Ruby Quinn
Maintain professionalism publicly.
Privately, pursue deliberately.
Do not let her run.
I’m not delusional, I know the risks, the boundaries that should take place in a workplace. There’s the power dynamics and the inevitable gossip. But there’s also this: She’s the first person in a long time who sees me, not the money, not the name, and not the empire.
Just me. She sees just me, the man she spent an extremely hot night with, and I’m not letting that slip away because of fear.
I’m typing a second note when someone knocks on my door.
“Come in.”
It’s the man from the lobby, in his navy suit, and he is annoyingly confident.
“Mr. Cole,” he says. “I’m Evan. Senior editor.”
I give a curt nod. “What do you need?”
He steps in. “Just wanted to welcome you officially. And, ah, ask if you’re settling in well.”
He’s lying. He’s fishing.
And I know exactly about what.
I lean back slowly in my chair. “Fine. Thank you.”
His eyes flick around my office before landing back on me. “Your meeting earlier looked intense.”
I feel the temperature in the room drop a degree.
“Which meeting?” I ask, even though I already know.
“The one with Quinn.”
I smile politely. Corporate. Sharp.
“She’s a talented writer,” I say. “I needed clarity on her Valentine’s feature.”
“Right,” he says, nodding a little too quickly. “Right, of course.”
He leaves.
I wait until he’s fully out of the hallway before exhaling.
If people are already watching, I’ll need to be cautious, but cautious doesn’t mean I have to be distant.
I stand, walk to the window overlooking the floor, and spot Ruby at her desk, pretending to type, her leg bouncing, her face still warm from our conversation.
She’s unraveling, and she doesn’t know whether to want me or run from me.
She’ll learn.
I’m not here to ruin her, I’m here to keep her.
She just hasn’t realized it yet.
