Today was the day I got assigned an actual project instead of just fetching coffee and formatting documents until my eyes bled.
Well, technically it was Alan's project. But I got to be his assistant on it, which apparently counted as career growth in corporate hell.
The deal: some potential investor who wanted to throw money at Veridian's new global initiatives. Foundation stuff, charity adjacent, the kind of projects that looked good on press releases and made rich people feel less guilty about their wealth.
I showed up half an hour early because I'm either dedicated or a complete masochist. The jury's still out. Alan had left a stack of documents on my desk with a sticky note that just said "Read."
No "please." No "when you have a chance." Just a command from on high.
So I read. Took notes. Highlighted the important bits. Became an expert on this Henri Passel guy and his investment portfolio in record time.
Alan didn't praise me for showing up early. Of course not. That would require acknowledging I existed as a human rather than a particularly efficient robot.
But he noticed.
I could feel his eyes on me from his office, those glass walls giving him a perfect view of my desk. Every time I glanced up, he was either staring directly at me or had just looked away. The weight of his attention made my skin prickle with awareness I absolutely did not want to acknowledge.
I tried to focus on the documents. Failed. Tried again.
The back of my neck felt warm. My fingers fumbled on the keyboard more than usual. I told myself it was just the normal discomfort of being watched by your boss, nothing more.
Definitely not the way my pulse kicked every time I caught him looking. Definitely not the fact that I was hyper-aware of his presence through that glass wall, of when he moved, when he answered his phone, when his attention shifted back to me.
It was extremely weird and extremely distracting.
By noon, we were in the back of a sleek black limousine. The driver was silent and professional, while I sat on one side and Alan on the other.
The space between us somehow felt charged.
"You came in early," he said suddenly.
I blinked. Alan Delaunay attempting small talk? Mark the calendar. Alert the press. "Yes, Monsieur. Wanted to be prepared."
"Thorough."
"I try."
Silence stretched. Then, "You have family in Paris?"
What the hell kind of question was that? "Some," I said carefully. "Why?"
"Curious." He looked out the window, expression unreadable. "You seem familiar somehow."
My heart stopped. Then started again at triple speed.
"I have one of those faces," I said, voice steady despite the panic screaming in my skull. "People say that a lot."
"Mmm." He didn't sound convinced.
I needed to change the subject before this got dangerous. "So Henri Passel. What's his deal?"
"Money." Alan's tone went crisp, professional. Back to business. "Lots of it. Old family wealth, new investment interests. He wants legitimacy. We want capital."
"Sounds romantic."
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Business rarely is."
Something low in my stomach flipped. That tiny almost-smile did more damage than it had any right to—softening the sharp angles of his face for half a second, making him look less like a corporate weapon and more like an actual person. Someone who might laugh at bad jokes or smile properly in different circumstances.
I looked away quickly, back to the window, feeling heat crawl up my neck. This was dangerous territory. The kind of small moment that meant nothing but somehow meant everything. A single twitch of his mouth and my entire nervous system had decided to betray me.
I told myself it was just surprise. I'd never seen him smile—not even close. Of course it would have an impact. That's all this was. A completely normal human reaction to seeing your intimidating boss display a fraction of humanity.
Except my pulse was still doing something irregular, and I was hyper-aware of how close he was standing in the confined space of the limousine.
The building was a monster—glass and steel reaching for the sky like it had something to prove. I bit down the nervous energy trying to crawl up my throat.
Elegance. Manners. Confidence I absolutely didn't feel. Fake it till you make it, right?
The office was obscenely large. A conference table that could seat twenty, windows overlooking all of Paris, but only one man sat there with his assistant. Henri Passel.
He stood when we entered—tall, well-dressed, the kind of handsome that came with a warning label. His smile was all teeth. "Monsieur Delaunay. Pleasure."
They shook hands and then Henri's eyes slid to me. Up. Down. Slow and deliberate. It made my skin crawl.
"And who is this lovely creature?" he asked, like I was a decoration rather than a person.
"My assistant, Madame Garnier," Alan said, voice flat.
"Charmed." Henri's gaze lingered a beat too long before he turned away.
I wanted a shower. And maybe a restraining order.
We sat and the meeting began. Alan was flawless. His tone stayed polite but sharp, confident without arrogance, the kind of control that came from years of practice and zero tolerance for bullshit.
He presented data, projections, and benefits. Made Veridian sound like the only logical choice in the universe. Henri listened like a predator sizing up prey.
Calculating. Strategic. Every word analyzed for weakness.
I took notes, watching them both. The dance of egos and money. The careful negotiation that looked civil but was really a bloodsport.
An hour in, Henri finally leaned back. "You make a compelling case, Monsieur Delaunay."
"I tend to."
"Let's proceed."
Papers appeared. Signatures happened. I made copies, professional and efficient, ignoring the way Henri's eyes followed me around the room.
We stood to leave—finally, freedom—then Henri cleared his throat.
"Madame Garnier." He stepped in front of me, blocking my exit. "I couldn't help but notice you sitting there all evening, so quiet, so... attentive."
Oh no.
"Perhaps we should continue this conversation over dinner. Private dinner. Just the two of us."
Every alarm in my body went off at once. My intuition had never steered me wrong, and right now it was screaming ‘danger danger danger.’
I opened my mouth to politely decline—
Alan's hand closed around my wrist. Gentle but absolutely firm. Possessive.
Heat bloomed where his fingers pressed against my pulse point. I could feel my heartbeat against his palm, wondered if he could feel it too—how it had kicked into overdrive the second he touched me.
"My assistant and I have another engagement," he said, voice cold enough to freeze hellfire. He emphasized the word my like he was staking a claim. "If you'll excuse us."
Something in my chest tightened at that single word. The possessiveness in it. The way it sounded almost intimate despite the professional context.
Henri's smile tightened. "Of course."
Alan pulled me out of the room, his grip never loosening. Through the hallway. Into the elevator. I was acutely aware of how close he was, of his hand still wrapped around my wrist, of the cedar scent of his cologne in the confined space. My skin burned where he touched me, the sensation radiating up my arm.
Out to the limousine. Only when we were inside, door shut, did he let go.
The absence of his touch felt like cold water. My wrist tingled where his fingers had been, the ghost of his grip still making my pulse race.
I stared at him. He stared out the window. "Why would you do that?" I asked finally.
He didn't look at me. "Do what?"
"Pull me out. Like that. I could've handled it."
"Could you?"
"Yes. I'm an adult, believe it or not."
"Henri Passel has a reputation."
"For what?"
"For not taking ‘no’ for an answer." His jaw tightened. "Especially from women who work for people he's doing business with."
Something hot and confusing twisted in my chest. Was this... protection? Concern? Possessiveness? "You didn't have to—"
"Yes," he interrupted, finally turning to look at me. "I did."
His eyes were dark, intense, burning with something I couldn't name. The air between us went electric.
"Why?" I whispered.
His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back up. "Why not?"
The non-answer hung between us like a live wire. The car rolled through Paris streets, but neither of us spoke again. Yet his presence filled every inch of space, suffocating and magnetic all at once.
I pressed myself against the door, putting distance between us, but it didn't matter.
I could still feel the ghost of his hand on my wrist.
Still feel the weight of his stare.
Still feel that dangerous pull I absolutely could not afford to acknowledge.