Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
CONSTANCE
I’ve never been as happy to leave work early as I am today.
The thought settles in my chest like a small victory as I shut down my computer and slide my bag onto my shoulder. The executive floor is quieter than usual, but the tension in the air can be felt. It clings to everything in its vicinity, including me.
I brace myself as I head to Mr. Creed’s door and knock.
“Enter,” he calls.
I open the door and lean in just enough to be polite. “I wanted to let you know I’m heading out for the day. I switched the phones over to the answering service.”
“You’re leaving.” It isn’t a question. More a statement of confusion.
“Yes,” I reply, hoping like hell he doesn’t give me any grief. “I put the time in already.”
He leans back in his chair, eyes sharp, focused on me, expression unreadable. “For what?”
“My schedule was already blocked before the promotion,” I say carefully. “I have an appointment.”
By the scowl on his face, I can tell he doesn’t like my answer.
If that wasn’t enough, then it’s evident by the way his jaw tightens, the way his gaze lingers like he’s deciding whether this is worth pushing for more details.
Control is his default. He doesn’t enjoy discovering limits, especially ones he didn’t set himself.
Surprises are not things Morgan Creed relishes.
“You’re my executive assistant now,” he says. “Your availability—”
“—was approved,” I interrupt him softly, before he can finish. “In writing. Last week. As it is every time I need time off for my appointments.”
The silence stretches between us.
He doesn’t argue. That almost feels worse. I expected him to blow up, maybe have a repeat of earlier today when I confronted him about his lack of training. But he doesn’t. Morgan Creed is eerily calm, and I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.
“Be back tomorrow,” he says coolly, then goes back to work. Dismissing me completely.
“I will.”
I don’t wait for a response. Shutting the door, I walk away before my legs remember how close he stood earlier, before my body betrays me again—before my pulse trips, and my attention drags back to his mouth. Before I forget why I need distance at all.
The elevator doors slide shut, and only then do I breathe.
The therapy clinic smells like disinfectant, crayons, and something faintly sweet that I’ve never been able to place.
Chance darts ahead of me, his dark curls bounce as he runs, backpack nearly as big as his small frame sliding off one shoulder. He’s all long limbs and bright eyes, movements slightly uncoordinated but determined, like his body is always trying to catch up to his excitement.
The moment we walk in, energy bubbling over as Mrs. Brenda greets him with her usual warm smile. She crouches to his level, voice calm and steady, and I feel my shoulders loosen just a little.
This space is safe. For Chance and for me. Here, he isn’t judged for not being able to do what all the other kids are.
I settle into my usual corner chair, purse tucked under my feet, hands folded neatly in my lap. Mrs. Brenda runs through her usual questions with me while Chance gets to play on the swing.
I know them all by heart: How have things been since the last visit? Any changes in health, medicine or environment? What improvements have I noticed? What is he still having trouble doing? What would I like to see him do? I answer them all. Once she’s done she makes her way over to him.
When she moves to work with him, adjusting his weighted vest and setting up the obstacle course, his face lights up.
“How was school today, buddy?”
“Good,” he says proudly. “I climbed the ladder on the monkey bars all by myself.”
“That’s amazing,” she tells him, a huge smile on her face as she gives him a high five.
While Mrs. Brenda works with Chance, my attention drifts despite myself. My back hits glass in my memory, cool and unforgiving, and heat floods me so fast I have to shift in my chair. My thighs press together on instinct. Anger follows immediately after.
Not at him…at myself because for one reckless second I hadn’t wanted to push him away at all.
It’s been so long since anything has undone me like that. And the fact that he did is what makes my stomach knot.
“Constance?”
I blink and realize Mrs. Brenda is watching me.
“You okay?” she asks gently. “You seem quieter than usual.”
“I’m fine,” I say too quickly, then soften it. “Just tired. Work’s been… busy.”
She hums, clearly unconvinced but kind enough not to press. I look away, shame and gratitude tangling together. I didn’t stop it fast enough. And that feels like its own kind of failure.
“Well, if you need anything, you know where I am.”
When the session ends, I help Chance with his shoes and thank Mrs. Brenda, promising to see her next week.
In the car, he chatters happily about how he was able to walk all the way down the blocks today without stepping off.
I listen and ask questions, making sure he has all of my attention as I push Morgan Creed as far out of my mind as I can.
When we get home, Chance runs off to his room, already narrating some elaborate game to himself, and I head for the kitchen. I pull out a pan, turn on the stove, and try to focus on dinner.
It doesn’t work.
My hands still, fingers curling around the counter as the memory slips in uninvited—his closeness, the steadiness of him, the way the world narrowed down to that single breathless second before I pushed him away.
Heat creeps up my neck, settling in my cheeks.
I shake my head like that might dislodge it, but my pulse has already picked up, skittering too fast for something I keep insisting means nothing.
I reach for a spoon and have to stop myself from gripping it too tightly. My body feels unsettled, restless. I tell myself it was a mistake, that it can never happen again.
My body reacts before I can stop it—warm, heavy, achingly aware in places I don’t have the luxury of indulging. I brace my hands on the counter, grounding myself, breathing through the sharp, unwelcome want that pulses low in my belly.
This isn’t desire, I tell myself. It’s stress…proximity...a man who doesn’t hear no often enough. None of those excuses explain the way my stomach flips when I remember his voice.
But my body remembers how close he was. How easy it would have been to lean in instead of away.
Every time my thoughts drift, my nerves light up like an exposed wire. His voice still echoes in my head, and I hate how deeply it got under my skin.
At the table, I force myself to smile and focus solely on my son.
“So,” I say brightly, passing Chance his plate, “what was your favorite part of today?” It’s a question I ask him every day.
Hating that I have to spend so much time away from him.
It feels like by the time we get home, eat, and he has a bath, it’s time for him to go to bed.
I’ve missed his whole day, and he’s growing so fast.
He launches into an enthusiastic recap of school, hands moving, words tumbling over each other.
I nod and laugh in the right places, ask follow-up questions, and make sure he finishes his vegetables.
When he has trouble saying a word, I give him time to figure it out himself before stepping in and offering him assistance.
After dinner, I tuck Chance into bed and linger longer than usual, watching his chest rise and fall until his breathing finally slows. This is what matters. Not power. Not glass offices. Not a man who doesn’t know how to stop pushing.
Later, alone in the quiet kitchen, I press my palms to the counter and close my eyes.
Tomorrow, I’ll go back. Tomorrow, I’ll sit at my desk and pretend that kiss never happened.
I whisper it once more, softer now, like a promise I’m not sure I can keep. It was a mistake. It will never happen again. I will not allow him to do it again.
Even if part of me is already bracing for how hard that will be.