“The presentation is tomorrow morning,” she continues, her voice steadying. “So either help or leave. Those are the only two options right now. With that in mind, let me ask you, gentlemen, again. What did you want when you barged in?”
Martin’s mouth hangs open, his eyes wide with shock.
Ezra’s expression shifts from annoyance to respect. “I wanted to see if anyone was dead and you needed a shovel, but looks like you’ve got that part handled.”
“Someone will be dead if you don’t tell me what you need and get out of my office,” I nearly growl.
“Yes, Boss. Go. I’ll make sure everything is okay here,” Martin chimes in, settling more comfortably by the window.
“No, take your assistant with you.” I point at him.
Martin gasps dramatically, placing his open palm to his chest. “I’m wounded.”
Ezra watches me for a few moments with those knowing eyes I hate before he turns to Beatrice again. “Are you okay to stay here? You should be home by now. We will manage.”
“Enough,” I say in a hard voice, my knuckles aching. Coming to my office and ordering my assistant to go home is too much.
Bea’s gaze flits to my hands again before she looks at Ezra, completely unfazed by my tone.
“There’s work that needs to be done, and you have proved yourself to be totally useless. I don’t work for you. I work for Noah, and I’ll stay here as long as he needs.”
Ezra shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking almost uncomfortable. “You might want to give him space to cool off.”
She’s standing in front of him with a relaxed posture and a slightly raised brow. The silence gets a little heavy at some point, and Ezra shifts his weight again. More noticeable this time, and my lips twitch.
“Why would I need to be away while he’s cooling off? Are you suggesting I can’t deal with my boss on my own and I need a savior?”
I watch this exchange with growing amusement, my rage dissolving into something like satisfaction. Ezra’s face reddens under Bea’s calm interrogation.
“I don’t think that’s what he meant—” Martin starts, but Bea cuts him off with a raised hand, her eyes never leaving Ezra’s face.
“I’m still waiting for an answer,” she says, her voice steady, but it holds a sharp edge that she doesn’t use often.
I lean my ass on my desk, crossing my arms over my chest and savoring every second of my brother’s discomfort. This is better than any therapy session I’ve never been to.
Ezra runs a hand through his hair, a tell I recognize from our childhood. “I just… thought maybe you’d want some space after…” He gestures vaguely at the destroyed office.
“After what, exactly?” Bea presses, taking a step closer to him. Despite being a foot shorter, she somehow manages to make my six-foot-three brother look small. “After Noah had a bad day? After his life’s work just got ruined? Are you saying I can’t handle a grown manhaving emotions?”
“That’s not?—”
“Because if that’s what you’re saying,” she continues, her voice dropping to that dangerous honey-sweet tone I’ve heard her use on difficult clients, “then maybe you should reconsider who you think needs protecting here.”
Martin’s trying so hard not to laugh that he’s practically vibrating, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. My assistant—my tiny, fierce assistant—is absolutely demolishing my brother, and it’s the best thing I’ve seen all year.
“Actually,” Ezra says, straightening his shoulders in what I recognize as his attempt to regain control of the situation, “I think there might be some confusion here?—”
“Oh, there’s no confusion,” Bea cuts him off, her smile sharp enough to draw blood. “You walked into your brother’s office, saw a bit of mess, and immediately assumed I needed rescuing. Like I’m some delicate flower who can’t handle a man having a rough day.”
My chest tightens with something I don’t want to name. She’s defending me—defending my right to lose my shit without everyone treating me like I’m dangerous. No one’s ever done that before. They either run or they handle me with kid gloves, like I’m one step away from a padded room.
“That’s not what I meant,” Ezra says, but his voice lacks conviction.
“Then what did you mean?” Bea asks, tilting her head with mock curiosity. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like you think your brother is some kind of monster who terrorizes his employees.”
The word ‘monster’ hits different coming from her. Not like a usual accusation, but like she’s daring anyone else to call me that. My throat gets tight, and I have to look away before she sees too much.
Martin clears his throat. “Maybe we should all just?—”
