Leadership changes are never… easy.

Like my first job. I had this insanely hot manager when I worked at the ice cream stand. My God, that man could wear a pair of khaki cargo shorts like no other. And his uniform shirt? It's unfair how well it fit his unusually broad 18-year-old chiseled chest. AND he was a blonde with blue eyes. I was so sure we were destined for each other, despite that I never had a conversation with him that didn't revolve around ice cream.

But what happens in August to an 18-year-old? College. And for Bryan – yes, Bryan McKakkey, I still very clearly remember his name – it was college on the east coast.

I. Was. Devastated.

Not that we dated. I mean, he knew my name, and my 16-year-old self was just fine with that. We dated only in my mind, where I had the courage to talk to him, flirt with him, and kiss him beneath the red and white stripped awning of the order window. We never even hung out in a group setting. God, maybe I should have made a move. I always regretted that moving into senior year. But I digress. When Bryan left for school, naturally they needed to have a new evening-manager of the shop.

Enter Caroline Acton.

Caroline. With her big hair and even bigger ego, she ordered all of us around as if we were nothing more than a loyal herd of meerkats. She constantly pushed us to work harder, longer, no breaks, no stopping, no chit-chat, no nothing. It was brutal. I think three people quit that very week. I don't know how I held on four months of her terror reign, but when she tried to accuse me of stealing from the register, I threw my apron in her face and got the hell out of there.

I never, ever thought I'd feel rage at work like I did when Caroline accused me of stealing five dollars. Five lousy stinkin' bucks. I think that propelled me into the desire to study law. Ever since then, I vowed that if I ever worked for a Caroline again, I would quit. I wasn't anyone's doormat; I was somebody. I was damn good at my job, and if you can't, or won't respect me, then I'm out of here.

Presently, I am not quite sure yet what to expect from Mr. Darien Shields, Attorney at Law, because, well, he has barely had me to a…ny…thing.

Darien's transition into the firm was surprisingly seamless. Everyone seemed to love him – senior partners, junior attorneys, interns, admins – they worshiped the ground he walked on. I guess living on legacy's heels can do that to you. That, and insanely good looks. Plus, once it got around that he was single, all the ladies flocked to him. It is quite a site watching the hens in the coop try to catch his attention. Honestly, though, he's so absorbed in his work, I haven't even seen him try to reciprocate. I give him high accolades for that, considering Anne Taylor appeared to forget to wear a blouse under her red suitcoat at our last team meeting.

I digress. For the first week, it was a little nerve wracking. After all, transitioning to a new supervisor is tough enough, but when it is entirely a new employee to the firm? I had no idea what kind of needs or wants he would like. As an assistant, my job is to, well, assist with all sorts of legal tasks: file exhibits, briefs, appeals, and other documents at the courthouse, take meeting notes and file them in our client's binders, call and schedule meetings with clients, witnesses, lawyers, vendors… the list goes on. It is like an administrative assistant position, but with a lot more moving pieces.

Under Damien, however, he knew that I started law school, so he let me tackle a lot bigger pieces. Mainly, participate with investigating the facts of a case. Investigating the facts is easily my favorite thing to do in my job. It's looking beyond the shades of gray to find the black and white. It's the datum. The story. The truth. At least, that's what we look for here. I certainly do not work for a crooked defense attorney.

Anyhow, I noticed the first week that things were oddly stale. I continued to draft correspondence and call clients, but I noticed that things I did for Damien, like my research and deposition writing, were on the slower side. I chalked it up to transition and welcomed the mental break. Week two, same thing. I actually found myself getting bored, looking to Lita for some additional work because I actually completed all of my backlogged filing.

And now that it is week three? Well, I have finally scheduled a meeting with Darien to discuss with him my skillsets and how I actually serve our team. I know he comes from a small group of attorneys who didn't really have a lot of legal assistants or paralegals, but come on, you're paying me $50k to sit on my ass? While some would probably think that's a sweet gig, I remind you that I wanted to be an attorney, to work those disgusting hours fighting for justice. I never, ever wanted to sit by idly and just watch time tick down until 5:00. So, in thirty minutes, I will be sitting face-to-face with Mr. Gorgeous and ask him what the hell, except in prettier words, of course.

I can't help but find myself nervous, though. In the three-ish weeks he has been here, we've had maybe five conversations. One time he asked me how to scan documents in the copier. When I offered to do it for him, he seemed oddly reluctant to give me the paperwork. But, again, I chalked it up to the fact that he doesn't know me. The second conversation was asking me to set up his clients into our data manager software, which took me a good three days of repetitive button clicking and address typing (and probably my least favorite task in the history of my career thus far). The third conversation he asked me where the closest coffee shop was, as he wanted to meet a client there (not sure how he didn't know Starbucks was a block away, literally). Our fourth was a little more in depth. He asked me how to order supplies on our Intranet. So, I spent about five minutes with him introducing him to our office ordering requisition form, helping him to order 3 boxes of tissues and about 7 different size variations of post-it notes.

Okay, so, today will mark conversation number five. I've had five conversations with John Dowers already this morning.

To keep myself busy for the next 30 minutes, I turn to John's redlined deposition and begin making corrections in the client's file. Whichever Manager drafted this did a piss-poor job, as there is red bleeding practically everywhere. However, that means more work for me, and right now, I'm thirsty for it. I ease my way through the Word document, making the updates with Track Changes turned on, when the next thing I know my Outlook calendar reminder is dinging.

Time to shine, superstar.

I strut over to the mahogany door and knock on it confidently; pleased when rewarded with a 'come in.' I open the door to one hell of a site: Darien with glasses on. I've never really been in to glasses, but holy fuck, those deep blue eyes reading over the tops of his wired glasses was something equivalent to an erotic poetry reading session.

Stretching out a tight smile while mentally slapping myself back to reality, I make my way into his office and sit down in the chair in front of his desk.

"How are you today?" I ask formally, easing my way into our discussion. He barely looks up from his document.

"Not bad," he responds slowly as his eyes continue to scan the paper. It's about thirty seconds of dead air before he puts his paperwork down. "Sorry, wanted to make sure I didn't lose my spot."

I smile. "No worries," I respond with a shake of my head, dismissing the need for apology.

He pulls his glasses off and tosses them on top of his paper. "So, what can I help you with this morning?"

Showtime. "I wanted to take a moment to discuss with you how I can be of service to you. I know it has been a few weeks since you've been situated in the position, so I wanted to share with you what I can help out with and alleviate some of your burdens."

I watch Darien's long fingers fold together into a fist against his chest while he leans back in his chair. His index fingers rise, pressed to the tip of his chin as he focuses his attention further on me. I shift in my seat slightly.

"Such as?" he inquires, and I don't know if he's looking at me if I'm some run-of-the-mill secretary, or if he's genuinely interested.

"When I worked for Mr. Shields, I was a lot more involved in the cases from start to finish, including items like research and drafting documents relevant to the case. I did take some law classes at WU prior to beginning here, so I have a skillset that correlates more to a paralegal than an administrative assistant."

"Then why aren't you a paralegal?" he asks bluntly, and I can't help but frown.

"Timing wasn't on my side, unfortunately. I have two children," I respond without divulging my history. He nods, but I feel like it's not the nod I was hoping for.

"I see," he replies as he sits up in his chair. "Well, in terms of administrative items I can pass along to you, I could certainly use help getting my time entered in."

"Of course. I can print-off a stack of timesheets if you'd like to fill it out with your chargeable time and I'll input it into your electronic one."

"Sure," he agrees with disinterest, "whatever is easiest. Also, screening my calls would be helpful. Do you have that function at your desk?"

"I do."

"Excellent. If you could please have reception send all my calls to you, then you can determine if it's someone I should speak with."

"Anything else?"

"Yes, actually. My calendar. Please manage it. You can go ahead and schedule meetings on my behalf. I'll place you as a delegate in my calendar so you can go ahead and add and edit items on there. Just place them immediately on my calendar. Don't send it from yours. I don't want to have to accept 15 meeting requests every hour."

I continue to jot down his extremely basic requests. "Of course," I reply.

"And," he pauses as his eyes scan his office. "See that silver bin on my credenza?" he asks with a nod of his head to the mantle off to the side of his office. I turn my head to discover a silver bin filled with loose papers ripped off a yellow pad. "Those are my client notes. Please scan them in to their binders so I don't have that crap building up in my office."

"Okay to recycle them once they're scanned in?" I ask as I jot down his additional lame request.

"As long as you check the scan that it's legible," he responds, and I sense that this is the first test of his to trust me.

"Will do," I respond. "Anything else?"

He purses his lips in thought. "No, not at the moment. Let's see how this goes, and if I think of anything else, I'll be sure to let you know."

"Sounds good," I conclude. As I begin to stand up, however, he sits upright in his chair and adds to the conversation.

"Don't go just yet," he instructs, and I resituate myself into my seat. "I want to talk to you about your schedule."

A lump suddenly hitches in my throat. "My schedule?" I reply quizzically, panic starting to rush through my veins. I can't help but immediately think that my hours are going to be cut, considering his list of demands are miniscule.

"Yes. I understand that my Father granted you a flexible schedule," he begins. My palms begin to clam up as his beautiful lips pause their movement. I feel like a deer in the headlights, sitting there, wearing a dumb smile on my face as I await his statement. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck please don't—

"I don't understand the circumstances that he granted you a flexible schedule, but I'm not comfortable at this time operating together like that. What happens if I need your assistance and you're not there? If we are to be a team, you need to be here to assist during our business hours, after-hours when necessary."

I gulp. "Sir," I counter in a pleading tone, "I use that flex-time to take my children to their after-school activities."

He appears to be uncompassionate. "I inquired with HR. You're the only admin that has flex scheduling. It's not fair to the other assistants to grant you the privilege. Now, if you want to use your PTO to bring them to certain events, that's a different conversation. I'll give you until the end of the month to figure out an alternative arrangement, but beginning the first of November, I want you on an 8 to 5 schedule."

My eyes are watering. Who the fuck was he to take away something so important to me? My kids extracurricular activities rely on my schedule. What the fuck am I going to do?

"Yes, sir," I reply meekly. His expression softens. How I feel inwardly must be written all over my face.

"I know it's a big change, but do you understand where I am coming from?"

No, you fucking asshole is all I want to scream, but I just nod my head dumbly.

"Good. Thank you for scheduling this meeting, Serena. I'm glad we will be working together." He closes the conversation with a smile before slipping his glasses back on, effectively ending our meeting. I stand up, completely stunned, and walk out of his office. It feels mechanical, walking back to my desk, and I thank my body that it knows exactly where to go because my mind is completely fried. Muscle memory? Either way, I just received the bitch-slapping of a lifetime, a serious, unexpected change that's going to completely implode my life.

Once I sit down at my desk, I drop my head into my hands. Now what? I think of the kid's reactions when I tell them that they can't participate anymore in their sports. It's early enough in the season to maybe switch them to the later classes, that is, if there even is one. Seiya's schedule is too unreliable; there is no way he would be okay with taking this role on. This was my responsibility.

And I fucked it all up because I wanted Mr. Darien Shields to see me as a somebody.

I want to cry.

Luckily, Lita is at my desk before I can let a teardrop fall, and I breathe silent thanks to up above because I'd be damned if I let that rat bastard make me cry.

"Coffee break?" Lita asks, her expression soft and knowing. I nod vigorously; I need to get away from here before I lose my cool. I grab my mug and follow her to the kitchenette, eager to dispel what is on my chest and seek guidance on how to proceed with what to do next.

We stand next to each other as we pour coffee into our mugs, dumping in heaps of flavored creamer to mask the cheap taste of the horrible coffee. You would think for an attorney's office they would have much better coffee, but oddly enough, it's the one area they don't splurge. Lita and I rotate who brings in the good creamer; this week it was she, and it's pumpkin pie spiced. And for the record, there is a difference between pumpkin spice and pumpkin pie spice; you actually get the nutmeg spiced taste in the later. It tastes like a sliced of basic white girl heaven, and I am a-ok with that.

We sit down at one of the little tables and sip into our drinks. "Ok, spill," she finally says when we acknowledge the coast is clear. I sigh as I place my mug down on the table.

"He has revoked my flex scheduling," I reply, feeling every bit as defeated as I sound.

"Say what?" she replies, clearly taken aback by how she suddenly jerked her head away from her cup. "Why in the Hell would he do that?"

I sigh when I think back to his reasoning. "He said it's not fair to the other admins here in the building, and that I need to be here during business hours. Apparently making up my hours in the evening, when 80% of the freaking people who work here are still here, isn't good enough anymore."

"Did you tell him that it is for your fucking kids?" Lita exclaims with matched fury, even more enraged when I nod my head sadly. "Who does he think he is?!"

"The boss," I spit out into my drink. "Lita, what the fuck am I going to do? Elsie just got accepted onto the competition team at dance. If she's not there Tuesdays and Thursdays at 4:45, she will be kicked off. She worked her ass off this summer to qualify. How am I supposed to take this away from her? 'Sorry, baby, Mommy has to work and can't take you to dance anymore?'"

Lita sighed, her shoulders slumping in empathy. "There has to be a way. What about hiring a Nanny?"

I snort. "Seiya would never go for that. He won't even let me get rid of Dory," I grumble in reference to my minivan.

"Does she have a friend in the program that she could ride-share with? Like her parents bring her, you pick them up?"

I purse my lips. "That's not the worst idea."

"What about Alex's stuff? Does it impact him?"

"Fuck, yes; he has soccer Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday's at 5:30."

"Can Seiya handle those ones?"

I nod hesitantly, the knot in my stomach slowly untangling. "I think so. I think his last class is at 4:30. If he can get out the door, he probably can. I just used to take Elsie to dance, Alex to soccer, and drive myself back here. One quick swoop, ya know?'

Lita nodded. "Well, maybe it's time Seiya had to take some of the burden. God knows you've been doing it for so long."

I sigh. "Yeah, but I don't know yet how I'm going to get Elsie to dance. Until then, I'm going to be a freaking mess."

Lita pats the top of my hand gently. "Don't worry; you'll figure it out."

And for a flicker of a moment, I actually think I will.

#

"So, yeah, I don't know what I'm going to do," I sigh as I wipe down the casserole dish over the sink, repeating my story to Seiya. He leans against the counter, his arms folded, as he stands stoic.

"Did you try explaining to this douche that it's because of your kids?" Seiya asks, and I nod my head in response.

"He didn't care," I answer, which irritates Seiya more.

"He sounds like a fucking prick," he spits out. "Who the fuck does he think he is?"

"The boss," I stress. "Please, Seiya, don't make this any harder than it has to be."

"This is bullshit, Serena," he says. "This doesn't just affect you, it affects all of us."

I snort. "You mean you. Because now you need to step up," I retort, irritation brimming. Of course Seiya is in tunnel vision mode right now; his leisurely drive home, taking his sweet ass time, stopping at the gym to get a workout in or going to happy hour, has now been disrupted.

"Don't get bitchy with me," Seiya states, his eyes narrowed. "You're the one who worked out this schedule and put the kids in all these damn activities at this hour."

I stop washing the dish and turn to him. "Yeah, because I wanted them home at a decent hour to do their homework. God damn it, Seiya, stop making this out to be my fault! My schedule has been revoked; deal with it! We need to come up with a solution, not have you fucking fight with me!" I snap. Jesus fuck, both grown men in my life today have completely fucking ruined my day today.

Seiya pinches the bridge of his nose. "Alright, alright, you're right," he states. "Listen, I think I know someone who is looking for a babysitting gig."

My ears, eyes, and eyebrows all perk at that. Seiya, mentioning paying someone? "Really? I didn't think you'd go for that."

"Well, unless you want our kids to drop out of their shit, I think this is the only way we can do it." I nod my head in complete agreeance.

"Well, who do you have in mind?" I ask, both surprised and thrilled that we potentially might have reached a sensible solution.

"A student of mine; her name is Kakyuu."