Chapter 1: The Watch on the Wrong Wrist
My husband's secretary kicked me out of the elevator because she thought I was an intern.
I was on the verge of telling her I was the new CEO…
until I saw what she was wearing on her wrist.
On my first day as Chief Executive Officer of Montalvo Global, my husband's secretary looked me up and down, blocked the executive elevator with her arm, and sneered, "Interns use the service elevator."
She had no idea who I was.
And I decided not to tell her.
Because in that exact second, I caught sight of something far more revealing than her arrogance.
On her left wrist, she was wearing a limited-edition white ceramic watch.
It was the exact same timepiece I had hand-picked for my mother-in-law's upcoming birthday.
Only ten existed worldwide.
A month ago, while I was wrapping up a deal in Chicago, I had explicitly asked my husband, Alexander Montalvo, to purchase it for me.
"Please handle it," I had told him over the phone.
"Your mother is going to love it."
"Leave it to me, sweetheart," he had replied smoothly.
Now that very watch was strapped to the wrist of Camila Reyes, his executive secretary.
It would take several more minutes for me to understand the dark truth behind why she was wearing it.
That morning, I had arrived at the corporate headquarters in Manhattan wearing an understated navy shift dress, flat leather shoes, and carrying an unbranded handbag.
For six years, I had led major operational turnarounds away from the main headquarters.
I was accustomed to industrial plants, late-night red-eye flights, endless board prep, and budget hotels where I barely got four hours of sleep.
I had never cared about dressing to advertise my tax bracket.
Camila, apparently, operated on a very different philosophy.
"Didn't you hear me?" She crossed her arms, blocking the doorway.
"This elevator is reserved for C-suite executives."
"I heard you perfectly," I replied, keeping my voice level.
"Then go use the other one."
A young female junior employee standing nearby shuffled closer and whispered urgently into my ear, "You should really just do what she says.
You do not want to get on Ms.
Reyes's bad side."
I glanced toward the service corridor.
"Does the freight elevator go to the 68th floor?"
The girl shook her head nervously.
"Only to 63."
"And what about the staff working on the top floors?"
She lowered her gaze.
"We take the stairs the rest of the way."
I blinked, certain I had misheard her.
"Five flights of stairs?"
"Yes."
"Every single day?"
Camila let out a dry, condescending laugh.
"If walking up five flights of stairs is too much for entry-level staff, perhaps they don't deserve to work at this firm."
The junior employee went completely quiet.
That remark ignited a cold fury inside me that went far deeper than the petty insult she had just aimed at my clothes.
I knew my own position, but this girl — and dozens like her — had been subjected to this toxic culture for so long that they had accepted it as normal.
Three days ago, the board of directors had unanimously ratified my appointment as Chief Executive Officer.
The official company-wide press release was scheduled for 10:00 AM.
Alexander knew I was returning to headquarters, but he was missing one critical piece of information: he didn't realize the board had granted me total operational authority.
He remained Corporate Chairman, but as of this morning, Operations, Internal Audit, Human Resources, and Legal Compliance reported directly to me.
Camila blocked the elevator door once more.
"This is the last time I'm telling you.
Don't dirty up the executive car."
I reached past her arm and pressed the call button.
The doors slid open.
I stepped inside.
Her expression shifted from arrogance to pure shock.
She marched in right behind me.
"You just made the absolute worst mistake of your career."
I caught our reflection in the polished steel walls.
"Which career would that be?"
"Your internship," she spat.
"I'll make sure HR revokes your security pass before lunch."
I almost smiled.
"Since when does the Chairman's secretary decide who stays and who goes?"
"Anyone who works anywhere near Mr.
Montalvo goes through me first."
She didn't say it like an administrative assistant.
She said it like an owner.
When the elevator chimed at the executive floor, the surrounding staff turned to look.
Camila immediately began recounting her version of the encounter in a loud, rehearsed voice.
Within two minutes of standing in the main lobby, I overheard hushed whispers from passing managers that made my chest go cold:
"Alexander trusts her more than anyone."
"She's his right hand."
"No one ever crosses Camila if they want to keep their job."
A senior manager even approached me, murmuring, "Apologize to her before Mr.
Montalvo finishes his morning briefing.
If Camila complains to him, he can blackball you from every major firm in the city."
Then, the overhead lights caught the white ceramic casing on Camila's wrist.
The watch.
White ceramic.
Micro-set diamonds.
A tiny silver crescent moon sitting precisely over the number six.
My stomach turned.
Camila caught me staring and raised her arm, admiring the piece with unvarnished pride.
"Like it?" she purred.
"Where did you get it?" I asked quietly.
Her smile shifted.
It wasn't merely arrogant anymore — it was intimate.
"Alexander gave it to me."
Ten years of marriage flashed through my mind in an instant.
The late-night client dinners…
---
That watch was meant for his mother.
Now it's on *her* wrist.
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What does Alexander have to say for himself?
Comment **"NEXT"** if you want Part 2 — it's already in the comments.
