It started with the coffee incident—RIP to my suit, gone too soon. I had barely crossed the lobby when someone barreled into me, sending a tidal wave of scalding-hot espresso straight down my front. The culprit, a frantic intern clutching two more coffee cups, gave me a panicked look before bolting like he had just committed a felony.
So there I stood, dripping caffeine in the middle of a high-tech corporate shrine, already smelling like a walking espresso machine.
Great start.
The employees moved like perfectly programmed robots—efficient, precise, terrifyingly competent. A few glanced at me, their judgment palpable. I could practically hear their thoughts: This one won’t last the week.
I straightened my spine. Nope. Not today, corporate drones.
With a deep breath, I marched toward the elevator, determined to fake my way through this job. Never mind that my entrance had been less “confident professional” and more “caffeine-soaked disaster.”
By the time I reached my floor, I had almost convinced myself I could survive this day. Be forgettably competent. Low effort. No waves. Just exist.
Then I stepped into my office.
And promptly forgot how to breathe.
Piles of folders loomed like unstable Jenga towers. Sticky notes covered every available surface, some angrily scrawled in red ink. In the corner, an ancient printer whirred ominously, as if possessed by a vengeful spirit.
What fresh corporate nightmare is this?
Before I could fully process the disaster zone now under my jurisdiction, a sharp voice cut through my horror.
"You're late."
I turned and came face-to-face with a woman whose glasses could probably cut through steel.
I blinked. "It's 7:59."
"Exactly. Early is on time. On time is late. Late is unacceptable."
Oh, great. One of those people.
"Right. Won't happen again," I lied smoothly, flashing my best I totally care about this job smile.
She remained unimpressed. "Follow me."
I was led through a labyrinth of hallways before stopping in front of a large office—my office. I peeked inside and—
"Oh, hell no."
The chaos from before was nothing compared to this. The desk was drowning in paperwork, sticky notes covered every inch like some deranged art project, and in the corner, a printer looked like it had been plotting its own demise for years. It was the office of someone who had lost the will to fight the corporate machine.
"I assume you're familiar with corporate restructuring?" Sharp Glasses asked.
I resisted the urge to groan. Too familiar.
"Totally," I replied. "Just remind me what it is. You know, for... confirmation."
She narrowed her eyes before handing me a tablet. "Your task is to manage department operations. Budgets, efficiency, failing projects, executive reports. The previous manager quit yesterday. Something about 'soul-crushing expectations' and 'Damien Reid has no heart.' You'll be taking over."
I internally sighed. Of course I could do this job. I’d done it before—better than most, in fact. Budgets? Easy. Efficiency? I could fix this mess in my sleep. Reports? I had once written a 50-page executive analysis in one night and still had time for coffee.
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But that was the problem.
I left this world for a reason. The long hours, the pressure, the way my success only brought more impossible expectations—it had drained me until I wanted nothing to do with it. That’s why I had walked away, traded boardrooms for bouquets, and chosen a quiet life in a flower shop. Peonies didn’t demand quarterly reports. Roses didn’t hold last-minute meetings that ran past midnight.
Yet here I was. Right back where I swore I’d never be.
"Mr. Reid will check in later. Don't embarrass yourself." Her tone was sharp, dismissive—like she had already decided I would fail. My stomach twisted in protest, but I forced my expression to stay neutral.
With that, she left, shutting the door behind her.
I was alone. With this disaster.
I exhaled slowly, staring at the mess in front of me.
"Alright," I muttered. "Time to fake it till I make it."
Three hours later, I had somehow broken the printer (it made a weird grinding noise and then just... died), accidentally approved an office-wide pizza party (which was apparently not budget-approved, but honestly, morale boost?), and unintentionally sparked an epic passive-aggressive email war between two department heads over a missing stapler—who knew office supplies could be so political?
By this point, the employees had stopped viewing me as a competent authority figure and started treating me as a walking sitcom. Was I an incompetent disaster? A misunderstood genius? A chaos entity sent to shake up corporate monotony? The jury was still out.
Then Damien walked in.
He took one glance around the room, arching a brow. "So this is what absolute chaos looks like."
Casually, I leaned on my desk, attempting to channel the effortless confidence of someone who hadn’t just approved an office-wide pizza party by accident. "It's called hands-on management."
Silence. Judging by the way Damien’s brow arched slightly higher, I had not, in fact, nailed it.
"Really?" he drawled, gaze sweeping across the room like a king surveying a kingdom that had spontaneously combusted. "And what exactly is hands-on about…" He gestured vaguely toward the crime scene that was my office. "The printer funeral? The great stapler war? The company-wide email about ‘mystical corporate bonding through shared carbohydrate experiences’?"
I cleared my throat. "Uh, team morale? Also, the printer had it coming."
Damien's expression remained steady, deliberate—like a chess player already three moves ahead. "Fix it. Now."
My brain screamed abort mission, but my mouth went rogue. "I would love to. But technically, the printer is beyond saving. Think of it as an office sacrifice. A warrior, fallen in battle. We should honor its memory. A moment of silence, perhaps?"
Somewhere behind Damien, I saw Jared press his fist to his mouth, his shoulders shaking slightly. Was he... trying not to laugh? Well, at least someone was enjoying this.
Damien, however, remained utterly impassive, his gaze locked onto me with the patience of someone watching a predictable disaster unfold. "Lily."
I sighed dramatically. "Of course, what I meant to say is—I'll handle it efficiently and with the utmost professionalism."
Until we find out what happened to Ivy and why I was really brought here, I need to be careful. Or at least... fake it better.
The moment I signed that contract—wait, I didn't sign anything!—the moment I was forced into this job, I knew I had just stepped into a lion's den. And Damien Reid? He was the lion. No—more like a mafia boss disguised as a smug, overgrown housecat that enjoyed playing with its food.
You ever witness something so beautifully chaotic that you just have to sit back and admire it?
That was me, watching Lily’s first day at Reid Enterprises.
I had been here for five years. Five years of quiet efficiency, dodging Damien’s wrath, and making sure no one—including myself—dared to challenge the carefully structured, intimidation-fueled ecosystem of this company.
And then Lily walked in.
From the moment she entered the building, I knew today was going to be different.
It started with the coffee disaster—RIP to her suit—but the real entertainment began when she stepped into her office. By lunchtime, she had already:
- Broken the printer (not surprised).
- Accidentally approved an unauthorized pizza party (admirable).
- Sparked a borderline war over office supplies (hilarious).
- Somehow made Damien Reid pause—which was, frankly, historic.
Most new employees spent their first day tiptoeing around, terrified to breathe too loudly. But Lily? She was thriving in her own brand of catastrophe.
Watching her push back against Damien was like watching a deer walk straight into a lion’s den—except, instead of being eaten alive, the deer had somehow convinced the lion to reconsider his diet.
I had never seen Damien this... engaged before. Normally, people stammered through meetings with him, their souls visibly leaving their bodies with every passing second. But Lily? She argued. She joked. She treated him like he was just some guy, not the corporate overlord of this entire empire.
And the best part? Damien wasn’t shutting it down.
Oh, he wanted to. I could see it—the slow blinks, the measured sighs, the way his fingers twitched like he was resisting the urge to either strangle her or promote her. But instead of snapping, he let her talk. Challenge him. And I swear, I saw the faintest trace of amusement flicker in his eyes.
This is going to be fun.
Lily had no idea what kind of game she had just started.
And me? I was just here for the show.
— END OF CHAPTER 2: THE FIRST DAY DISASTER —
eventful first day at Reid Enterprises. Drop your thoughts in the comments! ??
What was your favorite chaotic moment? The coffee disaster? The printer funeral? The legendary pizza party?
2?? If you were in Lily’s shoes, how would you handle Damien Reid? A) Professional and polite, B) Total avoidance, C) Challenge him like Lily does (risky but fun ??).
3?? Jared’s POV gives us a glimpse of Damien’s reaction—what do you think? Is he amused? Intrigued? Secretly terrified of Lily’s chaos?
4?? Do you think Lily will survive this job, or is she doomed from day one? Predictions, anyone?
5?? If this were a TV show, what would be the title of this episode? (“The Printer Strikes Back”? “Corporate Chaos Chronicles”?)
Author's Note: Hey, readers! First of all, thank you for diving into this chaotic mess with me. As a newbie author, every bit of feedback, every comment, and every reaction fuels my motivation (and possibly my caffeine addiction). Writing this story has been a whirlwind, and I hope you're enjoying Lily's misadventures as much as I am. Stick around—there's plenty more drama (and disaster) ahead!