1
Claire
The conference room on the forty-second floor of the Hancock Building has these massive windows that look out over Chicago, and the whole city is dusted with snow like something out of a movie. The afternoon sun makes the ice crystals on the glass sparkle, and I'm definitely smiling at it like an idiot because it's Christmas Eve and the world is pretty and I can't help myself.
I'm probably the only person in this room who gives a shit about the view.
"Ms. Abbott." Garth's voice slices through my snow-globe moment. "The projector."
"Already on it." I tap the remote before he finishes the sentence, and his presentation fills the screen behind him. Rhodes Capital's Q4 performance metrics, perfectly formatted because I stayed until midnight making sure every pixel was exactly right.
I've been his executive assistant for fourteen months. Fourteen months of learning to read his mind, predict his moods, and pretend I don't want to climb him like a tree every single day. It's exhausting. Also kind of pathetic. But here we are—me, hopelessly gone on my boss, and him treating me like very expensive office furniture that occasionally brings him coffee.
"Gentlemen." Garth's talking to the three Hartwell executives now, and God, he's good at this. He's wearing the charcoal Tom Ford suit—my favorite, not that I'd ever tell him that—and his hair has that silver-at-the-temples thing going on that should be illegal. He's forty-two and looks like he walked out of a magazine spread titled "Men Who Will Ruin Your Life."
I'm twenty-four and completely ruined.
I position myself in my usual corner with my tablet, ready to pull up whatever data he needs. Outside, it's starting to snow harder, and I can see all the Christmas lights on the Magnificent Mile twinkling through the flakes. There's this huge wreath on the building across the street, and for a second I wonder if Garth even knows it's Christmas Eve. Probably not. He treats December twenty-fourth like it's just another Thursday that's inconveniently interrupting his world domination plans.
"As you can see from the third quarter comparisons..." Garth gestures, and I advance the slide without him asking. His eyes flick to me for half a second—acknowledgment, not appreciation—before going right back to his targets.
That's Garth. He notices everything. He just doesn't care about most of it.
Except business. Business, he cares about with an intensity that's borderline scary. Watching him present is like watching a shark circle—precise, controlled, absolutely sure he's about to win. The Hartwell guys are leaning forward, totally hooked. I've seen this a million times. Garth doesn't just pitch investments;he makes people feel like handing him their money is the best decision they'll ever make.
Usually because it is.
"Ms. Abbott, the metrics."
I'm already pulling them up on my tablet, moving closer to set it on the table next to him. His cologne hits me—something with cedar and bergamot, expensive and woody—and I have to physically stop myself from breathing too deep like some kind of creep. His fingers brush mine when he takes the tablet.
I step back to my corner, heart doing that stupid racing thing it always does when he touches me, even accidentally.
The presentation keeps going. Garth's in his zone, ruthlessly competent and completely focused. I love watching him work, even though it means watching him ignore me. He's brilliant—like, actual Forbes "Self-Made Billionaires" brilliant. Built Rhodes Capital from nothing and after his wife died, poured all his grief into something sharp and successful and completely untouchable.
Kind of like how he treats me.
"I think we've seen enough," the lead executive—Martin Hartwell himself—says, and I'm already pulling up the contract files because I know what's coming next. "Rhodes, you've convinced us. We want in."
Garth smiles, and it's small but real, and oh my God, it transforms his whole face. He goes from intimidating CEO to actual human person, and my stomach does this embarrassing flip-flop thing that I really need to get under control.
"Excellent." He shakes hands with all of them, and I'm trying not to stare. "Ms. Abbott will send over the contracts tonight. You'll have everything you need by end of business."
Tonight. Christmas Eve. Of course.
But I'm already nodding because that's what I do. "I'll have them for you by eight PM, Mr. Hartwell."
"On Christmas Eve?" Martin looks genuinely surprised. "Surely that can wait until Monday?"
I start to agree—because yeah, obviously it can wait—but Garth's already talking.
"Ms. Abbott doesn't mind. She's extraordinarily dedicated."
He makes it sound like a compliment. It's not. It's just a fact, delivered in that flat tone he uses for everything that isn't quarterly reports or acquisition strategies.
"Well." Martin gives me this sympathetic look. "Merry Christmas to you, Ms. Abbott. And thank you."
"Merry Christmas!" I give him my brightest smile because someone in this room should have holiday spirit. "Seriously, it's no problem."
