Flawless

The training was brutal. For six hours, Frost’s lead assistant—a man who moved like a programmed machine—marched her through the labyrinthine estate.

He drilled her on the Vane Protocol: the precise way Frost liked his coffee (82 degrees Celsius), the silent gait required in the hallways, and the absolute black-out security she was now responsible for.

"He does not like noise. He does not like 'effort'. He likes results," the assistant droned.

Frost watched from the top of the marble staircase, his arms crossed, his gaze tracking her like a hawk. He had already prepared a list of one hundred minor infractions that would lead to her immediate termination and the subsequent bulldozing of her mother's shop. He was waiting for her to trip on the rug, to check her phone, to breathe too loudly.

"Your desk is outside my bedroom door and my office door," Frost said, his voice echoing in the foyer as he descended. "You are my shadow. If I move, you move. If I speak, you record. And if you fail—even by a second—your mother's 'hope' becomes a parking lot."

Luna stood tall, her jaw set in a hard line. She had swapped her delivery cap for a sleek, dark suit that felt like a straitjacket, but the fire in her eyes hadn't gone out. "I got it, 'Highness'. Just try not to walk into any more walls while I’m watching your back."

The assistant gasped at the disrespect, but Frost only let out a cold, sharp breath that might have been a laugh if he had a heart.

"The workday begins now," Frost commanded, checking his platinum watch. "We have a 7:00 AM briefing. Do not be late."

As they walked toward the fleet of cars, the tension between them was a live wire. Frost was determined to break her spirit with impossible demands, while Luna was determined to protect her family by being the one thing Frost never expected: flawless.

The first official workday at Vane Global didn’t start with a greeting; it started with a stopwatch. Frost stood by the elevator, his charcoal suit impeccably pressed, staring at his wrist. At 6:59:59 AM, the doors slid open. Luna stepped out, struggling with a massive stack of files, a tablet, and a venti coffee that was exactly 82 degrees.

"You’re four seconds early," Frost remarked, his voice a dry glacier. "Eagerness is just another form of anxiety. Control it."

"And good morning to you too, Your Royal Coldness," Luna muttered, trailing behind him.

As they marched toward the executive suite, Frost began his campaign of petty tyranny. He dropped his silk coat without looking; Luna caught it mid-air with a scowl. He stopped abruptly in the hallway, causing her to nearly face-plant into his back.

"The regional reports," he demanded, reaching back a hand without turning around.

"Page forty-two, second paragraph, just like you didn't ask but obviously wanted," Luna snapped, slapping the file into his palm.

Inside the office, the torture continued. Frost spent the morning "testing" her. He made her re-type a fifty-page contract because he claimed the font looked "tired." He sent her to the basement archive to find a physical file from 1994, only to tell her he "found it in his drawer" the moment she returned, breathless and covered in dust.

"You missed a spot of dust on your shoulder," Frost said, flicking a microscopic speck off her blazer with a look of pure disgust. "Flawless, Luna. That was the deal. One more mess like that and I’ll call the demolition crew for the flower shop."

Luna waited until he turned his back to look out the floor-to-ceiling window. She stuck her tongue out at his reflection and made a "blah-blah" motion with her hand.

"Did you say something, Assistant Secretary?" Frost asked, his voice silky and dangerous.

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