Fucking heels.
“Morning, Henry. Here’s your coffee,” she says brightly, handing it to me with that smile. Her lips — the exact same shade I just saw in my dream — curve softly as she unwraps her coat, revealingthedress.
The pink one. White flowers. Sunlight incarnate.
I take a sip of coffee and immediately choke on it. Of course I do.
“Henry, are you okay?” she asks, her brow knitting in concern.
No, I’m absolutely not okay, Matilda.
But instead, I nod. “Fine, thank you. And yes, I need you in the nine o’clock meeting with Miss Wicks. Take minutes.”
Because apparently I’m a masochist.
Within twenty minutes, Miss Wicks is in my office with whatever young idiot she’s dragging around this month. Matilda takes her seat opposite me, crossing one leg over the other to balance her notepad on her knee. My jaw tightens. It’s instinct at this point — a reflex. I don’t even know if it’s frustration or… something worse.
“Henry, darling,” Miss Wicks croons, “what’s the hold-up with Twenty-One Park Lane?”
Her boy toy shifts beside her, flashing Matilda a grin that’s all teeth and arrogance. My stomach knots.
I really need to implement a rule about clients bringing their latest conquests into my meetings.
“The issue’s still with Gary,” I reply evenly. “He’s contesting the designs, claiming there’s a problem with local regulations, though I’ve already proven otherwise.”
Miss Wicks rolls her eyes, taking a puff of her vape. “Bloody inspectors. Always a nightmare.”
“You’re telling me,” I mutter. “It doesn’t help that Gary’s got a personal feud with Hamlin — your structural engineer.”
“Hamlin?” she blinks.
I hear a quiet scoff from Matilda’s side of the desk and shoot her a look. She bites her lip and ducks her head, but I catch the twitch of amusement she’s trying to hide.
“Right,” Miss Wicks says, clearly lost. “Well, I’ll sort it. Can’t be throwing away money like this.”
“Agreed,” I say, tone clipped. “I’ve appointed Hamlin because he’s the best. Their personal issues don’t concern me — only the end result does.”
We wrap the meeting thirty minutes later. Normally I’d be relieved, but today, the silence that follows feels heavier. Matilda slips out of my office without a word. Usually I prefer that — no small talk, no unnecessary chatter — but right now, I find myself wishing she’d lingered. Saidsomething. Anything.
In the break room, I’m refilling my coffee when I feel it — that shift in the air, the faint floral scent that announces her beforeshe even speaks. I turn slightly. She’s there, cup in hand, smiling nervously.
“Oh — sorry, am I in your way?” I ask, trying not to sound as tired as I feel.
Her eyes widen, that startled deer-in-headlights look that does something strange to my pulse. “Oh no, please. I can wait.”
“Here.” I gesture to her cup, ready to pour her one. I don’t know why I offer, just that it feels… natural.
Then the door opens, and some junior architect —Thomas— walks in. Barely old enough to shave, and already his eyes are glued to her like she hung the stars.
“Matilda, I was hoping to bump into you,” he says, completely ignoring me.
I know him vaguely from his interview. I did hire him, and now I’m regretting that. I’ll be looking up his file later.
“Thomas, hi,” Matilda replies, her voice soft, uncertain.
“You look lovely today. That dress suits you.”
My hand tightens around the coffee pot. Is this idiot seriously flirting with my assistantin front of me?
