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My breath catches.

He’s actually doing it?

I expected him to push back. To argue.

Not to cancel everything.

I don’t even know exactly what his role at Hartho is, but I know it’s high-level. Executive-level. The kind of position that stretches across offices in New York, London… probably even more.

And he’s calling someone at this hour?

And they’re answering?

“Delegate everything to my brothers,” he continues calmly. “You can move temporarily next to Ethan’s office until I’m back.”

He falls silent, listening.

Who exactly is Beatrix?

His assistant?

His executive secretary?

Something along those lines?

The conversation sounds surprisingly familiar. Shouldn’t it be more formal?

Professional boundaries. Corporate distance.

“Yeah, I’ll tell him myself,” he says. “He’ll help you redistribute my responsibilities to the others. Be careful. Bye.”

He ends the call and places his phone face down on the table.

“Isn’t the cliché about fucking your secretary a little outdated?” I ask as soon as he looks back at me.

One eyebrow rises as he studies me, as though trying to figure out where that question came from.

As if I’m crossing a line.

As if it’s none of my business.

As if I’ve opened a door I should’ve left firmly shut.

All of those are probably true.

I just don’t care.

“I expect every single detail—no matter how small—to be ready by the deadline I set,” he replies, unfazed. “I don’t think you realize how significant the decision I just made really is. Everyone else is taking on more responsibility because I’m gone.”

Fantastic.

Now guilt settles on my shoulders too.

As if everything else wasn’t already enough—the constant pressure that creeps back in whenever things become too quiet.

I lean back, exhaling slowly through my nose, trying to study him carefully.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, my voice quieter than before.