Chapter 64: Chapter 64
Olivia’s POV
I ran across the street towards the office, almost bumping into innocent pedestrians. I noticed Patricia standing up with a smile but I ignored her and ran towards the elevator, frantically punching the executive floor button.
The elevator ride seemed to take forever, but finally I arrived without any stops.
I checked my time as I quickly hurried towards his office. Eight minutes late. Just eight minutes. Maybe he won’t even notice.
But even as I thought it, I knew I was kidding myself. Maxwell Wellington noticed everything, especially when it came to my failures.
I burst through his office door, slightly out of breath, and immediately felt the temperature in the room drop about twenty degrees.
Maxwell sat behind his desk, but he wasn’t working. He was just sitting there, staring at the door like he’d been waiting for me.
"I’m so sorry I’m late, sir," I began immediately, moving toward my desk. "The line at the restaurant was longer than expected, and..."
"Come sit down, Oliver."
His voice was quiet - too quiet. The kind of quiet that was very dangerous.
I slowly walked towards his desk and lowered myself into the chair across from him. My stomach twisting into knots as I met his eyes.
"Do you know what I’ve been doing for the past eight minutes?" Maxwell asked, his cold eyes never leaving my face.
"Working, sir?"
"No." He leaned back in his chair, "I’ve been sitting here, watching the clock, wondering if my new assistant understood the concept of punctuality. Wondering if perhaps I’d made another mistake by hiring you. Because since you resumed here, Hopton, you’ve been nothing but a pain in my neck."
Heat crept up my neck. "Sir, it was only eight minutes..."
"Only eight minutes?" Maxwell’s voice rose slightly, "Mr. Hopton, let me explain something to you about the value of time in my company."
He stood up from his chair and walked around the desk until he was standing directly in front of me. I had to crane my neck to look up at him, feeling suddenly small and vulnerable.
"Five minutes of my time is worth approximately four hundred and seventeen dollars," he said, his voice a dangerous whisper. "Five minutes of wasted productivity can mean the difference between closing a deal and losing a client. Five minutes of disrespect toward your employer can cost you your career. And you’re not just five minutes late, but eight."
I opened my mouth to apologize again, but he held up a hand.
"I gave you very specific instructions, Mr. Hopton. One hour for lunch. Exactly one hour. Not sixty-eight minutes. Not ’approximately’ one hour. Sixty minutes. Did I stutter when I said that?"
"No, sir."
"Then explain to me why you thought those rules didn’t apply to you."
I stilled, my mind suddenly blank, with no way to speak up or figure out some believable excuse.
"I said explain yourself," Maxwell repeated, his voice harder now.
Something in me snapped just then. "You want an explanation?" I said, standing up so abruptly that my chair rolled backward. "Fine. I was late because I was having lunch with a friend who was giving me advice about how to deal with impossible, tyrannical bosses who get off on making their employees feel like garbage."
Maxwell’s eyes widened slightly, clearly not expecting that response.
"How to deal with bosses," I continued, "who fire people like it’s cool, who demote qualified attorneys to fetch coffee, who think basic human decency is a sign of weakness."
"Mr. Hopton..." Maxwell’s voice carried a warning, but I was past caring.
"You want to know why I was late? Because for five minutes in that cafe - five precious minutes - I could breathe clean normal air and not the suffocating air in this office. And frankly, sir, those five minutes were worth every penny of your four hundred and seventeen dollars."
The office fell into complete silence. Maxwell stared at me with an expression I couldn’t read, and I realized what I’d just done.
Damn, girl. Why did you do that?
Maxwell walked slowly back to his desk, his gaze still fixed on me. When he reached his chair, he didn’t sit down. Instead, he placed his good hand on the desk and leaned forward.
"Are you finished?" he asked quietly.
I lifted my chin slightly. "Yes, sir. I am."
"Good." Maxwell straightened up, "Now, turn around and leave the way you came in. You’re fired, Mr. Hopton."
"Oliver? Oliver? Hey!" I felt a slight nudge in my ankle, bringing me back to reality.
"Yes, Yes sir. You said something?" I breathed, shifting uncomfortably in my seat from that weird trance.
"I said, explain to me why you’re late." He repeated. "In fact, you know what?" He said, standing up and moving back behind his desk. "I don’t need your flimsy excuses."
He opened his drawer and picked up a manila folder and held it out to me. "These are employee evaluations that need to be typed up and distributed to HR by end of business today. Single-spaced, perfect formatting, no errors."
I took the folder, still feeling disoriented from that little dream of finally standing up to Maxwell.
"There are forty-seven evaluations in that folder," Maxwell continued, settling back into his chair. "Each one is approximately three pages of handwritten notes that need to be transcribed into our standard format. I estimate it will take you roughly six to seven hours to complete, assuming you type at an average speed and don’t make any mistakes that require starting over."
My stomach sank as the reality of what he was saying hit me. "Sir, it’s already past one o’clock..."
"Which means you’ll be working late tonight," Maxwell said with satisfaction. "Very late. Perhaps next time you’ll think twice about spending extra time on lunch breaks."
I stared down at the thick massive folder in my hands, "But I’m not finished with the other one sir. This is... this is..."
"Your job, Mr. Hopton," Maxwell interrupted. "Now, get to work."
"Okay sir," I said through gritted teeth, turning to leave.
"Oh, and Oliver?" Maxwell’s voice stopped me in my tracks. "While you’re at it, I’ll need you to go down to Taylor’s and get me my coffee."
"But sir, I asked if you needed anything..."
"I’m going to be needing my coffee every two hours." He interrupted like I hadn’t said anything.
"Every two hours?"
"Yes," he confirmed. "And this time around, there’s a little change in my order."
"What would you like, sir?" I asked, my voice barely steady.
"My usual large black coffee, but with one packet of raw sugar. Not white sugar, not brown sugar - raw sugar. If they don’t have raw sugar, you’ll need to go to the organic market and buy some yourself."
"Yes, sir," I managed.
"Now run along, you have work to do."