Walls.
My eyes focus on her, and will her to look at me.
She doesn’t.
And that’s when I actually see her.
She’s wearing a dress. Deep blue, fitted in all the right places, hugging the curves I’ve tried so very hard not to think about since that night in her apartment. The neckline is modest but the way the fabric moves when she breathes makes my mouth go dry.
She’s done something with her makeup, too. More than her usual professional minimum. Her lips look fuller, darker. Her eyes more dramatic.
Bree never dresses like this for work.
Who the fuck is she dressing up for?
The question lodges in my brain like a splinter and refuses to budge.
I force myself to return my attention to my computer, but the morning drags.
I make it until nine-thirty before I look up again. Then nine-forty-five. Then ten. I’ve read the same paragraph four times and retained nothing.
What exceptional use of my Ivy League education and two decades of business experience, staring at my secretary while pretending to work.
By ten fifteen, I’ve noticed something else.
The way she keeps checking her phone. Breenever checks her phone during work hours. She’s got better discipline than half my executive team.
But today she’s checked it at least six times. And every time, there’s this tiny smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth.
Who the fuck’s making her smile like that?
I watch her through the remaining morning meetings. Through the ops review where Elspeth presents revised clinic partnership timelines. And through all of it, she remains professionally invisible.
But there’s an energy about her today.
Adistraction.
I should focus on the actual crises demanding my attention. Martin Hale. Dashiell’s forensic review of his communications is still progressing but not fast enough. Then there’s that business magazine profile that’s still scheduled to drop soon. Have to get ahead of whatever narrative they’re planning to put forward.
But instead of thinking about any of that, I’m thinking about Bree’s phone. And her dress.
Who keeps texting her? Why is she dressed that way?
At 4:47 PM, she starts packing up her things.
I frown at my monitor. She never leaves before seven. Since our confrontation Thursday she’s been going home earlier, that’s true. No more late nights at her desk waiting until I leave. But she’s never left before five before.
I check my calendar. Nothing scheduled that would require her to stay. No reason she shouldn’t leave whenever she wants.
So why does watching her gather her coat feel like a knife sliding between my ribs?
She stands. Smooths her dress.The fabric stretches across her hips and I have to look away before I do something stupid like call her into my office just to keep her from leaving.
She waves goodbye to Cressida. Walks down the hall.
I have to stand up to keep her in sight, now.
I watch her pass Piper at reception and walk through the glass barriers separating Rossi Industries from the elevator bank. I duck down slightly as she turns around while waiting for the elevator to arrive, because I don’t want her to spot me.
