My phone had thirteen unanswered texts from Lydia to prove it.
At two, he disappeared into conference prep with the Turner brothers, and while he was still in that meeting, a delivery bag arrived at my desk with my name on the receipt.
Inside was grilled chicken with lemon rice, roasted vegetables, and a strawberry tart tucked into a little white box.
The tart nearly ended me.
Last week, Maribel brought a bakery box to my desk, and I may have said I would commit light crimes for the last strawberry tart. Jordan knowing that detail makes no sense, unless he heard me from his office.
I am almost sure he had not.
Almost.
Right after the delivery arrived, my phone buzzed.
A text from Jordan.
Eat. You’ll need the energy tonight.
I read it once, then twice, then a third time, hoping the words would become less dangerous if I stared at them long enough.
They only became worse after his five-thirty investor dinner disappeared from his calendar at three forty-one.
The invite had been there earlier. Then it was gone.
Canceled by J.R.
I stared at the updated calendar for a full minute while my stomach forgot it had food in it.
Since then, he has passed my desk twice. Both times, he was calm, distant, and devastatingly uninterested in my personal collapse. He did not touch me, did not look at my mouth, and did not say anything about practicing, the presidential suite, or the fact that he had threatened my ability to survive the evening with one text message.
Which is good.
Responsible.
Exactly what should happen between a CEO and his secretary after a morning full of fake-dating insanity and emotional property damage.
So why does it make me want to throw a stapler at his very broad back?
I glance at the clock again.
Four fifty-three.
Time is moving like it has been injured.
Most of the executive floor has already emptied. One of the reception assistants left ten minutes ago with a cheerful “good night” that felt wildly inappropriate considering my meltdown. The legal team is gone. The phones are quiet. Outside the glass walls, Lovestone Ridge is still bright with June sunshine, which feels personally rude. A woman should not have to combust in full daylight.
My phone buzzes.
Lydia again.
I flip it facedown without reading the message.
I have reached my sister limit for the day, and that limit was actually reached somewhere around “You won’t need an extra seat, will you?”
My computer screen reflects my face back at me.
Wide eyes. Pink cheeks. Hair trying to escape its clip. The look of a woman who is absolutely fine, provided no one asks questions, breathes near her, or opens the door to Jordan Richmond’s office.
