“I’m sure they are.” I keep my face neutral, even though I want to roll my eyes. “But the filings were still wrong.”
He stares at me for one long second.
Most people fold under that look. I’ve seen it happen. Men with MBA degrees and shiny watches start stammering when Ethan Cross narrows his eyes at them.
I don’t fold, because folding doesn’t pay rent. Finally, he nods once, then turns and continues toward the boardroom. “Good,” he says. “Then we’re not walking in blind.”
I blink.
That was almost…approval.
I should feel proud. Instead, my body does that annoying thing again, where it reacts to his voice like it’s a hand on my throat.
We reach the boardroom doors, and the senior execs are filing in, all expensive perfume and polished smiles.
Ethan steps through first, and I follow, because my job is to be invisible until I’m needed and then to be perfect.
I move to the side, set the extra copies on the table, and keep my back straight.
A man at the far end glances at me, then whispers something to the woman beside him. She snorts.
I catch the words anyway.
“Assistant dress code is getting generous.”
My cheeks heat, but I don’t look down at my own body, because I’m not giving them the satisfaction.
If my blouse fits my chest, that doesn’t make it a crime. If my hips exist, that doesn’t make me unprofessional. If anything, it means Cross Enterprises hired someone who can type, manage calendars, and show up with numbers that save their asses. They should be grateful.
Ethan’s voice cuts across the room.
“Start.”
Everyone shuts up.
That’s what power sounds like.
For the next hour, I stand by the wall and watch him run the room with a calm that feels unfair. He doesn’t raise his voice, and he doesn’t need to.
He asks one question, and people scramble to answer it.
He shifts one page, and someone sweats.
He looks at the wrong line item, and the CFO stammers until I step in.
Ethan’s gaze slides toward me. “Lila.”
That’s it. Just my name.
I step forward, and the room’s attention swings with me.
“The tax line change is due to their depreciation schedule,” I say, and I keep it simple. “They overstated expenses on two filings, and it affects the projected carryforward. The corrected number is in the revised model.”
The CFO looks relieved and irritated at the same time, and I don’t blame him.
Ethan doesn’t say thank you, but his eyes hold mine for half a beat longer than necessary, and something settles low in my stomach.
I look away first, because I’m not an idiot.
