Chapter 3
Tess
The alarm goes off before sunrise, a chime that pulls me out of sleep without mercy.
I lie still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, letting the quiet settle before I push the covers back and swing my legs over the side of the bed.
My feet meet the floor with a cool shock, and I pause there for a second, breathing in through my nose before I stand.
Today is not a day for drifting.
I move through my routine without rushing, each step deliberate.
The shower runs hot, steam rising thick enough to blur the mirror, and I step under it, letting the heat slide over my shoulders and down my spine.
My muscles loosen one by one, the last of yesterday’s restlessness easing out of me.
By the time I reach for the towel, my breathing has settled into something slower, more controlled.
I dry off and step into the bedroom, water still clinging to my skin in small, cooling drops. The outfit I chose last night hangs on the wardrobe door, the fabric smooth, the seams still holding the shape I pressed into them.
I slide on my blouse and trousers, making sure each one sits cleanly, the lines straight, the collar resting just below my throat without pulling. When I move, nothing shifts.
I turn toward the mirror and run my hands down the front once more.
My hair is still damp when I reach for it, the strands cool against my fingers as I gather it at the nape of my neck.
I smooth it back slowly, working through the slight resistance until everything falls into place, then twist it and secure it into a low knot.
A few shorter strands slip loose near my temples, softening the line without breaking it.
I meet my reflection again and tilt my head slightly, checking the balance. Nothing falls into my face. Nothing distracts.
That will do.
I even out my skin tone and define my eyes with a careful hand, keeping everything clean and understated.
My fingers hover over the lipstick for a moment before I slide it aside.
My mouth already attracts enough attention without adding color to it, and the last thing I need on my first day working for Dylan Shaw is anything that makes him look at me like another woman passing through his office.
Jeremy warned me exactly what kind of reputation his friend has, and I have no intention of becoming part of it.
I meet my own gaze in the mirror and hold it. My chin lifts a fraction, not forced, just enough to square my posture.
He expects something.
He’s not getting it.
I don't let other people call the shots.
The road into town feels different today, even though I’ve driven it more times than I can count. My usual turn toward the factory comes up on the left.
My foot lifts off the gas before I think about it.
The car slows just enough to feel it, that small shift forward, the engine dropping a notch as the entrance opens up beside me. I can see the long road leading in, the low building at the end of it, the side entrance where everyone actually goes in instead of the front.
For a second, I let the car roll. My hand tightens on the wheel.
I press the gas.
The car picks up again, the turn sliding past my window, gone before I can look at it twice. I keep my eyes on the road ahead, even though I can still feel it sitting there behind me, a road I chose not to take.
The buildings start to change after that.
Not all at once. Just enough that I notice. Fewer old storefronts. More glass. More space between them, like whoever built them didn’t have to work around what was already there.
I slow as I reach the address Jeremy gave me.
The building sits back from the street, set apart from the others by a stretch of pavement. The windows run wide across the front, and I catch glimpses of a reception desk, people crossing the lobby, and elevators opening and closing farther inside.
I pull into the lot and cut the engine.
The quiet settles fast, the absence of the engine louder than the sound itself had been. For a second, I stay where I am, looking at the entrance through the windshield.
I reach for my bag and push the door open, stepping out into the still air. My heels hit the pavement as I cross toward the doors, each step landing solid, the rhythm steady under me.
I push through the glass doors and step inside.
The air hits first, cooler than outside and smelling of polish and something citrusy, clean in a way that feels maintained rather than natural. My heels click against the floor, the sound sharper here, carrying farther than it did outside.
The space opens wide in front of me.
A man stands at the reception desk. He has one hand braced against the counter while he talks into his phone.
His voice stays low, but I catch the edge of impatience in it, the clipped way he ends the call before the other person is finished.
He doesn’t linger. Just a brief nod toward the woman behind the desk before he turns and walks away, already pulling his jacket straight as he heads for the elevators.
The receptionist tracks him for a second, then looks up at me.
Her gaze moves over me quickly, starting at my shoes before moving up along the line of my trousers, the cut of my blouse, and finally my hair.
She doesn’t linger anywhere long enough to be rude, but she doesn’t miss anything either.
By the time her eyes meet mine again, I can tell she’s already decided where I fit.
I stop in front of the desk and meet her eyes.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Shaw.”
She turns slightly, fingers moving over her keyboard. I watch the screen reflect faintly in her glasses, the quick scan, the small pause when she finds what she’s looking for.
“Your name?”
“Tess Ramirez.”
She nods, and her expression changes just enough for me to catch it. Her eyes flick back to the screen for a second before returning to me, and this time there’s no question in them. Whatever she needed to see is there.
“The top floor.” She angles her head toward the elevators behind me. “Mr. Shaw is expecting you.”
I follow the direction of her gesture, then look back at her and nod once. “Thank you.”
I turn and walk away, aware of the brief pause behind me and the muttered, “good luck,” before she looks back down at her screen.
The elevator doors slide open as I approach. I step inside and press the button for the top floor. The doors close with a soft hiss, shutting out the lobby noise, and a moment later the numbers begin to shift one by one as the elevator carries me upward.
Dylan
I don’t do impulsive decisions. I agreed to this anyway.
The leather of my chair shifts under me as I lean back, the faint creak barely audible over the steady pull of air moving through the vents.
The air carries the dry scent of paper and toner, something the cleaning crew never quite manages to erase, and the sharper note of my coffee gone cold at my elbow.
Everything in here sits exactly where it should.
The desk is clear except for the file in front of me, the edges aligned, the corner squared with the grain of the wood.
My thumb presses along the edge of the paper, dragging just enough to feel it catch against my skin.
Tess Ramirez. The name sits at the top of the page, crisp black ink that doesn’t shift no matter how long I look at it.
Jeremy said it once, casual, like it didn’t matter.
I knew it did. I knew it then, felt it settle somewhere that doesn’t get ignored, and still I signed off.
I smooth the page flat again, though it doesn’t need it.
The screen in front of me glows with numbers I’ve already gone over twice. They don’t change. They never do. My attention slides away from them, drifts toward the door before I pull it back. The movement repeats itself a second later, smaller this time, like I can catch it early enough to stop it.
Doesn’t work.
Jeremy’s voice lingers, easy, amused in a way that suggests he knows exactly what he handed me. Don’t scare this one off.
I breathe out through my nose, slow, controlled, and shift forward, my fingertips brushing the edge of the desk.
The wood is smooth, worn just enough along the corner where I tend to rest my hands, a familiar line beneath my skin.
I follow it absently, focusing on the texture instead of the thoughts circling through my head.
Assistants don’t last here.
They come in eager, full of good intentions and polished resumes, and then the work starts. Deadlines tighten. Priorities shift. Things stop being neat and start being real. Most of them don’t hold up when that happens.
I don’t need someone who nods and smiles.
I need someone who keeps up.
My fingers press harder into the desk before I ease the pressure, flexing them once as I sit back again. The chair gives a quiet sound beneath me, the leather warm where it meets my shoulders.
Jeremy thinks she can handle it.
That’s the only reason she’s sitting on my schedule this morning.
The file rests where I left it, and I don’t reach for it again. I don’t need to. Strong references. No gaps. No noise around her name. Everything about her reads clean. Efficient. Easy to place.
On paper.
I’ve seen how little that means once someone walks through that door.
My gaze drifts to the door before I can stop it.
I pull it back to the screen, force myself to focus on the numbers in front of me, the steady logic of them.
It doesn’t hold. Because this isn’t just another hire.
I’ve built a life on discipline. On knowing exactly where the line is and staying on the right side of it.
My friends joke about it. About me. About the other side of things.
The one I pretend doesn’t exist. Women come and go.
I don’t lie to them. Don’t promise anything I’m not willing to give.
No drawn-out endings, no blurred expectations.
It’s clean. Predictable. Controlled. I know how it works, and so do they.