Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 80: Surviving Mr. Walton

ISABELLA’S POV

"Miss Miller," Mr. Walton’s voice rang out, calm as a tax auditor but twice as annoying. "Go down and bring up the package that just arrived. Large, brown box. My name on it."

My brain short-circuited for a moment. Did he seriously just ask me to carry a box?

Why can’t the delivery guy or the lobby people do it? I thought, mentally throwing a fist.

Doesn’t he know a personal assistant is basically the CEO’s right hand, not their personal pack mule? Tch. Very cr... (I almost hit my head on the desk.)

...ule!" The thought finished itself just as I physically jolted, narrowly avoiding hitting my head on the corner of my monitor.

He sure has a crazy personality. Ugh.

I pushed the annoyance down and headed for the elevator, mentally preparing myself for the task.

I jabbed the ’L’ button with more force than necessary, picturing Mr. Walton’s face plastered on it.

Downstairs, I spotted the box. It was large, awkward, and heavy—like a parcel sent from the underworld. I lifted it off the cart and tried to balance it on my hip.

Easy, I told myself. Just one trip.

I grunted, the cardboard digging into my side. It felt like it was filled with lead weights and Mr. Walton’s ego. I shuffled towards the elevator bank, the box threatening to tip over with every step.

But as I got to elevator the screen flashed: Out of Order.

What? No. No. No.

The second elevator already had people crammed in like sardines. I could practically hear their collective sighs of misery.

Great.

Just perfect.

The universe truly hated me today, and Mr. Walton was clearly its chosen instrument.

My chest tightened. I felt a sting behind my eyes. I almost cried right there in the lobby.

One thing left, I thought desperately, the private elevator.

I shuffled toward it, the box digging into my side, muscles screaming.

As I checked the panel, the elevator number flashed: 89th floor.

Eighty-nine floor?

Are you kidding me?

Eighty-nine floors up. Which meant eighty-nine floors down before I could even get in. Eighty-nine floors for the box to continue its slow, painful assault on my ribs. Eighty-nine floors to wait, looking like a sweat-drenched, struggling idiot in the polished grandeur of the lobby. Maybe if I threw this box through the window, it’d magically land on his desk.

My legs threatened to give out. How much longer could I stand here, trapped between ridiculousness and being completely exhausted?

I swallowed the lump in my throat. No crying. Not here. Not now.

My arms trembled, threatening to give in to the dead weight.

The cardboard material had long gone from pushing into my side to forming around my hip bone; it was preparing to nest there for life.

I shifted my stance just slightly and felt the fresh jolt of pain through my muscles.

I could feel a bead of sweat tracing a path down my temple.

I had been standing in front of the private elevator for what felt like an entire season of a Netflix show.

Five minutes. That’s how long it took the damn thing to crawl from the 89th floor down to the 45th. And it still wasn’t here. I was about to grow roots and die here.

What is wrong with this place? Why even have a private elevator if it moves like it’s powered by depressed hamsters?

Come on, slowpoke, I willed the elevator, mentally pushing it down the shaft with the sheer force of my irritation. This better be filled with solid gold bars for the amount of effort I’m putting in. Or puppies. Definitely puppies.

I sighed dramatically, adjusting the box in my arms before gravity could rob me of my last shred of dignity. Just when I was considering dropping the whole thing and faking an ankle sprain, I heard it:

"Miss Miller?"

I turned around, blinking. Oh, hey—it was Sam. The marketing guy. Tall, friendly, that permanently chill look on his face.

"Heyyy, Mr..." I trailed off, panic hitting. Oh no, what was his surname again? What was it? Johnson? Peterson? I was about to say Mango out of desperation.

He chuckled. "Just Sam’s fine."

"Right. Sam."

"Need a hand?"

"Yes," I blurted, barely letting him finish. "God, yes. Please."

He grabbed the other side of the box like an actual angel, and as soon as he did, I heard the ding of the regular elevator.

"Oh, it’s working again," he said cheerfully.

I could’ve cried.

Together, we walked back to it. When it opened, it was blessedly empty. No death stares from over-packed coworkers, no passive-aggressive elbowing.

Just space. frёewebηovel.cѳm

Beautiful, clean space.

"Thanks again," I muttered as we stepped in. "You may have saved my life. And my arms."

He just smiled. "Anytime."

By the time I made it up to the top floor, I was sweating slightly and dangerously close to losing my will to live.

I took a breath and walked toward his office.

I knocked once, then entered Adrien Walton’s office, trying not to let the weight of the box—or the smirk I imagined on his face—get to me.

He didn’t even look up.

Seriously?

I dragged the box inside and set it down with an unceremonious thud. My arms were shaking. My soul was shaking. But I straightened and waited.

Still typing.

I considered clearing my throat just to remind him I existed, but finally—finally—he leaned back in his chair, eyes lazy and annoyingly unreadable.

"Open it," he said.

I blinked. "Sorry?"

"The box," he said, gesturing with that same disdainful air of someone offering you a used tissue. "Open it."

After all that effort, the near-death experience in the lobby, the battle with the private elevator, and the rescue by Sam, he just wanted me to... open it? Like I was some kind of package-unwrapping service?

I crouched and tore through the tape. The cardboard flaps flipped open, and—

What.

The.

Hell.

I stared at the contents, trying to make sense of them. Then stared again. Then slowly looked up at him.

"These are... all pencils?"

He nodded like I’d just correctly identified the color blue.

"Yes."

I blinked. "And you want me to...?"

"Sharpen them."

I just stared at him, then at the opened box overflowing with pencils. I couldn’t believe I was even having this conversation.

"All of them?" I asked, almost positive this was a hallucination caused by low blood sugar and rage.

"Mhm," he said, folding his hands like some smug little monarch. "By five."

I was going to cry. Or throw the box at his head. Possibly both.

"That’s... a lot of pencils, Mr. Walton."

He smiled. Smiled. Like he was enjoying this. Like watching me suffer was some kind of twisted afternoon snack.

"Indeed," he said, voice smooth and patronizing. "But I’m sure you’ll find it therapeutic. Repetitive tasks help reduce stress, you know. Maybe put on some relaxing music, hum a little..."

I was already imagining stabbing one of the pencils into his forehead. Or maybe his tie. Perhaps just right above his eyebrow so that it would look like he always had an eyebrow piercing.

But instead of exploding, I smiled sweetly. "Of course, Mr. Walton. Consider it done."

I stood and reached for the electric sharpener on the side table, ready to destroy the entire box in one long, angry whir.

It didn’t turn on.

I pressed it again. Nothing.

not a flicker of life. It was as dead as my hopes of a normal workday.

Checked the cord. Tilted it. Gave it a little slap.

Still nothing.

"That’s weird," I muttered, checking the outlet. "It’s not—"

"Oh," he said, his voice suspiciously casual, "I forgot to mention. The sharpener’s no longer functional."

I froze.

"No longer functional?" I repeated slowly.

"Precisely," he said, clearly enjoying himself. "Seems to have... malfunctioned."

Right. Malfunctioned. Just in time for this absurd assignment.

"It was working yesterday," I said, suspicious.

"I’m aware."

I narrowed my eyes.

He stood, opened a drawer, and pulled out a boxy, ancient-looking thing.

No.

No, no, no.

He placed it on the table like he was presenting a crown jewel.

A manual sharpener.

The type you had to clamp down, crank like you were churning butter, and hope and pray your fingers didn’t end up being eaten.

I stared, in disbelief, at this contraption. It looked more like a history exhibit in a museum that is titled "Instruments of Torture, Circa 1950." It was metal, dented, and coated in a fine layer of pencil dust that was probably older than I was.

"A thousand pencils," I murmured in horror.

"By five," he confirmed, returning to his desk and sliding one AirPod into his ear like some egoistic villain in a bad rom-com.

A manual sharpener. For a thousand pencils. By five.

The numbers bounced around in my skull – a thousand pencils, roughly four hours. That was... 250 pencils an hour. Over four a minute. Manually. With this contraption.

I felt my eye twitch.

My mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

He didn’t even look at me.

I sat down like someone awaiting a prison sentence and picked up the first pencil.

It broke halfway through.

I stared at the snapped tip.

The second one splintered.

I muttered something I’m sure my grandmother would faint hearing and reached for a third.

If I didn’t kill him before five, it would be a miracle.

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