Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
CONSTANCE
It’s ten-thirty in the morning and I’m already drowning in assistant duties. I should have said no, or at least argued harder, but I didn’t. This isn’t the mailroom where everything is familiar and predictable and I can breathe. This is torture and chaos.
My desk still smells faintly of someone else’s perfume, and it looks like a battlefield of color-coded folders, blinking notifications, and a phone that seems determined to ring itself to death.
Mr. Creed’s calendar glares at me from my tablet, packed wall to wall with meetings across three time zones, and red blocks marked Do Not Interrupt that keep getting interrupted, anyway.
Thanks to poor scheduling before I ever sat down here.
This isn’t a job. This is a freaking nightmare.
I sit straighter, smooth my hands over the legal pad already filled with questions, and take two steadying breaths before standing.
My legs feel tight as I cross the short distance to his office door.
I knock gently and wait, pulling my lower lip into my mouth, biting on it as I wait nervously for him to respond.
He doesn’t. I knock again.
“Come in,” he calls from the other side.
He’s on the phone when I step inside, gesturing toward the chair across from his desk without looking up. I make my way over and sit down, placing the notepad in my lap and gripping it like my life depends on it as I wait for him to finish.
When he hangs up the phone, he leans back in his chair and gazes at me with such intense scrutiny I can’t help but squirm in my seat.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Hale?” His voice is calm, deep, collected, and sexy. Wait. That’s not what I should be thinking about his voice.
“I have some,” I clear my throat as I grip my legal pad tighter, “questions.”
“Very well. Go on?”
“Okay,” I say, shifting in my seat as I look down at my pad, and ask him the first one. “If legal flags a contract, but procurement already approved it, who has final say?”
Mr. Creed looks at me unfazed as he leans forward, his attention on something on his computer as he answers. “Legal.”
“Even if procurement signed off?”
“Yes.”
I jot down his answer beside the question and move to the next one.
“And if Miles is unavailable, do I route international calls to someone else or—”
“Miles.”
“But if he’s unavailable,” I start.
“Miles,” he repeats again, his voice clipped and controlled.
I bite the inside of my cheek, breathe deeply and keep going. I can already feel the heat rising on my neck and my stomach is in knots. God, do I wish I was invisible again.
“What’s the approval chain for Black Tier correspondence?”
He finally looks up at me, eyes sharp. “You already know.”
“I know how to route it,” I clarify for him, annoyed that he just assumes I know everything. “I don’t know who gets looped in after.”
His gaze lingers on me, almost as if he’s assessing me in some way. “You don’t need to.”
I write that down too, even though it isn’t an answer. To me, it’s just him being an utter ass.
By noon, it’s obvious: Morgan Creed is not used to being asked questions.
He’s used to people anticipating. Executing.
Getting it right the first time or disappearing quietly.
The fact that I need context, that I ask why, seems to irritate him in a way that no missed deadline ever could.
And you know what? That’s just too bad. I refuse to fail at this new position.
He was the one who promoted me here. I was perfectly happy in the mailroom.
The phone rings again—an unfamiliar extension, flagged urgent. I glance at the caller ID, then at the notes I’ve taken so far.
“Nocturne Enterprise, executive office,” I answer. “This is Constance. How can I help you?”
The voice on the other end is smooth, confident. “I need to speak with Morgan Creed immediately.”
I hesitate for half a second. Morgan is currently in a closed-door meeting with Miles, but the call is marked priority. See, this is why I need notes and directions.
I decide to make an executive decision; I just hope it’s the right choice.
“I’ll put you through,” I say, and route it directly to Morgan’s line.
His reaction comes within minutes. His door flies open and he’s barking at me. “In my office. Now.”
Miles slips out the door just as I stand to enter. I’m barely inside before he’s slamming the door behind me.
“What the hell was that?” he snaps.
I look up, startled. “It was a priority call. The caller asked for you and if you’re busy, they go to Miles. But he was in a meeting with you. So I sent it through. Was that not right?”
“You don’t route calls to me when I’m in a meeting.” His voice sharp, unforgiving. “Take a message, that’s basic knowledge. Jesus Christ, do I have to spell out everything?”
Something in me snaps back just as hard. I’ve never let a man talk to me like this before and I’m sure as hell not going to start now. As much as I need this job I will not be talked to like I’m an idiot.
“You threw me into this role with no training, no transition, and no warning,” I fire back before I can stop myself. “You changed my entire job in a second and expected me to magically know how you like things done. A little grace wouldn’t kill you, and it would make me better at this job.”
The room goes still.
His brown eyes darken—not with anger alone, but with something hotter, more dangerous.
“Grace,” he repeats softly, as he steps closer to me.
I move to step around him, ready to end this conversation, but he shifts at the same time, blocking the path without touching me.
My pulse spikes. Not fear exactly…awareness.
This is the moment smart women walk away, I should be walking away.
“Do you know how many people would kill for this position?”
“Yes,” I say, heart hammering. “And none of them would do it better than me—if you’d let me learn. Actually train me in the way you want your office run.”
Another step. My back meets the wall, cold seeping through my blouse. I angle my body toward the door, but he mirrors the movement, blocking my exit without touching me.
“You don’t talk back to me,” he says quietly.
“I’m not talking back,” I say, even as my pulse quickens. “I’m doing my job.”
He is close enough now that his cologne fills my lungs—something dark and clean and entirely distracting.
“This job,” he says, leaning in, “is about control.”
I swallow.
“And you just lost it.”
The words should terrify me. They do. But something traitorous sparks anyway.
Heat curls low in my stomach before I can stop it, a shiver skating up my spine that has nothing to do with fear.
My breath catches, and I hate myself a little for noticing the way his voice wraps around me, the way my body reacts before my pride can shut it down.
His mouth hovers near my ear, his voice deliberately low. “Do you know what happens to assistants who forget their place?” he murmurs. “They end up on their knees, begging to keep what they don’t deserve.”
My stomach drops — shock, anger… and a confusing flicker of something warmer that makes my face heat instantly.
I straighten, pretending the reaction never happened, even as my pulse refuses to slow.
My hands curl into fists as I glare at him, ready to throw it back, ready to tell him exactly where he can shove his power, he kisses me.
It’s not gentle. Not rushed either. His mouth presses to mine with deliberate certainty, like he already knows the answer to a question I haven’t finished asking. The world tilts—my breath stutters, cut off entirely, and for one dangerous second my body forgets to resist.
Heat floods my face, my chest, everywhere at once. My pulse surges hard enough that I feel it in my throat. My hands flatten against his chest on instinct, not pushing yet—just bracing there, like my body needs something solid to hold on to.
Then my mind catches up.
Panic slams in sharp and fast. I shove at him with both hands, breaking the contact as I stumble forward. “No—no, this can’t—you can’t.” My heart is racing like I’ve just run miles, my skin too tight, too aware.
“This can’t happen,” I say again, breathless, more to myself than him. “You’re my boss. This is—this is wrong.”
He looks amused, infuriatingly composed. “You liked it,” he says calmly.
The words land heavier than the kiss itself.
I open my mouth to deny it. But nothing comes out—because my body is still buzzing, my pulse still rushing, my cheeks still burning with heat I can’t explain away.
That kiss wasn’t nothing.
And I hate that I know it.