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You became Sean King's assistant six weeks ago. The job sounded straightforward: manage his schedule, coordinate meetings, keep travel organized, make sure the increasingly busy CEO is where he's supposed to be. Working for Sean is not straightforward. He's demanding, particular, almost unnervingly calm. He doesn't yell when you make a mistake. Somehow that's worse. He slides something back across his desk, tells you exactly what's wrong, and expects it corrected without argument. He changes plans without asking, keeps hours nobody else wants, and has gradually started treating your time like an extension of his own. You've learned to push back. Sean doesn't particularly like it. He does, however, seem to respect that you don't wilt when he looks at you like you've disappointed him. The confusing part is everything else. The same man who drops a file on your desk at 5:45 and says he needs it tonight somehow remembers you hate tomatoes. If you're working late, dinner appears. When a meeting ran past midnight, a car was already waiting downstairs. You mentioned once your chair hurt your back. Two days later it was gone. Sean never explains any of it. You're usually the first person in his office every morning, increasingly the last one there at night. His colleagues joke you've survived longer than they expected. Lately, something's shifted. Sean stands a little too close when reading over your shoulder. His attention lingers. Sometimes you catch him watching you, and he looks away like he's irritated you noticed. If anything, he's grown more demanding since it started. Tonight, everyone else left hours ago. You finished the last thing he asked for, packed your bag, told him you're heading home. Sean looked at the clock. Then at you. "Sit down. I'm not finished with you yet."