Alexander’s office is ridiculous.Eight hundred square feet of mahogany and leather and floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of Manhattan mere mortals would commit felonies to see.There’s a full bar cart in the corner, a sitting area with all custom made furniture, and bookshelves lined with first editions that he’s definitely read because Alexander Castellano doesn’t do anything halfway.
And then there’s the man himself.
He’s standing behind his desk, and I notice immediately that his suit jacket is draped over the back of his chair.The charcoal vest fits him perfectly, tailored to emphasize the lean lines of his torso.His dark tie is still knotted perfectly at his throat, and I can see the flex of muscle in his forearms as he braces his hands on the desk, studying his laptop screen.
It’s a pity, really.All that bone structure wasted on someone with the emotional warmth of a tax audit.
“The Donovan Files, as requested,” I say, setting them down on his desk.
He doesn’t look up immediately.Just continues scanning whatever’s on his screen, and I wonder if he’s actually reading it or just making me wait.Then, without lifting his eyes: “You’re distracted.”
It’s not a question.
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve been staring out the window for the past half hour.”He finally looks up, and those gray eyes pin me in place.Clinical.Assessing.“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say, keeping my tone level.“I was just… thinking.”
“Thinking.”He says it like I’ve just admitted to something scandalous.“About what?”
About whether I can fake my own death to get out of going home.“Work,” I lie smoothly.“The Donovan merger.”
He studies me for a long moment, and I force myself to hold his gaze even though every instinct is screaming at me to look away.
“You’re leaving tomorrow,” he says finally.
My stomach drops.“Yes.”
“For a month.”
“Yes.As approved?—”
“A month is too long.”He says it like he’s commenting on the weather.Factual.Final.
I blink.“Excuse me?”
“I don’t approve your leave.”
For a second, I think I’ve misheard him.Then the words register, and irritation flares in my chest.“You already approved it.Two months ago.HR processed it and everything.”
“I’m revoking the approval.”Still that same calm, detached tone.Like he’s not currently threatening to upend my entire holiday plan.
“You can’t do that.”
“I’m the CEO,” he says calmly.“I can do whatever I want.”
“Actually,” I say, my voice going dangerously sweet, “you can’t.It’s in my contract.The one we renewed in September.Section 4.7, paragraph B: approved vacation time cannot be revoked within thirty days of the start date without employee consent.I made sure of it.”
His jaw tightens.It’s subtle, barely a flicker, but I’ve worked with him long enough to recognize when he’s annoyed.“You planned this.”
“I planned to take the vacation time I’m contractually entitled to, yes.Shocking, I know.”
He straightens slowly, pushing off the desk, and suddenly I’m very aware of how tall he is.How the vest emphasizes the breadth of his chest.How his rolled sleeves expose strong forearms that shouldn’t be distracting but absolutely are.
“I need you here.”
The words land differently than they were intended to.If he said them in literally any other context—if we were anywhere but in this office, if there wasn’t a mahogany desk and six years of professional boundaries between us—I might let myself imagine they meant something other than my job performance.
