But my pride—bloody pride—keeps my mouth shut.
The door clicks behind her, and for the first time in years, the office feels too damn quiet.
Twenty Four
Matilda
Nearly a week had crawled by, each day more painfully awkward than the last. Henry and I had mastered the art of avoidance — polite nods, professional emails, and exactly zero eye contact. You could cut the tension in the office with a knife.
We’d scheduled a meeting for five o’clock today to discuss the Wright project, but I had another agenda. I was going to tell him I’d applied for the residential architect position and planned to use the Wright project as part of my portfolio — with his permission, of course.
The final presentation fell right in the middle of the interview week. Perfect timing. Perfect project. All I needed was for Henry to understand and not explode when he realised I might be leaving him without an assistant.
If I got the job, that is.
And yes, a very small, totally insignificant, definitely-not-bitter part of me was still reeling from howeasilyHenryaccepted my rejection on Monday. I didn’t expect a grand declaration or a “run away with me, Matilda,” but some acknowledgment that it meant something would’ve been nice. Instead, he just nodded, went cold, and spent the rest of the week pretending I was a mildly interesting piece of office furniture.
I check the clock. 16:55.
Henry’s still not back. I decide to bite the bullet and wait in his office. I’ve already made us both fresh coffees — my peace offering, my olive branch, my pathetic attempt at normality.
This meeting is about the project, about my career. I’ve worked four years for this moment. I willnotlet a man — no matter how infuriatingly gorgeous he is — derail that.
The door opens.
Henry walks in, suit jacket slung over one arm, looking unfairly good for someone who’s been avoiding me all week. He catches me mid-stare, frozen with two coffees in hand like some tragic caffeine fairy.
“Is one of those for me?” he asks, lips twitching into a boyish smile that could disarm an army.
Damn you, Henry Chase.
“Yes,” I manage, handing it over. His finger grazes mine, and my stomach does an Olympic-level somersault. I pull my hand back too quickly, and I swear I see a flicker of disappointment in his eyes.
Trying to fill the silence before I combust, I blurt, “I’m applying for the residential position.”
Brilliant, Matilda. Flawless delivery.
Henry just… stares. No reaction, no movement, nothing. Oh god, this is bad. I’ve killed him. He’s died of shock and now I’ll have to explain to HR why my boss’s last words weredecaf or oat milk?
After what feels like a century, he walks around his desk, places both hands on the edge like he’s about to sit, then stops. He looks at me again — properly this time — and steps closer. My pulse does something ridiculous and I have to wonder if I need medical attention.
“I think you’d be perfect for the role.”
I blink. “Wait. Really?”
“Of course. I’d be an idiot to think you’d stay my assistant forever. Despite that being what I want,” he admits softly, “I know you’re destined for more than that. I’m sorry if I’ve held you back. I suppose I’ve been selfish — you were such a good assistant, I didn’t want to lose you.”
For once, I’m speechless. Me. Matilda Green, queen of babbling nonsense. Completely mute.
Henry gives a quiet laugh, as if reading my mind, and reaches out to take my hand. His touch is gentle, not charged like before. Warm.
“You’ll make a great addition to the team,” he says. “And I’ll help however I can. I’m assuming you don’t want me to just give you the position and would rather go through the interview process like everyone else?”
“You can justgiveme the job?” I ask, half-shocked, half-appalled.
“Matilda, you do remember I own the company, right?” His brow arches in mock offence.
I roll my eyes and lightly swat his hand away, realising too late that I’ve actually touched him. His laugh rumbles low in his chest.
