation brief and fielding emails about next week's charity gala.

My phone buzzes with a text from Christian: "Running 15 minutes late. Need Johnson file ready."

I've already pulled the Johnson file, anticipating he'd need it for his morning meeting. It sits on the corner of my desk, tabbed and highlighted, ready to go.

When the elevator dings at 9:15 and the office begins filling with employees, I've already completed what most people would consider a full day's work.

The second wave of phone calls starts—vendors, partners, other executives. Each one gets my full attention, each problem solved efficiently, each message recorded and prioritized. Between calls, I compile the quarterly performance reports, cross-referencing data points and creating executive summaries that transform complex information into actionable insights.

In a rare moment of quiet, my gaze wanders to the small photo frame on my desk—a group of kids from last summer's volunteer program at the East Harlem community center. Their smiles, wide and genuine despite circumstances most adults would buckle under, remind me why I push myself so hard here.

Someday, that volunteer program won't just be my weekend gig. Someday, it'll be my life's work—The Coleman Foundation for Educational Opportunity. I've drafted the business plan a dozen times, tweaking and refining it during late nights after my actual work is done. The blueprint sits in a password-protected folder on my personal laptop, waiting for the day I can afford to breathe life into it.

The $87,000 in student loans anchoring me to this desk grows smaller each month, but not fast enough. Each time I look at those smiling faces in the photo, I calculate how many more quarterly bonuses until financial freedom. How many more early mornings and late nights until I can transform those weekend workshops into something permanent, something that changes lives.

For now, though, I'm Claudia Coleman, executive assistant extraordinaire, keeping Hamilton Enterprises—or at least Christian's corner of it—running with clockwork precision. My dreams can wait a little longer, growing stronger with each spreadsheet I master, each crisis I navigate, each skill I acquire that will someday serve a different purpose.

I pull up my banking app during lunch, balancing a salad on my lap while I review the numbers that dictate my life. Each month, I send $1,700 to various student loan servicers—the price of an Ivy League education that opened doors but left me with golden handcuffs. The math is always the same: five more years at this salary before I can launch the foundation without financial anxiety. Five years of putting someone else's dreams ahead of my own.

"Worth it," I whisper to myself, closing the app before the numbers can taunt me further. "All part of the plan."

The truth is, being Christian Hamilton's executive assistant pays exceptionally well—well enough that I've managed to carve out a modest emergency fund alongside my debt payments. Without the student loans, I could start the foundation next year. With them, I'm looking at thirty-two instead of twenty-eight. Some days, that four-year difference feels insignificant. Other days, it feels like an eternity.

I'd accelerated my loan payments in the beginning, living in a shoebox apartment with two roommates, taking the subway instead of cabs, meal-prepping instead of ordering takeout. The promotions came, the salary increased, but so did my ambitions for the foundation. Every time I run the numbers, the timeline shifts—more programs mean more startup capital, more startup capital means more time at Hamilton Enterprises.

My phone buzzes with a notification. I swipe to see a photo from Christian—David at the playground this morning before school, beaming with a missing front tooth, his blonde hair catching sunlight. I can't help but smile at his face smeared with what looks like chocolate despite it being 8 AM.

"Someone convinced Daddy ice cream counts as breakfast," reads Christian's caption.

I zoom in on David's ice-cream-smudged grin, feeling a warmth spread through my chest that has nothing to do with the mediocre office coffee. I send back a quick "The negotiation skills clearly run in the family" before scrolling to the album I've created just for David's photos.

There he is at the zoo last month, wide-eyed at the penguins. David at the office Halloween party, dressed as a dinosaur with scales I helped him paint. David on my lap during the company picnic, both of us focused intensely on a daisy chain I was teaching him to make.

It started as a professional courtesy—stepping in when Christian's nanny called in sick, staying late when board meetings ran long. Somehow, between emergency school pickups and weekend science projects, a bond formed. Now, I'm as likely to spend my Saturday helping David with his reading as I am working on foundation proposals.

My phone rings, interrupting my thoughts.

"Ms. Coleman, it's Mrs. Winters from Brentwood Elementary."

I sit up straighter. "Is everything alright with David?"

"He's fine, just a slight fever. Our policy requires children to be picked up if their temperature exceeds 100 degrees."

"I'll be there in thirty minutes." I'm already reaching for my blazer, mentally rearranging Christian's afternoon schedule.

I text Christian, who's in a closed-door meeting with potential investors: "David has fever, picking him up from school. Will work remotely this afternoon. Don't worry, got everything covered."

His response comes moments later: "You're a lifesaver. Thank you."

Fifteen minutes later, I'm sitting in traffic, briefcase in the passenger seat alongside a folder of printouts Christian needs for tomorrow. My laptop rests between them, emails still flowing to my phone. The foundation dreams might be on hold, but this—being there for a little boy who's stolen a piece of my heart—feels like its own kind of purpose.

When I arrive at Brentwood, David sits in the nurse's office, coloring with crayons despite his flushed cheeks. His face brightens when he sees me.

"Claudia! Look, I made you flowers." He holds up a colorful drawing of what might be daisies—or possibly very round suns with petals.

"These are beautiful," I say, kneeling beside him. "Are you feeling okay, buddy?"

He shrugs with the nonchalance only a five-year-old can manage. "My head's hot. Can we get ice cream?"

"How about we get you home first, then maybe some soup?" I feel his forehead—definitely warm. "If you're good and take your medicine, we might find some cookies in the pantry."

His eyes light up. "The chocolate ones with the white chips?"

"Those exact ones." I help him gather his things, signing the checkout sheet while he carefully places his drawing in my tote bag.

As we walk to the car hand-in-hand, David chattering about his morning despite his fever, I think about the strange alchemy of life—how pursuing financial stability led me to a job that introduced me to this sweet boy, how the detour from my foundation dreams brought unexpected joy wrapped in dinosaur pajamas and crayon drawings.