Sloane’s eyes flash, and she shifts her weight like she’s trying to regain control of the moment. “I’m just saying,” she replies, voice sweet, “people talk.”
“I know,” I say. “People talk when they’re bored, and I’m busy, so unless you’re paying my bills, you’re not qualified to audit my outfit.”
Her mouth opens then closes.
I turn back to my screen, and I add, because I can’t help myself, “Also, if you’re worried about optics, you should focus on your numbers, not my skirt.”
The silence that follows is sharp, and I can practically hear her swallowing her pride.
She leans closer anyway, like she needs to win something. “Ethan doesn’t like sluts.”
I look up again, and I hold her stare.
“He likes competence,” I say. “If he ever asks me for fashion advice, I’ll let you know.”
Her cheeks flush, and she straightens fast.
“Whatever,” she mutters, then she walks off, her heels sounding angry against the floor.
I exhale, my migraine pulsing, but I feel better anyway because I’m not doing this today. I’m not letting some woman with too much lip gloss and not enough work try to make me smaller.
I take a sip of coffee, and it tastes like survival.
The morning moves fast and it has to, because Cross Enterprises runs on pressure and pretending you love it. I field three calls in ten minutes, I reroute a vendor complaint, I fix a calendar conflict that would’ve put Ethan in two places at once, and I catch a mistake in a travel booking that would’ve sent him to the wrong airport.
At 9:12, my desk phone rings, and my spine tightens before I even pick it up.
“Cross,” his assistant line says on the display, even though I am his assistant, because the man needs his own label for everything.
I answer. “Good morning, Mr. Cross.”
His voice is controlled, nothing about it betraying what happened last night. “In my office. Ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” I hang up and sit there staring at my screen like it’s going to save me.
I think about the message he sent this morning and shake my head. If I open it and it’s cold, I’ll feel humiliated. If I open it and it’s not, I’ll lose focus, and I need focus more than I need answers. So I grab the quarterly report binder, print the updated summary sheet, and check my reflection in the dark screen of my monitor.
Only then do I stand, smooth my skirt, and walk to Ethan’s office, just to find his door closed.
That’s new. I knock once, then I hear his voice.
“Come in.”
I push the door open. He’s behind his desk, sleeves rolled to his forearms, jacket draped over the chair, tie loosened just enough to make him look expensive, remote, and inhumanly sexy all at once. He looks up as I enter, and his eyes hit me hard.
The migraine spikes, my stomach flips, and I hate my body for being traitorous.
“Close the door,” he says.
I do, and the click feels final.
I walk to the desk and set the binder down carefully, then I stand straight with my hands at my sides.
He doesn’t reach for the binder. He just looks at me.
“You turned your phone off last night,” he says.
My heart stutters, but I keep my face neutral. “I do that sometimes.”
