Zachary’s POV
The silence hums with something I refuse to name.
I blame the whiskey for the warmth spreading through my chest, reaching for the bottle to pour myself another glass. The amber liquid catches the light as it fills the crystal, and I force myself to focus on that instead of the girl curled in the armchair watching me with eyes that see too much.
"Do you drink often?" Violet's voice cuts through the quiet, carrying something I can't quite identify. "Should I be worried about working alongside an alcoholic?"
I set the bottle down with more force than necessary. "Is that a concern?"
"Professional curiosity." She shifts in the chair, tucking her legs beneath her in a way that makes her look younger than nineteen. "Nothing more."
The deflection lands exactly where she intends it. I take another swallow of whiskey, letting the burn ground me before I ask the question that's been building since she handed over her phone.
"What do you actually expect from this arrangement?" I keep my voice measured, professional. "From learning under me?"
Her expression shifts—surprise melting into something genuine. Something that catches me off-guard with its sincerity.
"I admire your competence." She leans forward slightly, and I force myself to maintain eye contact. "Your strategic mind. The way you anticipate threats before they materialize. You see three moves ahead while everyone else is still processing the current board."
The assessment should register as flattery. Professional acknowledgement. But I'm only half-hearing the words because I'm watching her mouth move, cataloging the way lamplight catches her cheekbones, thinking thoughts that have absolutely no place between colleagues.
Between people separated by sixteen years.
I force myself to answer her unspoken question about her strengths. "We haven't worked together long." I take another drink, buying time. "But I've noticed you don't retreat from difficulty. You charge directly into it."
"That sounds like a compliment."
"Sometimes you create new problems in the process." The addition lands sharper than I intend.
Her posture stiffens. Pride flickers across her face, sharpening into something defensive. "Like today? At the press conference?"
Here we go.
"Exactly like today." I set my glass down, leaning against the bar cart. "You confronted Walter publicly. Defended Adison and Jake without considering the consequences."
"The consequences?" Violet stands, crossing the space between us with quick, angry steps. "Walter was attacking them. Someone needed to—"
"Someone needed to stay strategic." I cut her off before she can build momentum. "You gave him ammunition, Violet. Made yourself a target. He'll retaliate against you now, and when he does, Adison will feel responsible."
"But it worked." Her voice rises, frustration bleeding through. "The journalists laughed. Walter looked petty instead of powerful. We won that exchange."
"This time." I straighten, matching her intensity with calm that I know will infuriate her. "But what if security had been compromised? What if one of those journalists was on Walter's payroll and twisted your words into something damaging? What if—"
She reaches out to smack my shoulder, the gesture born from pure frustration.
I catch her wrist before contact.
The movement is instinctive, protective, and absolutely the wrong choice because now she's closer than she was a second ago. Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her eyes, the way her breath catches when I pull her fractionally nearer.
Our faces hover inches apart.
The proximity feels dangerous and oddly right, and for the first time since I've known her, Violet is completely still. Not performing. Not deflecting. Just present in this moment that stretches like pulled glass between us.
"I do believe in you." The words leave my mouth quieter than I intend. "That's why I'll keep teaching you. But you need to be a good girl and listen."
The phrase lands in the space between us, and I hear the subtext a beat too late.
Her eyes widened slightly. Something shifts in her expression—surprise mixing with heat mixing with awareness that we've crossed a line neither of us intended to approach.
I release her abruptly, stepping back like the distance will erase what just happened. "I'm leaving."
The announcement comes out rougher than professional. I grab my jacket from the back of the chair, forcing my hands to move normally despite the adrenaline coursing through my system.
"Zachary—" she starts.
"Tomorrow. Nine a.m." I interrupt before she can finish whatever observation is forming. "Don't be late."
She doesn't argue. Just nods once and follows me toward the elevator, her presence a weight I feel behind my shoulder blades.
The hallway stretches longer than it should. Every step feels measured, deliberate, like I'm proving something to myself about control and boundaries and all the professional lines I nearly obliterated thirty seconds ago.
The elevator doors open immediately when I press the button. Small mercies.
I step inside and turn to face her, and the loaded silence between us carries everything neither of us knows how to say.
"Good night, Violet." I force the words out steady.
"Good night." Her voice is quieter than usual. Almost uncertain.
The doors slide shut, and I press my forehead against the cool metal, breathing through the knot in my chest.
What the hell was that?
The lobby is empty when I step out into Manhattan's evening chaos. I pull out my phone before I can second-guess the impulse, scrolling to Mariam's contact with fingers that aren't entirely steady.
She answers on the second ring. "Zachary? Is everything okay?"
Her voice carries genuine surprise. We haven't spoken in months—our arrangement is comfortable precisely because it requires nothing beyond physical release and mutual discretion.
"Are you free tonight?" The question comes out more abruptly than I intended.
Silence stretches through the line. Then: "I'm shocked you're calling. It's been so long. But yes." Her tone warms into something familiar. Something safe. "Come over. I'd love to see you."
"I'll be there in twenty minutes." I hang up before she can ask questions I don't have answers for.
I stand on the sidewalk, watching taxis blur past in streams of yellow light, and wonder what the hell Violet is doing to me.