“Your coffee,” she announced, placing a steaming cup on his desk with a flourish. “Two hundred two degrees. Because you’re a menace to society without it. You’re welcome.”
His eyes remained locked on the tablet, the numbers a familiar, grounding anchor. “Leave it on the desk, Devney.”
“Can do,” she chirped. He heard the soft click of the ceramic against the glass.
The deliberate scrape of a chair being pulled forward made Ronan’s head snapped up. She sat, crossing her legs, an infuriatingly pleasant smile fixed on her face as if she’d been invited. She was the only person at Oath Capital who dared.
“While I have you,” she began, “a small detail about the upcoming charity gala.”
His silent look didn’t intimidate her.
“You should go.”
“Pass.” The word was an anvil dropped from a great height, a final, executive decision intended to end the conversation.
“You can’t pass. It’s not Blackjack.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on his desk, invading his carefully defined personal space. “It’s an excellent networking opportunity. I confirmed Andrew Beauchamp will be there—just like Ipromised. You’ve been trying to get a meeting with him for months.”
That gave him pause. Beauchamp was old money, a titan of industry with a portfolio that could secure Oath Capital’s dominance for the next decade. He was also notoriously traditional, valuing face-to-face interactions over cold calls. A gala was exactly the sort of venue Beauchamp favored. Devney, of course, would know that. She knew his own schedule and his targets better than he did sometimes.
“I’ll schedule a proper meeting with Beauchamp. One that doesn’t involve string quartets and overpriced gift baskets filled with artisanal jams.”
“What do you have against artisanal jams?” she asked, her expression one of mock horror. “Besides, this isn’t about jams. This is about showing a human side. Think of it as exposure therapy.”
He finally granted her his full attention, his gaze cold enough to freeze assets. “For what? My aversion to wasting time?”
“Your allergy to fun,” she countered, her eyes alight with the thrill of debate. “It’s a serious condition. Symptoms include a chronic inability to mingle, an irrational fear of cocktail hour, and the core belief that joy is an inefficient allocation of emotional resources.”
“Sinclair,” he started, the warning in his voice low and clear. He should fire her. The thought was a common one. He could have any assistant in the city, someone quiet, efficient, someone who wouldn’t fill his office with bright colors and persistently cheerful banter. Someone who wouldn’t challenge him.
But the silence in this office when she wasn’t here was absolute, and lately it had started to feel less like peace and more like absence.
“You’re one step away from becoming a full-fledged robot, Ronan,” she pressed on, undeterred, leaning so close he couldsee the tiny flecks of green in her hazel eyes. “This is my intervention. Before you start trying to schedule joy into fifteen-minute increments on your calendar.”
He leaned back in his chair, the leather groaning in protest. He steepled his fingers, regarding her as he would a hostile variable in a market projection. “My idea of fun,” he stated, his voice flat, “is closing a deal that adds seven figures to our quarterly revenue.”
“Wow,” she blinked. “You know how to party. But what’s the point of conquering Wall Street,” she asked, with a tone that was warmer, more persuasive, “if you can’t pause to enjoy an absurdly small egg tart?”
He stared at her, momentarily thrown by the sheer, infuriating illogicality of the statement. Mini quiches. That was her argument. An argument about appetizers was somehow meant to dismantle a life philosophy he’d spent two decades building. A philosophy born from watching his parents use cocktail parties as battlegrounds, their smiles as weapons, their laughter sharp-edged and cruel. He avoided such events not because he disliked them but because he understood them all too well. They were arenas of insincerity and emotional carnage.
He dragged a hand down his face, the carefully constructed walls of his composure beginning to crumble under the relentless assault of her cheerfulness. She wasn’t just chipping away at his defenses, she was taking a brightly colored sledgehammer to them, and he was growing tired of rebuilding them every time she left his office.
“Fine,” he grated out, the word tasting like defeat, like swallowing gravel. “I’ll consider it.”
“Excellent!” She stood in a single fluid motion, brushing an imaginary wrinkle from her skirt. Her victory was quiet but absolute. “Small victories.” She turned for the door, then paused,a glint of pure, unadulterated mischief in her eyes. “Oh, and for your consideration? I’ve already RSVP’d for two.”
She disappeared into the hallway, leaving him staring at the empty doorway. The scent of her perfume, that defiant splash of citrus and pear, lingered in the air, a contaminant in his sterile world. His inbox was full. His schedule was packed. He had an empire to run.
And yet, as he reached for the coffee cup, its warmth seeping into his hand, her RSVP was the loudest thing in the room.
Chapter 2
Devney skipped backto her desk and dropped into her chair with a little bounce, a triumphant grin plastered across her face. Her insistent push in Ronan’s office had finally done the trick.
She could still hear his gruff “Fine, I’ll consider it ringing in her ears. It was a reply she had wrangled out of him after twenty minutes of relentless charm, persuasion, and maybe a teensy bit of manipulation.
“Take that, Mr. Doom-and-Gloom,” she whispered under her breath, jotting down “Gala: Confirmed” with a flourish. If the universe kept score of her wins against him, she’d earned herself a gold star.
The office around her hummed with its usual intensity. Keyboards clicked, and phones rang at exact intervals. The space was a temple to order and control, with glass partitions, spotless desks aligned at perfect ninety-degree angles, even the air smelled faintly of expensive leather and fresh paper.
