A fracture crosses the royal stillness. Thin. Fast. Warm enough that I almost miss it.
“Budget,” he says, clearing his throat.
“I'll need this for the first quarter.” I turn to the tabbed section before my courage realizes what I’m doing and bolts. “We cutthe freelance gossip budget. It’s expensive and actively hurting us. Reallocate to photography and reporting. Launch a profile series. Real women. No retouching. Photographers who shoot laugh lines and stretch marks as proof of a life lived not flaws to erase.”
His eyes drop to the page. I keep going because stopping now would feel like falling.
“Essays from writers who’ve actually been broken open. Actually had to rebuild something other than a brand. I came across an amazing Brazilian professor. A feature package anchored by Dr. Kenzie MacArthur’s coffee research. We'd shine a light on deforestation, environmental impact, and supply chains. The hidden cost behind the drink everyone pretends is harmless because it comes in cute cups”
Skylor goes very still.
Too still.
His fingers rest against the edge of the binder, long and elegant, nails carrying a faint pearlescent sheen that perfectly matches his lapis-colored skin.
“Coffee,” he says.
One careful word.
“Yes.” I turn another page. “It’s exactly the kind of story Athena used to run. Science, culture, labor, beauty, ritual. A woman doing hard, complicated work and a world pretending that work appears by magic.”
His gaze lifts to mine. There it is again. The flare. The calculation. Danger wearing a tailored suit. “You would begin with this Dr. MacArthur piece,” he says.
“Yes. If she agrees. Full disclosure, I'm still working on that, but it's looking good." I cross my fingers behind my back. "I would begin with a relaunch issue strong enough to tell readers we mean it.” My hands tap against the binder in excitement. “Make them remember they’re alive. We'll have them crying onthe train and texting their mother after. Make them send the article to a friend with no caption because the friend will know exactly why.”
He moves to the window and turns his back to me. The city refracts around him, glass and steel bending to hold his shape.
“My mother used to say things like that.”
My chest aches. I say nothing. The silence stretches long enough for doubt to find its teeth. Maybe I pushed too hard. Maybe Todd was right, and I don’t know how rooms like this work. I hope I haven't mistaken a good speech for power, which is exactly the kind of embarrassing thing a woman does before security escorts her downstairs and out the door. Dignity and creative ambition to be packed up and shipped home at a later date.
Finally, Skylor turns.
“Ninety days, Miss Watson.”
I catch my hand before I can wipe my brow and say, whew. “Thank you. I won’t waste—”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
He crosses back toward me, each step measured, and my pulse marks every single one. He stops close. Professional distance. Nothing more. Nothing that could be named in an HR complaint, a gossip thread, or Loora’s worst possible group chat. But he is close enough for his scent to reach me again, and the wall my suppressants have spent years building goes thin as paper.
“As of tomorrow,” he says, “you’ll work on this floor. Directly across from my office.”
My mouth dries. “Across from your office.”
“Under my direct supervision.”
The boa beneath my ribs tightens. His eyes hold mine.
“I intend to be very hands-on with this process, Miss Watson.”
Very hands-on. The phrase drops through me like a swallowed coal, sinking slow and burning the whole way down.
There are several correct professional responses. Unfortunately, my brain is short-circuiting, and I take way too long to reply.
“That won’t be a problem,” I say. My voice stays with the single greatest performance of my life.
“Good.”
