“It doesn’t feel like home,” I say quietly.
Relief floods his expression. Like I’ve confirmed something he already knew but needed someone else to see.
“No,” he agrees. “It doesn’t.”
The kitchen is a professional chef’s dream. Marble counters, copper fixtures, what I’m pretty sure is a commercial-grade range. Everything gleaming and untouched except for a coffeemaker that’s clearly seen extensive use.
Thessaly’s chicken marsala is waiting in therefrigerator in neat glass containers with handwritten reheating instructions.
We eat at the massive dining table. Eight chairs, and we’re using two of them, clustered at one end like we’re afraid the empty space will swallow us.
“The chicken is incredible.” I make embarrassing noises while eating it, and Nico’s mouth twitches in what might be amusement.
“So,” I say between bites, “about the foundation proposal.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “Bree.”
“I’m not asking for a parade. I’m just saying, ‘my team’ is pretty vague for something I developed.”
“I know.” He sets down his fork, meets my eyes directly. “I still haven’t found a good way to give you credit without making things at the office worse for you.”
“Worse how?” I hold my fingers over my mouth as I talk so I don’t gross him out with a view of the partly chewed chicken that sits on my tongue.
“The rumors.” His voice is flat. “If I publicly acknowledge your contributions now, it confirms what people are already whispering. Secretary sleeps with boss, gets promoted. Your work becomes an asterisk.”
He’s right.
I hate that he’s right.
“So I just stay invisible forever?” The frustration leaks into my voice despite my best efforts. “Do the work, get paid secretary wages, watch everyone else take credit?”
“No.” He leans forward, intensity in every line of his body. “I’m going to fix it. But as I told you, I need to neutralize Martin first. Once he’s gone, once the board stabilizes, I can restructure properly. Give you an actual title. Actualauthority.”
“And until then?”
“Until then, I know who really saved my company.” His voice drops lower. “Even if no one else does.”
It’s not enough. But it’s something.
After dinner, he gives me a tour. The living area with its museum-quality art. The home office with its multiple monitors and standing desk. The library upstairs with its wall of books and surprisingly comfortable reading chair.
“That one,” he says, pointing to a large abstract piece near the staircase, “is by Ava Redwood-King.”
I stare at it. Blues and silvers swirling together, something almost violent in the brushstrokes but beautiful, too. “I’ve heard of her. Her stuff sells for obscene amounts.”
“It does.” He stands beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off his body. “Gideon King, her husband, usually snaps up everything before it hits market. Convincing him to sell this piece to me took six months of negotiation.”
I frown in disbelief. “Six months? For a painting?”
“Gideon is protective of her work.” A small smile crosses his face. “Understandably. She’s brilliant.”
Oh.
She’s brilliant.
Not “her work is brilliant” or “it’s a brilliant piece.”
She’sbrilliant.
