Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
MORGAN
By ten in the morning, I know exactly how tightly wound Constance Hale is.
She doesn’t look at me once. Not when she arrives, or when she drops her files on my desk.
I passed her desk a few times, and she was answering calls with a careful, neutral tone which she seems to have perfected overnight.
She moves fast, shoulders tight, posture too straight, as if she’s bracing for something.
Every request I give her is done immediately, like she’s afraid of giving me even a second to form an opinion.
Her responses are clipped, overly professional, and so precise they border on rigid.
She never lingers at my door, never hesitates when she speaks, and doesn’t ask a single unnecessary question, which tells me more than if she had asked a dozen.
She’s pretending to be competent. She looks like someone waiting to be corrected, dismissed, replaced. The realization irritates me more than it should. She shouldn’t look like she expects to lose.
I catch myself watching her through the glass when I should be focused on contracts and projections.
I see the way her fingers curl ever so slightly when my name comes up on a call, the tension she doesn’t quite manage to hide.
I see how she flinches when I step out of my office, then smooths it away like she’s ashamed of the reaction.
She’s holding herself together through sheer force of will, and the effort is written all over her face.
The kiss yesterday replays in my mind. Not because I regret it, but because of what happened after.
The way she shoved me away like she needed the distance to breathe.
The panic in her eyes as she tried to deny something her body had already admitted.
Her words said no, but her reaction told a far more complicated truth.
Her mouth opened as if she were about to say something—or do something—then snapped shut.
She ran, and she’s still running now.
By early afternoon, her silence has answered every question she hasn’t dared to ask out loud. Avoidance is a choice, and I’m not willing to pretend it doesn’t exist just because it’s quieter than confrontation.
I press the intercom. “Ms. Hale. Come to my office.”
There’s a pause before her reply, barely a second, but I hear it anyway because I’m listening for it. “Yes, Mr. Creed.”
When she steps inside, she stops just past the threshold like she’s measuring the room. Her hands fold neatly in front of her, knuckles faintly white. She doesn’t look at me—her gaze fixes somewhere over my shoulder.
“Sit,” I say.
She obeys immediately, but she chooses the edge of the chair, spine straight, ankles crossed tight.
I don’t raise my voice. I keep my tone cool and measured as I open a folder on my desk, giving her something procedural to focus on, instead of the tension humming between us.
“We’re reviewing discretion protocols,” I tell her.
Her eyes flick up, wary, and for half a second they don’t land on my face. They drop lower. My tie. My throat.
“What does that mean?”
I pause, not because I don’t know how to answer, but because I want to be precise.
“It means what happens in this office stays here,” I say. “Conversations, documents, decisions, and so on. Do you understand?”
She shifts slightly in the chair. “But if someone asks,” she says carefully, “what am I supposed to say?”
“Nothing,” I answer. “You redirect. You don’t engage.”
Her fingers tighten together. “That feels vague.”
“It’s intentional,” I say calmly. “Private meetings stay private. Anything discussed in this office stays here.”
That makes her look up again, really look at me this time.
“The last assistant noticed you, and came to me tattling like a kid on the playground,” I continue. “That’s not happening again. Staying close to me keeps you protected from things you don’t even know you’ve brushed up against.”
Her jaw tightens. “This feels inappropriate.”
“Because of yesterday?” I ask.“You didn’t stop me.” I say immediately. “If you said stop I would have. I like to be in charge Constance, that doesn’t make me an asshole.”
She stills. Then nods. “I didn’t—” She swallows. “That can’t happen again.”
Her eyes flick up, searching, like she wants to argue but doesn’t. I stand, and the effect it has on her is immediate. Her breath stutters. Her shoulders tense. She doesn’t move away, but she leans back an inch, like space itself just shifted.
“You can walk away right now if you want,” I tell her. “No consequences, retaliation, or pressure. Go back to the mailroom and forget you ever did a stint as my assistant.”
She doesn’t answer immediately. Her fingers twist together, then stop. She draws in a breath and holds it, eyes locked on mine now—wide, wary, thinking.
She hesitates then nods. “I’m keeping my new position.”
The silence stretches. She drags her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying at it until it goes pale. Her hands twist together once, then still, fingers pressing hard enough to leave faint marks.
She doesn’t look away. That’s the thing that stops me. Her gaze locks onto mine; she inhales slowly, deliberately, like she’s bracing for impact, then lets the breath out just as controlled.
After a beat, she shifts her weight forward—not much, not enough to close the distance, but enough to tell me the fear isn’t the only thing in the room.
“Good,” I say quietly.