Page 10 of The Silent Princess

“Maya and Celia’s graduation is next Friday,” he says, eyes fixed on the road. “I was wondering if…”

“Of course you’re off duty, Paul.”

His shoulders release by one barely perceptible inch. “Thank you, sir.” His eyes return fully to the road, his expression smoothing back into its usual emotional discipline. I do not tell him that I’ll make a significant transfer to each of his granddaughters’ accounts on the morning of their graduation, courtesy of Ashford Holdings, in recognition of his years of dedicated and irreproachable service.

The city is grey this morning, as if ash has fallen through the night and permeated the air until every building, street, and passerby seems caught inside an old black-and-white film. The kind I used to watch as a boy with Nate, listening while cowboys stood in the dust bargaining goods over people’s lives.

My assistant has already sent me my schedule as we arrive in the parking lot. Brenton. Meetings. Presentations. Two young investors coming to pitch their ideas. Lunch with my associates. More meetings. A legal review. The day arranges itself in my head like a well-oiled machine, going exactly in the direction I intend. Unless…unless the girl who forgot her bag decides to add waves to my motionless ocean.

Will she even show up? Why do I care so much?

The question stays with me through the drive, follows me into the lobby, and sharpens by the time I step into the elevator. Two young men in suits press themselves toward the back after greeting me with terrified nods, their mouths opening as if they have something to say before common sense revises the impulse. Good. I accept competence and results. This must be known by now because I have become increasingly accustomed to silence when I enter my building.

An email notification appears on my phone, but I tuck it into the pocket of my dark navy suit before reading it. Will she come? When? Will I have to wait all day to see her? I pinch the bridge of my nose, irritated by the sudden urge to punch something simply because a girl with soft lips and a torn purse has interrupted the architecture of my morning. At least I completed my workout. That should balance the beast in me today.

“Gentlemen,” I say without looking at the two men as I step out onto the executive floor.

Heads lift across the thirty-second floor when I enter. The space is bright and designed to intimidate without trying. The executive wing contains my associates, my assistant, the principal's meeting rooms, Nate’s and my office. The sun cuts through the floor from every side, piercing the glass walls like blades. I can see everything from here: my company, my people, and beyond the windows, my city.

I go straight toward my office, offering clipped nods to every familiar face I pass because I may be an asshole, but my mother still raised me correctly. Kathy is already standing from her grey chair by the time I arrive at my door. Behind her, the word "CEO" is printed in a thin, contemporary font on the door. I could have chosen glass and curtains, but the constant movement of fabric would have unsettled me. And a part of me does not want anyone to see me play chess by myself. How could they understand?

“Kathy.”

“Good morning, sir,” she says, handing me a cup of black coffee with no sugar and no milk. “Detective Brenton is already waiting for you.”

She wears her usual black dress today, though she has added a beige cardigan with small pearls sewn along the front edges. Her rectangular glasses intensify the entire general-at-war energy she carries so effortlessly, and I secretly enjoy the way she makes interns stiffen as if basic scheduling might become a battlefield under her command.

“Anything new?” I ask.

“Anderson Douglas’s wife left him for her gym coach, the annual Summit Bank gala has been postponed until May, and one of the new recruits, Matson, is showing strong promise. I would highly recommend considering him for the IT department. He is quicker than a calculator and less needy than most of our new interns.” I nod without showing amusement, though her ability to condense gossip, business intelligence, personnel assessment, and social threats into a morning briefing remains one of her more valuable skills.

I may have Brenton as my private investigator, but Kathy is my eyes and ears in every room where people foolishly assume assistants are furniture. Do not misunderstand me. I do my own homework. Always. But there are things one can only process from the field, and I am not the kind of man who wastes ten minutes making idle conversation beside a coffee machine.

“I’ll consider it,” I say. “Send him to my office after lunch.”

Her face does not move, but I know approval when I see it.

“If,” I clench my jaw, “ a young woman comes by to retrieve a bag…” I add, “Send her directly to my office.”

For the first time that morning, Kathy’s professionalism slips by half an inch.

“A-a, did you say a young woman, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Her name?”

“I don’t have one.” Her eyes sharpen behind her glasses. Interesting, they say.

“What does she look like?”

“Brunette. Works with the cleaning crew.” Kathy’s eyes turn into slits.

“Understood. I’ll send her in directly.”

I place my hand on the door handle, then pause.

“And um, good job, Kathy.” She is not the kind of woman who waits for praise but it never hurts to hear it. Nate asked me to be more…human. I guess this is me trying. The shadow of a blush flashes by. “Thank-thank you, sir.” Her voice is low and raspy, the kind of voice I can only imagine comes from decades of smoking. I do not mind it. Of all the women I know, Kathy might be the only one I would enjoy sharing a cigar with, and the only one who would actually appreciate the gesture. She gives me a clipped nod and returns behind her desk as the phone rings.