She stands slowly, smooths her jacket, and walks toward the door. Before she opens it, she glances back.
“You know I don’t like being replaced,” she says.
“You weren’t replaced,” I answer. “You were removed.”
Her lips twitch. “We’ll talk again.”
“We won’t.”
She leaves and the door shuts behind her. I exhale once, checking the clock and noting the margin before my first call,then roll my shoulders once as if I can physically reset the direction of my thoughts.
I walk to the glass wall with my hands relaxed at my sides, and the city spreads beneath me in obedient motion. My mind turns where it should. Larkstone’s margins need tightening, Paris will require leverage and timing, and the audit team is either slow or strategic, which means I’ll need to decide whether to push or replace. Victoria’s appearance was noisy and pointless, and I’ll deal with the security lapse before lunch. All of it is manageable. All of it bends.
But the realest picture is of Lila’s hair stuck to her neck while she was bent over my sheets, breath loud and body open, whisperingSirlike she meant it.
I take out my phone and type.
Where are you?
I wait.
No reply.
I almost text again, but I stop when I hear her name outside the office door. Her voice is soft and sweet, already answering someone’s question.
She’s here.
Good.
I put on my jacket, adjust my cuff, and step out to call her in, because I want her in front of me before the real work starts. She needs to learn that last night wasn’t some temporary collapse in judgment.
“Lila?”
She looks up, sees me, and comes inside with a little smile before closing the door behind her. She doesn’t look nervous, which means she’s either calm or faking it well. Her dress is clean, hair up, eyes bright. She holds the folder steady.
“Morning, sir,” she says.
I watch her cross the room. Her heels are silent on the carpet and her skirt is tailored within an inch of decency, and she knows it.
She places the folder on my desk. “Q3 adjustments and a vendor note flagged from yesterday. I made margin edits.”
I take the folder, flip it open, and skim. Her notes are clean, and so is her posture. She doesn’t shift under my attention, even though I know she can feel it.
“Did you eat breakfast?”
She shifts slightly under my gaze. “Coffee counts.”
I look up. “Try again.”
She folds her arms, mouth twitching. “Yes, sir. I ate.”
“Good.”
She lingers, waiting.
I close the folder, lean back, and nod toward the seat across from me. “Sit.”
She complies with her back straight and crosses her ankles in front of her. I watch her legs.
