If Ethan Cross ever looked at me like he wanted me, it would ruin my life.
The meeting ends with a decision, because Ethan always gets decisions, and people file out with that cautious respect they pretend is casual.
As soon as the room is empty, I gather my papers, and I turn toward the door.
Ethan’s voice stops me.
“Bennett.”
I pause. “Yes?”
He’s still standing at the head of the table, jacket still buttoned, tie still perfect, and his eyes are on me in a way that feels more direct without the audience.
“You were right,” he says.
My heart stutters. “About the tax line?”
“About my team.” His mouth does something that could almost be a smirk if he were a different man. “They missed it.”
I swallow. “I’m paid to catch what’s missed.”
His gaze drops again, quick and controlled, then returns to my face. “You’re paid to assist.”
My chin lifts. “And I do. Extremely well.”
He holds my stare, and the silence stretches.
Then he steps closer, just one pace, and my body reacts like I’m being touched. “I don’t like surprises,” he says.
It’s quiet, and it’s not a threat in the usual sense, but it makes me weak in the knees.
“I don’t like them either,” I say, and my voice stays steady. “But sometimes they happen.”
His eyes narrow, and I can’t tell if he likes that answer or wants to punish me for it. He turns away first, and he reaches for his phone. “Get my afternoon moved. I’m adding a call at four.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, and I walk out before my brain can do something stupid, like imagine what his hands would feel like on my waist.
Back at my desk, I reset, I reschedule, and I handle the kind of chaos that looks boring from the outside and eats you alive from the inside.
By noon, I’ve fixed three calendar conflicts, I’ve calmed down one investor’s assistant who cried in the bathroom, and I’ve eaten half a granola bar because lunch isn’t really a thing when you work for a man who forgets food exists.
At two, I get another email from my landlord.
Final Notice.
At three, the office group chat lights up with a photo of someone’s vacation, and my throat tightens because I can’t remember the last time I left the city for anything that wasn’t a family emergency or a job interview.
At three fifteen, a coworker in HR smiles at me with that sweet fake politeness that always feels like a test.
“Lila,” she says, eyes flicking down my outfit again, “you look…nice today.”
I return the smile. “I always look nice.”
Her smile falters. Good.
At four, Ethan’s call runs long, so I stay late, because of course I do.
At six, I finally shut down my computer and grab my bag, telling myself I’m going home to eat something that isn’t sadness wrapped in plastic.