*Author's Note: Critique and commentary is always very welcomed! Any ideas of what you'd like to see in the next chapter is also grand :) *

Elsa stepped out of the apartment building into the biting cold of the early morning. The air was sharp, cutting through her borrowed coat, and she wrapped it tighter around herself as her breath formed small clouds in the air. The streets were already busy, though the people moving along them seemed like ghosts—faces pale, shoulders hunched against the chill. Workers shuffled out of their cramped homes, their expressions heavy with fatigue and resignation.

On the corner, a pair of police officers loitered, nudging a lifeless figure sprawled on the icy pavement. They exchanged laughs, the sound harsh and callous against the somber backdrop. Elsa turned her eyes away, her stomach twisting. The starkness of the city was unbearable, a far cry from the peaceful countryside she had once called home. She thought of the rolling fields and quiet hills, of mornings filled with birdsong instead of the echoing clang of factory bells. There, life had been hard but simple. Here, it felt suffocating, as though survival required giving up a part of yourself.

Her thoughts heavy, Elsa walked briskly, trying to blend into the crowd. She kept her steps measured, her face neutral, wary of attracting any attention from the patrolling officers. Her borrowed shoes pinched with every step, but she ignored the discomfort, focusing instead on her destination.

When she reached the tall gates of Werner’s factory, she hesitated for a brief moment before passing through. The guards eyed her as she approached, their stares sharp and invasive. Elsa kept her head down, her heart pounding, until she was inside the building.

The reception area was cold and unwelcoming, with harsh fluorescent lights that made everything seem even more lifeless. A woman sat behind the desk, her expression blank as she sorted through papers. Elsa stepped forward and cleared her throat.

“I’m here for the executive assistant position,” she said softly, her voice trembling slightly.

The receptionist didn’t bother to look up. With a casual wave of her hand, she pointed down the hallway and then held up three fingers to indicate the third floor. “Straight ahead,” she said curtly, already turning her attention back to her papers.

Elsa blinked, momentarily stunned by the rudeness. In the countryside, people greeted each other warmly, even strangers. Here, it seemed common courtesy was a luxury no one could afford. She bit her lip, swallowing her indignation, and walked toward the stairs. As she climbed, her nerves began to build. She had no idea what awaited her on the third floor, but she knew she had to make this work.

Elsa arrived at the third floor, her steps hesitant as she approached the waiting area. It was a small, dimly lit space with a few uncomfortable wooden chairs pushed against the walls. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the door at the end of the corridor, where the name Herr Werner was embossed in bold letters on a brass plaque. Above it, a small clock ticked loudly, filling the silence of the hallway.

The walls were lined with black-and-white photographs in ornate frames. Elsa moved closer, studying the images. In each, Herr Werner stood tall and confident, shaking hands with men in military uniforms or posing beside high-ranking government officials. The weight of the connections hinted at in those photographs sent a shiver through Elsa. This man is powerful, she thought, swallowing hard. If I get this job, maybe I can stay invisible, hidden in plain sight. A small, quiet cog in his grand machine.

Her thoughts were interrupted by muffled shouting from behind the closed office door. Elsa tensed, her fingers clutching the hem of her borrowed skirt. The voice was loud, gruff, and filled with frustration. She couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable—anger, control, and impatience. A moment later, the door flew open, and a young man emerged, his head bowed and shoulders hunched.

“Back to the shop floor,” Herr Werner’s voice thundered from inside. “Tell them to work harder, or they’ll be out in the street by the end of the week!”

The young man nodded furiously, his face pale as he muttered a hasty “Yes, sir” and hurried down the corridor without even glancing at Elsa.

Then, Herr Werner himself appeared in the doorway. He was a large, imposing man with a square jaw, slicked-back hair, and a deep scowl etched into his features. His face was flushed from his outburst, and Elsa could see the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. His chest rose and fell heavily as he tried to calm himself, his eyes scanning the corridor before landing on her.

For a moment, Elsa felt like a rabbit cornered by a predator. His eyes were sharp and assessing, lingering on her for a beat too long. Then, his expression shifted. The scowl softened into something almost polite, though his commanding presence remained.

“You must be here for the interview,” he said, his voice suddenly calm but still tinged with authority.

Elsa nodded, her throat too dry to respond immediately.

Werner stepped closer, his eyes sweeping over her. He noted the faint tremor in her hands, the way she held herself with a mixture of nervousness and determination. Young, inexperienced. But she looks good, presentable. A proper assistant in the making.

“Come in,” he said, gesturing for her to follow. “Let’s see if you’re as capable as you look.”

Elsa hesitated for only a second before stepping inside, her heart pounding as the door closed softly behind her.

Werner: (Pacing the room with slow, deliberate steps) “There are three rules to being the perfect executive assistant, Fräulein. Three rules that separate success from failure, order from chaos. Listen carefully.”

(Elsa sits stiffly on the hard wooden chair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. A typewriter and an intercom sit on the desk in front of her, as Werner’s heavy boots echo against the wooden floor.)

Werner: (Pausing near the window, gazing outside) “First: You are to be here, but invisible. My office is my kingdom, and you are its silent guardian. Speak only when necessary, act only when instructed. Understand?”

(Elsa nods slightly, swallowing hard but staying silent as he turns to face her.)

Werner: (Walking closer, his voice sharper) “Second: Everything that happens in this office is remembered—every document, every meeting, every conversation. But once you leave, you forget. My business is not for the streets, nor for idle chatter over coffee. Am I clear?”

Elsa: (Softly) “Yes, Herr Werner.”

(Werner circles behind her, stopping just a few steps away. She can feel the weight of his presence without turning.)

Werner: (Lowering his voice) “Third: Every guest who steps foot in this office is to be treated as if they are me. Whether it’s a factory manager, a government official, or the janitor, you will offer them the same respect and efficiency. Understood?”

(He steps forward, leaning on the desk and staring at Elsa with piercing eyes, his tone suddenly calm but menacing.)

Werner: “Do you understand these rules, Fräulein?”

Elsa: (Feeling her chest tighten under his gaze, but forcing herself to remain composed) “Yes, Herr Werner. I understand.”

(Werner watches her for a moment, as if testing her resolve, then straightens up.)

Werner: “Good. Now…” (He walks back around the desk, standing directly in front of her, his hands clasped behind his back.) “Tell me, where are you from? And why do you think you’re suited for this role?”

(Elsa hesitates for a split second, choosing her words carefully. Her voice steadies as she answers.)

Elsa: “I’m from a small town in the south, Herr Werner. Near the Bavarian forests. My father worked as an accountant, and my mother managed our household. They taught me the importance of precision and discipline.”

Werner: (His eyebrows lift slightly, intrigued) “An accountant’s daughter? That explains your poise. And what brings you to Berlin?”

Elsa: (Smiling faintly, her lie smooth and practiced) “Opportunity, Herr Werner. I want to build a future here, to prove myself in a city where only the capable thrive.”

(Werner nods, his stern expression softening into what might be approval.)

Werner: “Ambition is good. But ambition without discipline is useless. Let’s see if you have both.”

(He gestures toward the typewriter.)

Werner: “Type this for me. No errors.”

(Elsa takes a deep breath, her hands trembling slightly as she moves to the typewriter, determined not to falter under his watchful eye.)

Werner begins pacing again, his tone brisk and authoritative as he starts dictating.

Werner: “Quarterly output from Line B has decreased by ten percent due to inefficiencies in the hydraulic presses. A recalibration schedule is overdue. Notify maintenance to address this by end of week.”

(Elsa’s fingers fly across the typewriter, the clacking of keys filling the room as she keeps up with his rapid-fire instructions. Her back is straight, her shoulders tense but focused. Werner glances at her from the corner of his eye, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly.)

Werner: (Continuing) “Ensure that all employees on the assembly line are briefed on the updated safety protocols. Incidents have risen by five percent in the last quarter.”

(He slows his pace, watching her fingers as they dance over the keys. Not a single pause, not a single mistake. Impressive, he thinks, though he says nothing.)

His gaze drifts down, and he notices her dress—an outdated, ill-fitting garment that clings awkwardly to her frame. The fabric, though clean, has a worn texture, as if borrowed from someone much older. He suppresses a chuckle, imagining she must have raided her aunt’s wardrobe in desperation.

His eyes move to her arms, which are faintly scratched, as if she’d been fighting her way through thorn bushes or struggling with rough work. Her legs, visible just below the hem of the borrowed dress, are unshaven and marked with faint bruises—details that betray a difficult week, perhaps even longer.

(Werner stops pacing, folding his arms as he leans against his desk, his expression impassive but his thoughts swirling.)

Werner: (To himself) She’s fast. Efficient. But rough around the edges. Definitely not from the city.

(As he watches her type, a slight smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. There’s something raw about her, something unpolished, but it intrigues him more than he would admit.)

Werner: “Stop.”

(Elsa immediately halts, her fingers hovering over the keys. She looks up, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.)

Werner: (Nodding slightly) “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

(He doesn’t say more, but in his silence, Elsa senses both judgment and approval. She straightens her back, preparing herself for whatever might come next.)

Werner’s demeanor shifts slightly, his tone measured but laced with expectation. He steps closer to Elsa, who remains seated, her hands still resting lightly on the typewriter keys.

Werner: “There’s one more thing, Fräulein. A good assistant is more than efficient with paperwork. You must also make an impression on guests—be pleasant, attentive, and adaptable to their needs.”

As he speaks, his hand reaches out, firm but not forceful, gripping Elsa gently under her arm to guide her up from the chair. She stands quickly, but the contact lingers just a moment too long. Werner’s fingers sense the dampness of her underarm, slick with sweat from her nerves.

(Elsa’s cheeks flush with heat. She quickly casts her eyes downward, offering an embarrassed smile as she tries to collect herself. Werner, amused but outwardly composed, steps back and sits down in the large armchair by his desk, crossing one leg over the other.)

Werner: “Now, let’s see how you handle a simple request. Make me a cup of tea, Fräulein. Everything you need is on the sideboard.”

(Elsa nods quickly, eager to demonstrate her capability. She moves to the sideboard, where a small teapot, cups, and a tin of loose tea await. As she works, Werner leans back in his chair, his eyes subtly tracking her every move. She moves deliberately, careful not to spill as she spoons the tea into the pot, her hands steady despite her inner tension.)

Werner: (Watching her with a faint smirk) “This company, you see, was built on hard work and precision. My father started it with a single machine. Just one. He had nothing but ambition, and now, look where we are. Dozens of factories. Thousands of workers.”

(As Elsa pours hot water into the pot, the steam rises, momentarily obscuring her face. She listens intently, focusing on the task but absorbing every word, knowing this test is about more than tea.)

Werner: (Continuing, his tone more pointed) “We don’t get here by chance, Fräulein. Discipline. Dedication. That’s what it takes. And anyone who works for me—especially someone as close to this office as you—must understand that.”

(He watches as she carefully balances the tray, her movements precise but hesitant as she approaches. His gaze lingers on her dress, her posture, the faint tension in her frame. She sets the tray down before him with care, stepping back as if awaiting his approval.)

Werner: (Lifting the teacup and inspecting her work with exaggerated deliberation) “Acceptable. For now.”

(Elsa exhales quietly, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as she tries to mask her relief. Werner sips the tea, his eyes never leaving her, as if she were another component of the machinery he so carefully oversees.)

Werner sets the teacup down with a deliberate clink, his eyes fixed on Elsa. A faint, wolfish smile creeps across his face as he leans forward, hands clasped over his knee.

Werner: “You did well, Fräulein. But before I can offer you this position, there’s something we must address.”

(He stands abruptly, his imposing frame towering over her. Without hesitation, he steps closer, reaching out to the fabric of her borrowed dress, pinching it between his fingers. He rubs the material as if assessing its quality, his gaze dropping to her hemline and back up.)

Werner: “This… dress. It’s unsuitable for a position like this. Cheap, outdated. It gives the wrong impression.”

(He doesn’t release the fabric immediately, letting his touch linger. Elsa stiffens, her lips parting slightly, but no words come. Her eyes dart downward as Werner’s hand moves from the dress to the ends of her hair. He lifts a strand between his fingers, his movements deliberate. He leans in closer, his nostrils flaring slightly as he sniffs, his brows furrowing in mock displeasure.)

Werner: (Voice low and invasive) “Your hair. It smells of sweat and oil. You’ll need to clean this before returning tomorrow. Presentation is everything here, Fräulein.”

(Elsa remains frozen, her arms stiff at her sides, her face burning with humiliation. She murmurs a soft, barely audible response.)

Elsa: “Yes, Herr Weber.”

(Summoning her courage, she hesitates before adding.)

Elsa: “I… I might need an advance on my wages to afford proper clothing.”

(Werner pauses at her words, his hand now resting lightly on her lower back, his fingers just brushing the curve of her spine. He tilts his head, considering her request as if it were a grand favor. The silence stretches, heavy and oppressive, his eyes locked on her.)

Werner: (Finally, with a slow, deliberate nod) “Yes… of course. We can arrange that.”

(His voice is smooth, but his hand lingers too long, his touch a silent reminder of his control. Elsa’s stomach churns, but she forces herself to remain passive, her expression carefully neutral. Werner steps back, his smile returning, but his eyes remain sharp, calculating.)

Werner: “Now, go. Be here at 8 a.m. sharp tomorrow. And don’t disappoint me, Fräulein.”

(Elsa nods quickly, her feet already moving toward the door, her mind racing with a mix of relief and unease. As she steps out, the faint scent of his cologne clings to her, an unwelcome reminder of how close he had been.)

As Elsa walks through the crowded, gray streets of Berlin, the chill in the air nips at her skin through the borrowed dress and thin coat. Her mind races, replaying every moment in Werner’s office. She feels her chest tighten as she recalls his hand lingering on her back, the way he had touched her hair, smelled it, and commented on her appearance with such ease.

“What a creep,” she mutters under her breath, her pace quickening as if she could outrun the memory.

But then, her thoughts betray her. She stops abruptly at a corner, her reflection caught in a shop window. The image of herself—small, thin, desperate—stares back at her. Her hand rises instinctively, and with a sharp slap to her cheek, she snaps herself out of her anger.

“Stop it, Elsa,” she hisses through clenched teeth, glancing around to ensure no one noticed. “Your stupid pride and pudici thoughts will only make you starve.”

Her mind shifts to Uwe, sitting at home with his bruised ego and stubborn silence. Her anger at him begins to ebb, replaced by a flicker of excitement for the job. Werner’s words ring in her ears, reminding her that she has a chance, however unsettling the circumstances, to pull them both out of the gutter.

Still, a pang of guilt gnaws at her as she recalls the moment Werner’s hand brushed her back, his eyes assessing her legs. For a fleeting moment, she realizes, she hadn’t thought of Uwe—not as her husband, not as her protector. In that brief, invasive moment, she wasn’t a married woman. She was simply Elsa, a desperate woman clinging to an opportunity, no matter how much it made her skin crawl.

Her lips press into a thin line, her fists clenching as she continues walking, this time with more purpose. “I’ll make this work,” she tells herself firmly, the bitterness in her heart giving way to. “No matter what it takes.”