Unbothered

By Nicole Ashton

One impossible boss. One unbothered assistant. One month to break every rule they've ever known.

Blake Tyrone has everything under control. His billion-dollar empire runs like clockwork. His espresso is precisely 145 degrees. His assistants last exactly three days before they quit, cry, or both.

Then Zara Johnson walks in.

She's wearing combat boots to a Fortune 500 interview. She's chewing gum during his intimidation speech. And when he tells her the last assistant left a warning note, she just shrugs and says, "Cool. I've survived worse." She doesn't flinch. She doesn't apologize. She reorganizes his files without asking, fixes his espresso to 146 degrees just to prove a point, and settles into his impossible office like she owns the place.

For the first time in a decade, Blake Tyrone has met someone who refuses to be controlled. Which should be a problem. Except somehow, between the late-night strategy sessions and the coffee that tastes better at the wrong temperature, control starts feeling less like power and more like loneliness.

Until a scandal threatens everything. Until the board demands choices. Until Blake has to decide: the empire he built alone, or the woman who taught him what it means to stop building walls.

One month changed everything. Now they have to figure out if what they built together is strong enough to survive the fall, what could possibly go wrong?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicole Ashton
• Release date: Oct 30, 2025
• ISBN: 9798232452643

Nicole Ashton

Nicole Ashton writes love stories that feel like movies — full of emotion, slow tension, and the kind of moments that stay with you long after the last page. Her stories often begin with heartbreak and end with healing, exploring how people find love again after losing it, and how one unexpected moment can change everything. She believes love stories don't have to be perfect to be powerful — they just have to feel real. Whether it's two people pretending not to care, someone coming back from the past, or a lie that turns into something true, Nicole writes about the quiet, messy, beautiful parts of falling in love. Her books include They Said It Was Fake, Borrowed for Revenge, and The Ten Dollar Boyfriend — each one a cinematic journey of emotions, second chances, and the complicated ways people find their way back to each other. When she's not writing, Nicole loves getting lost in films, long walks that turn into daydreams, and quiet coffee shops where she builds the worlds her characters live in. She writes for anyone who still believes love can surprise them — even when they've stopped looking for it.

Book preview

THE GRAVEYARD SHIFT

The 47th floor of Tyrone Enterprises doesn't announce itself with noise or chaos. It announces itself with silence—the kind that feels deliberate, curated, like someone took all the mess and humanity out of a workspace and replaced it with chrome and consequence.

By 8:43 AM.

Sunlight cuts through vertical blinds in sharp, unforgiving lines, casting prison-bar shadows across white marble floors so polished you could perform surgery on them. Glass walls everywhere; transparent, unforgiving, exposing every hesitation and every breath. The office is a study in cold minimalism: sleek desks arranged in perfect geometric precision, potted plants that look like they've been threatened into staying green, and air so sterile it feels like it's been filtered through a boardroom full of lawyers.

Somewhere in the distance, an espresso machine hisses. Keyboards click in synchrony, a corporate metronome that never stops. People move through the space like ghosts in business casual—heads down, shoulders tight, eyes locked on screens as if making eye contact with the wrong person might trigger an HR incident or, worse, a performance review.

This is not a workplace. This is a battlefield dressed in Armani. And at the center of it all, tucked into the corner like a shrine to corporate martyrdom, sits the desk.

The assistant's desk.

Empty. Pristine. Ominous.

A sleek monitor blinks patiently, waiting for someone—anyone—to survive long enough to actually use it. The chair is still perfectly aligned with the edge of the desk, untouched since yesterday afternoon when its last occupant walked out mid-shift, muttering something about dignity and therapy bills.

On the monitor, a single Post-It note clings like a warning from a shipwreck survivor:

Good luck. You'll need it. —Jonah

The handwriting is shaky. Desperate. The kind of scrawl you leave behind when you've seen things you can't unsee. No one touches the note. No one sits at the desk. It's been two days, and the space has become something of an office legend—a cursed throne that chews people up and spits them out before their first paycheck clears.

Seventeen assistants in six months. Some quit. Some cried. Most were fired for crimes so small they'd be laughable anywhere else: breathing too loudly, using the wrong font in an email, arriving on time instead of early, bringing hazelnut milk instead of almond.

Blake Tyrone didn't just have standards. He had a system of standards. A hierarchy of expectations. A taxonomy of reasons to terminate employment.

And nobody—nobody—lasted.

Three floors down, in an office that smells faintly of old coffee and regret, Michelle Torres sits behind a desk that's seen better decades. She's mid-40s, glasses perpetually sliding down her nose, hair pulled into a bun so tight it might be the only thing holding her sanity together.

She stares at her computer screen like it's a crime scene she's been assigned to solve but knows she never will. On her desk: a manila folder labeled TYRONE FALLOUT in bold Sharpie. Inside, a stack of termination letters thick enough to be a novella. Seventeen, to be exact. Each one a small tragedy. Each one a reminder that working for Blake Tyrone isn't a job—it's a psychological stress test disguised as a six-figure salary.

Her phone rings.

Michelle doesn't move immediately. She just stares at it, the way you stare at a bomb you know is about to go off but you're too tired to run from. Finally, she picks up.

Human Resources, this is Michelle.

The voice on the other end is young, hopeful, naive. A recent college grad, probably. Someone who saw the job posting and thought, Six figures? In this economy? Sign me up.

Michelle closes her eyes.

Yes, she says, her voice flat, exhausted. The position is still open.

Pause.

No, I understand. Yes, the pay is six figures.

Another pause. Longer this time.

No, Michelle says slowly, I can't guarantee you'll last a week.

Silence on the other end.

Because, Michelle continues, adjusting her glasses with one hand, no one does.

She listens for another beat—probably the sound of someone's dream job evaporating in real time—and then the line goes dead.

Michelle sets the phone down gently, like she's laying a body to rest. She opens the TYRONE FALLOUT folder and flips through it, a grim parade of names and dates:

Catherine Nguyen. Lasted four days. Fired for answering the phone with Hey instead of Good morning, Mr. Tyrone.

Daniel Reyes. Lasted nine days. Fired for booking a car that arrived 90 seconds late. Blake's exact words: If you can't master time, you can't manage me.

Maya Patel. Lasted two weeks. Fired for bringing hazelnut milk instead of almond. The stare-down lasted three minutes. The termination speech lasted one sentence: You're allergic to awareness. Pack your desk.

And then, most recently: Jonah Park. Two master's degrees. A stress-induced eye twitch. Walked out mid-Tuesday after Blake asked him to alphabetize three—three—meal prep containers.

Jonah's exit interview consisted of two words: Not human.

Michelle sighs, long and deep, the kind of exhale that could fog glass. She pulls up the job posting on her screen for the fifth time this week, tweaking the language like a hostage negotiation:

Fast-paced executive seeks energetic, detail-oriented assistant. Competitive salary. Luxury office environment. Opportunity for growth.

She deletes opportunity for growth and replaces it with: High tolerance for pressure required.

Then deletes that too and types: Thick skin mandatory.

She stares at it. Deletes it. Types: Candidates must be emotionally bulletproof.

Finally, she just closes the laptop. There's no way to sugarcoat this. Blake Tyrone isn't a difficult boss. He's a phenomenon. A force of nature. A category-five hurricane in a Tom Ford suit. And the worst part? He doesn't even know he's the problem.

— ✦ —

Across the floor, in the break room, two employees stand near the espresso machine, voices low, eyes darting toward the corner office like they're discussing a mob boss.

I heard he fired someone for using Comic Sans, whispers Aaron from IT, stirring his coffee nervously.

That's not a rumor, says Priya from Marketing, leaning in. "That actually happened. The guy put it in a draft email. Blake saw it on his screen from across the room and just—" She makes a cutting motion across her throat.

Aaron winces. And the new assistant desk is still empty.

Two days and counting.

Think anyone's even going to apply?

Priya shakes her head slowly. "Would you?"

Aaron laughs, but it's hollow. I wouldn't last an hour. My anxiety would kill me before he did.

They both glance toward the corner office—massive, glass-walled, glowing with cold LED light like a villain's lair in a superhero movie. Inside, barely visible through the glare, is him.

Blake Tyrone.

Thirty-four. Billionaire. CEO. Control freak. Emotionally constipated espresso addict.

He's standing at his desk, phone pressed to his ear, one hand braced on the glass as he stares out at the city below. Even from this distance, you can feel the tension radiating off him like heat from asphalt in August. His suit is matte black, custom-tailored so precisely it looks like it was stitched directly onto his body. His hair is dark, immaculate, the kind of hair that knows better than to fall out of place. His jawline could cut contracts. His eyes—dark, sharp, calculating—seem to take in everything and give nothing back.

He doesn't look like a monster. He looks like a man who's built an empire and forgotten how to be human in the process.

Eventually, he ends the call.

Silence filled his office.

Blake sets the phone down gently—too gently, like he's restraining himself from throwing it through the window—and turns back to his desk. Three monitors. Color-coded folders. Pens aligned like surgical instruments. Everything in its place. Everything controlled. Except the assistant's desk outside his office.

Still empty.

Blake's jaw tightens. He walks to the glass wall and stares at the vacant desk, the dark monitor, the Post-It note still clinging to the screen like a taunt.

Good luck. You'll need it. —Jonah

Blake's expression doesn't change, but something flickers behind his eyes. Annoyance? Frustration? Loneliness? Hard to tell with a man who's spent a decade building walls so high even he can't see over them anymore.

He returns to his desk, opens his email, and types:

TO: Michelle Torres, HR

SUBJECT: Replacement

MESSAGE: You have 48 hours. I don't care if you have to hire a robot or a circus performer with a day planner. I want someone in that chair by Friday.

He hits send.

Then he leans back in his chair, closes his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose. Somewhere deep in his chest, beneath the armor of Armani and arrogance, something tightens.

He's tired.

Not physically. Physically, he's fine. He runs five miles every morning, eats clean, sleeps six hours like clockwork. But emotionally? Emotionally, Blake Tyrone is running on fumes. And he doesn't even know it.

By Thursday afternoon, panic has officially set in. The assistant's desk sits empty for a third day, and the office is starting to feel it. Blake's calendar is a disaster. Meetings overlap. Emails go unanswered. His espresso arrives late—late—and he nearly fires the intern who delivered it just for witnessing his caffeine withdrawal.

Michelle's inbox is a graveyard of declined interviews and ghosted applications. Nobody wants the job. Six figures be damned. In the break room, the whispers have evolved into full-blown speculation:

Maybe he'll finally implode.

Maybe HR will just give up and let him schedule his own meetings like a normal person.

Maybe someone will walk in here, completely unqualified, and just... survive.

No one believes that last one part.  

Chapter Two

ZARA ENTERS

The lobby of Tyrone Enterprises doesn't welcome you. It assesses you. Bright. Cold. Intimidating in the way expensive things are—like a museum where you're afraid to touch anything because it probably costs more than your car. The floors are white marble, polished to a mirror shine. Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the space with harsh afternoon light, casting everything in stark, unforgiving clarity. There's a reception desk that looks like it was carved from a single glacier, all sharp edges and cold surfaces.

Employees move through the space like synchronized swimmers—heads down, shoulders tight, efficient and silent. No one lingers. No one makes eye contact. Everyone looks like they're one wrong move away from a panic attack or a performance improvement plan.

The air smells like expensive cologne, fresh coffee, and suppressed anxiety. This is a place where people come to prove themselves, not to be themselves.

And then—

The revolving door spins. And everything shifts. Not dramatically. Not like an explosion or a record scratch. More like the air pressure changes, just slightly, and everyone feels it even if they don't know why.

Zara Johnson walks in.

No, walks isn't the right word.

She strides in. Loose, unhurried, like she owns the building and is just stopping by to check on the tenants.

Combat boots on marble. The sound echoes—thud, thud, thud—deliberate, unbothered, cutting through the silence like a drumbeat in a library. Black blazer, one size too big, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Dark jeans that have seen better days. A high ponytail that swings when she moves, a few loose curls framing her face. No jewelry except small silver hoops in her ears. No designer bag—just a canvas tote slung over one shoulder, fraying at the edges.

And she's chewing gum.

Loudly.

Popping it with the casual audacity of someone who either doesn't know the rules or doesn't care. Her eyes sweep the room—sharp, assessing, unimpressed. She takes in the marble, the glass, the terrified-looking receptionist typing like her life depends on it, the employees scurrying past with their heads down.

Zara's expression doesn't change, but something in her posture says: Yeah, okay. Rich people nonsense. Got it.

She walks toward the reception desk, popping her gum one more time for good measure. The receptionist—mid-20s, blonde, polished to within an inch of her life, makeup so perfect it looks painted on—glances up.

And freezes. Because Zara doesn't look like someone who belongs here. She looks like someone who just walked off a city bus, grabbed a coffee, and decided to crash a corporate gala for fun.

The receptionist's smile is automatic, professional, strained.

Good afternoon. Can I help you?

Zara leans one elbow on the desk, completely at ease.

Yeah. I'm here about the PA job.

The receptionist blinks. Once. Twice.

The... personal assistant position?

That's the one. Zara pops her gum again. Heard the last guy cried.

Silence.

The receptionist stares at her like she just announced she's here to perform an exorcism.

You... The receptionist hesitates, fingers hovering over her keyboard. You applied?

Technically? No. Zara shrugs. But I heard the pay is stupid good and I like a challenge.

The receptionist's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

You want to work for Blake Tyrone.

It's not a question. It's a warning. Zara tilts her head, eyes glinting with something that might be amusement or might be recklessness—hard to tell which.

He's not the devil, Zara says, voice light but sharp. He's just rich and used to people being afraid of him. I've dated worse.

The receptionist looks like she wants to say something—maybe run, maybe please reconsider, maybe do you have a will prepared—but before she can, a voice cuts through the lobby from behind them.

Did someone just say PA job?

Both women turn.

Michelle Torres stands near the hallway entrance, clipboard in one hand, glasses sliding down her nose, wearing the expression of a woman who's been managing HR crises for so long she's developed a sixth sense for disasters before they happen.

She's staring at Zara like she's trying to decide if this is a miracle or a mistake.

Zara straightens, extends a hand.

Zara Johnson.

Michelle doesn't shake it immediately.

She just stares.

Takes in the combat boots. The oversized blazer. The gum. The confidence that doesn't match the outfit, the setting, or the situation.

Michelle's brain is doing calculations: Mid-20s. Scuffed boots. Confident stance. Not even sweating. Michelle stares. Crazy, she thinks, or exactly what we need.

Finally, Michelle steps forward and shakes Zara's hand. Firm grip. Assessing.

Michelle Torres. Human Resources. She pauses. You know this is the Blake Tyrone PA position.

Yep.

You know seventeen people have quit or been fired in the last six months.

I heard.

You know he once fired someone for breathing too loudly.

Zara doesn't flinch. Then I'll breathe quietly.

Michelle's lips twitch. Almost a smile. Not quite.

You realize, Michelle says slowly, carefully, he'll probably destroy you.

Zara meets her eyes. Steady. Unflinching.

I've been destroyed by worse, she says. At least this pays rent.

Silence.

Michelle stares at her for a long beat. And then something shifts in her expression—something like hope, or desperation, or the kind of exhaustion that makes you willing to try anything.

She adjusts her glasses. Sighs.

All right. Follow me.

They move through the hallway in silence—Michelle leading, Zara following, the receptionist watching them go like she's witnessing someone walk into a haunted house on a dare. The hallway is lined with glass offices. Employees glance up as they pass, eyes widening slightly when they see Zara.

She doesn't look like she belongs here, and she knows it. But she doesn't shrink. Doesn't adjust her blazer or smooth her ponytail or try to blend in. She just walks, boots echoing on marble, chin up, shoulders loose.

Whispers follow them like smoke:

Is that the new assistant?

Oh my God. Look at her.

She's not gonna last.

I give her three hours.

I give her lunch.

Zara hears them. Doesn't react. Just keeps walking. Michelle glances back once, studying her.

You're not nervous, Michelle says. Not a question. An observation.

Zara shrugs. Should I be?

Most people are terrified before they even meet him.

I've worked in bars during holiday season, Zara says. I've handled drunk guys who think tipping five bucks means they own you. I've survived a CEO who only spoke in motivational quotes and wore mood rings unironically. She pauses. This is just a new level of ridiculous.

Michelle almost laughs. Almost.

That's one way to put it.

They reach the elevator. Michelle presses the button for the 47th floor. The doors slide shut. It's just the two of them now, enclosed in steel and silence. Michelle turns to face her, arms crossed, expression serious.

I need you to understand something, Michelle says quietly. Blake Tyrone is not a normal boss. He's brilliant. Ruthless. And completely incapable of handling anything that doesn't go exactly the way he planned.

So he's a control freak.

"He's a functioning control freak. Which makes it worse. Michelle pauses. He doesn't yell. He doesn't throw things—well, not often. He just... cuts you down with a single sentence and makes you question every decision you've ever made."

Zara nods slowly. Got it. Emotionally unavailable billionaire with boundary issues. Standard.

Michelle stares at her. You're either very brave or very stupid.

Can't it be both?

The elevator dings. 47th floor. The doors slide open. And the air changes. Colder. Quieter. More controlled. This isn't just another floor. This is his floor. The corner office looms ahead—massive, glass-walled, glowing with cold LED light like a throne room in a minimalist dystopia.

Michelle steps out. Zara follows.

Few ground rules, Michelle says as they walk. Don't interrupt him during calls. Don't touch his files. Don't ask personal questions. Don't—

Breathe too loudly?

Michelle glances at her. I'm serious.

So am I.

They stop outside the glass office. Through the transparent walls, Zara can see him, Blake Tyrone. He's standing at his desk, back to the door, phone pressed to his ear. Navy suit, perfectly tailored, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Dark hair, immaculate. Shoulders tense. Even from this distance, you can feel the energy radiating off him—sharp, controlled, dangerous.

He's pacing. Slowly. Deliberately.

"I don't pay you to give me options, Marcus, Blake says into the phone, voice low, lethal. I pay you to execute. If the design team can't understand the difference between modern and mediocre, find me people who can."

He ends the call without waiting for a response.

Silence.

Blake sets the phone down—gently, too gently, like he's restraining himself—and turns. That’s when he sees them. His eyes land on Michelle first. Then shift to Zara. He doesn't speak immediately. Just stares.

Taking her in. The boots. The blazer. The ponytail. The gum. His expression doesn't change—sharp, unreadable, calculating—but something flickers behind his eyes. Confusion? Annoyance? Curiosity? Hard to tell with a man who's spent a decade perfecting emotional armor.

Michelle clears her throat.

Mr. Tyrone, this is Zara Johnson. She's here to interview for the assistant position.

Blake's gaze doesn't leave Zara.

She doesn't have an appointment.

No, Michelle admits. But she walked in and asked for the job. And frankly, she's the only person who's done that in three days.

Blake's jaw tightens. Just slightly. He steps closer to the glass wall, arms crossed, eyes locked on Zara like he's assessing a business acquisition.

You know what this job entails? he asks.

Not really, Zara says. But I'm a fast learner.

You know who I am?

Blake Tyrone. Billionaire. CEO. Guy who fires people for using Comic Sans.

His eyebrow twitches. You've done your research.

I've heard the rumors. Zara pops her gum. You're Voldemort with a LinkedIn profile.

Silence.

Michelle's eyes widen. Oh God. But Blake doesn't explode. Doesn't fire her on the spot. He just stares. And then—barely, barely—the corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not quite.

But something.

Come in, he says.

Michelle exhales like she's been holding her breath for an hour. Blake turns and walks back to his desk. Zara follows, unbothered, boots echoing on the marble floor. Michelle stays outside, watching through the glass like a referee at a boxing match.

Zara steps into the office.

Blake Tyrone's office isn't just a workspace. It's a statement. Corner suite. 47th floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the city like a conquest—steel and glass towers stretching toward a sky that's more gray than blue, the kind of view that reminds you how small everyone else is and how high you've climbed.

The room itself is massive but feels cold. Minimalist in the way expensive things are when they're designed to intimidate rather than comfort. White walls. Black furniture. Chrome fixtures that gleam like they've never been touched by human hands.

The desk is a monolith—dark wood, perfectly clean except for two monitors angled just so, a leather-bound planner closed and centered, and three pens arranged in a perfect line. Black. Blue. Red. Evenly spaced. Aligned like surgical tools waiting for an operation.

No photos. No personal items. No coffee mugs with motivational quotes or framed degrees on the wall. Nothing that suggests a human being actually works here. Just control. Precision. Power.

The air smells faintly of expensive cologne—something citrusy and clean—and fresh paper. The kind of scent that belongs in luxury car commercials or hotel lobbies where you're afraid to touch anything.

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

They just stare.

Then Blake takes a step closer, studying her the way he'd study a contract before signing it—looking for loopholes, weaknesses, places where things might fall apart.

Blake's first thought—clinical, automatic—is assessment.

She doesn't belong here. That's the immediate read. Not in a cruel way. Just factual. Observational. The way you'd notice a puzzle piece that doesn't fit. Her boots are scuffed. Her blazer is a size too big, sleeves pushed up, wrinkled at the elbows. Her jeans have a small tear near the knee—not fashionable, just worn. Her ponytail is high and loose, a few curls escaping to frame her face.

She looks like she walked off a city bus, grabbed a coffee, and wandered into a Fortune 500 company by accident. But her eyes. That's what stops him. Sharp. Steady. Unafraid. She's not looking at him the way most people do—with reverence or fear or the desperate need to impress. She's looking at him like she's studying him. Like she's already decided who he is and isn't particularly impressed.

Blake's second thought: Dangerous. He doesn't say it out loud. Doesn't even fully acknowledge it. But it's there, humming quietly in the back of his brain like a warning signal.

Blake stares at her. Most people—most people—would have stammered by now. Apologized. Backpedaled. Offered some excuse to fill the silence. But Zara doesn't flinch. She just stands there, calm, unbothered, like she's daring him to argue. Blake's eyebrow twitches.

Name? he asks.

Zara Johnson.

Experience?

Bartending. Event planning. One very chaotic tech startup. A temp gig for a life coach who only spoke in metaphors. She pauses. "Also, I once managed an event where a drunk magician set his pants on fire mid-show and blamed me for it. Kept him