Here is a rewritten version of the chapter, elevating the prose, deepening the internal monologue, and enhancing the atmosphere. *** ### CHAPTER FIVE: The Calm Before the Knight Saturday morning arrived with a vengeance. Despite not touching a single drop of alcohol at the bar last night, I woke up feeling as though I’d gone ten rounds with a tequila bottle. My head throbbed with a rhythmic, dull ache, and if I closed my eyes, I could still hear the ghostly, distorted echo of the bass vibrating in my skull. It felt profoundly unfair. A "phantom hangover" shouldn’t be a thing, yet here I was, suffering the consequences of a party I hadn't even fully participated in. I squinted at the clock on my nightstand: 6:00 AM. I groaned, burying my face back into the pillow, hoping to sink back into oblivion. But my brain was already firing on all cylinders, fueled by the irritation of the headache. Ten minutes of tossing and turning later, I accepted defeat. I stumbled toward the bathroom, swallowed an aspirin with a glass of lukewarm water, and retreated to the safety of my blankets to wait for the medicine to work its magic. Saturday was supposed to be my sanctuary, a day of absolute nothingness. Now, it was a battle for basic functionality. By 6:30, the sharp edges of the pain began to dull. I finally flicked on the lights, the sudden brightness stinging my eyes, and stood before my closet. Today wasn't a day for effort. I pulled out a pair of charcoal yoga pants and an oversized black hoodie—the universal uniform for "do not disturb." After a quick shower to wash away the scent of the bar’s smoke and sweat, I caught my reflection in the steam-streaked mirror. I usually kept my hair strictly managed, but today, it fell in soft, loose waves around my shoulders. Lena’s handiwork from the night before—an intricate braided bun—had left behind a textured, effortless look that actually suited me. For a moment, I let myself feel pretty, a small victory against the morning’s gloom. I was heading toward the kitchen when my phone chirped. A notification from Mr. Selone. Mr. Selone was the kind of man who treated emails like handwritten letters. His messages were always sprawling, filled with charming, unnecessary details about the weather or his wife’s gardening. Reading them usually felt like a warm hug, but today, the content carried a bittersweet weight. *Monday,* the email confirmed. *Mr. Knight arrives on Monday.* Mr. Selone mentioned that his office had been cleared out; he had officially vacated the space for the new owner. It felt surreal. Only a week in, and the ground was shifting beneath my feet. I liked working for Mr. Selone—he was kind, predictable, and treated his staff with genuine warmth. Transitioning to a new boss so soon felt less like a promotion and more like being handed over to a stranger in a dark alley. As I prepared a simple breakfast—toast slathered in butter and strawberry jam over cheese, paired with a glass of orange juice—the nerves began to settle in my stomach. The company had a bizarre, clinical policy: when a new executive took over a floor, the entire staff was shuffled. Old faces moved down; new faces moved up. It was a complete environmental overhaul. I tried to call Lena to distract myself, but it went straight to voicemail. She was likely either dead to the world or nursing a hangover that made mine look like a mild inconvenience. I wondered if she even remembered the night's events, or the fact that I’d acted as her designated guardian until she safely reached her door. With nothing but silence in the apartment, I retreated to the living room, curled up on the sofa, and put on *Isn't It Romantic* on Netflix. It was comfort food for the brain, but even Rebel Wilson’s antics couldn’t keep my mind off the looming shadow of Monday morning. Naturally, my laptop found its way onto my lap. I went back to the only thing occupying my thoughts: Julian Knight. I had spent hours scouring the internet for information on him, yet he remained a ghost in the machine. There were plenty of articles about his ruthless business acquisitions and his "charming yet lethal" reputation in the boardroom, but his personal life was a void. No favorite restaurants. No hobbies. No mentions of a favorite film or even a preferred color. He was a man who existed entirely in the public eye without ever letting the public see *him*. The forums and business blogs were consistent on one thing, though: he was difficult. Some called him a visionary; others called him a tyrant. From what I could gather, he viewed people as chess pieces rather than human beings. *He’s going to be a nightmare,* I thought, staring at a grainy paparazzi photo of him stepping out of a sleek black car. He looked every bit the villain—handsome, sharp, and cold. But I tightened my grip on my coffee mug. It didn't matter if he was a tyrant. I needed this job. This was the stepping stone to my own future, my own business. Two years. That was the goal. I just had to survive two years under the reign of Julian Knight, and I would be free to build a life on my own terms. I closed the laptop and looked out the window. Monday was coming, whether I was ready or not.