Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MORGAN
The morning begins the way most mornings do. I wake before my alarm, eyes open to a ceiling I have stared at for years without ever really seeing. The house smells faintly like coffee grounds and clean linen.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there longer than necessary, rubbing a hand over my face, trying to shake the weight that has followed me out of sleep.
Something feels off.
Not wrong enough to name. Just off. Like when the temperature drops before a storm and your body registers it before your brain catches up.
By the time I’m dressed and downstairs, the feeling has settled into my chest. I pour coffee and drink it standing at the counter, scrolling through overnight emails, deleting most without reading. I think about Constance without meaning to.
The way she looked when she stood in my kitchen holding her mug, hair loose, eyes soft with sleep and something like trust she hadn’t agreed to give me.
I leave the house before I can dwell on it.
By the time I get to the office, I toss my jacket over my chair, roll my sleeves up, and get to work. A routine cybersecurity update pings twenty minutes later than it should.
Why is my system running late? It’s designed to do exactly what it’s told, exactly when it’s told, without deviation.
I flag it mentally and move on, telling myself it’s nothing. Not everything needs teeth sunk into immediately.
Still, the unease clings.
My door opens without a knock and I look up smiling as Constance steps inside with a coffee already in hand, the way she does now without asking. She sets it down on my desk, careful not to crowd me, and waits.
“Morning,” she says.
Her voice steadies something in me I hadn’t realized was tilting.
“Morning,” I reply, eyes flicking up from the screen. She’s dressed simply today, in black slacks, a soft cream sweater, and her hair pulled back.
“Anything you need before I head out?” she asks.
The word out catches and I furrow my brow.
“Errands,” she adds. “I won’t be long.”
I nod. “Take your time.”
She hesitates like she wants to say something else, then thinks better of it. She turns to leave.
“Constance,” I say.
She looks back.
“I was thinking this weekend,” I say, keeping my tone casual. “That I could take you and Chance for some ice cream and a movie.”
Her brows lift, surprised.
“I’ll think about it,” she says carefully.
She leaves before I can decide whether that was a yes or a deflection.
The door closes behind her.
And for the first time in years, my office feels quiet in a way I do not enjoy.
I pull my attention back to the screen. From the looks of things, we lost power for two minutes and seventeen seconds and it caused the system to reboot therefore having the security update start behind schedule.
According to my watch it’s now ten. I have an untouched mug of coffee on my desk, and what should have taken a few minutes ended up taking hours.
Why didn’t anyone come in for the morning update? Constance usually stops in to let me know she’s back. Did she come in and I didn’t notice? Shit. I hope she doesn’t think I intentionally ignored her.
I look up and see that my door is wide open. She must have left it open when she left or came back. No one else has come in that I recall. Looking at her desk, I see it’s still empty.
That in itself means nothing. She could be running errands still, or handling things somewhere else in the building. She’s been starting to work through my world with quiet efficiency that I’ve come to expect without acknowledging how much I rely on it.
I try to focus on new contracts and the few calls I need to make. At half-past eleven, I have a meeting, and it drags because no one wants to be the one to say what needs saying. My phone buzzes once with a message from Miles that can wait.
I look through the conference room glass walls out to the main part of the floor but come up Constance free still.
Where the fuck is she?
The thought lands heavily enough that I stop pretending to listen. I straighten in my chair and cut in mid-sentence, my voice calm but final.
“We’re done here,” I say. “You know what needs to happen. Make the call and move on.”
There’s a brief flicker of surprise around the table, then relief. Chairs scrape softly against the floor as people gather their things, the meeting dissolving without argument. I don’t wait, I stand, nod once, and walk out while they’re still processing the dismissal.
Back in my office, I shut the door and sit at my desk, fingers drumming once against the wood before I still them.
I pull up the internal dashboard and start reviewing background check pulls tied to upcoming contracts and personnel clearances, scanning names and timestamps with practiced ease.
It is busywork on the surface, the kind that usually settles me.
Today it doesn't.
And then I see her name.
It’s not dramatic or highlighted. It sits there in a report I am skimming out of habit more than necessity. Someone ran a background check on her and not the normal hiring process check…no this was extensive, like we do on suspects we’re investigating.
My body stills before my mind does. The room seems to tilt slightly, like the center of gravity has shifted without me knowing. I scroll back up on my iPad, then down again, reading it twice to make sure I’m not projecting something that’s not there.
No, her name is definitely attached to a background deep dive inquiry. I scan it seeing what they found.
Constance Marie Hale born in Kingston, Illinois to Charles and Mary Hale.
Chance Jordan Hale born to Constance Hale and Jordan Davis…
Jordan Davis died in a car versus motorcycle accident when a drunk driver crossed the center line and struck him while driving to his son’s therapy appointment.
Constance started culinary school for baking but dropped out when she found out she was pregnant.
Chance has no formal diagnoses but his therapy schedule and grades are all here.
This is invasive, the kind of information someone wants when they want to know who someone fully is or about before deciding what to do with them.
This shouldn’t exist, not here in my building…on my woman.
No one should’ve run her name without coming to me. I flagged her company profile as such. It wasn’t a suggestion; it was a firm line drawn in ink.
My jaw tightens, teeth pressing together hard enough that my temples throb. I do not sit back. I do not breathe through it. I pick up the phone and call Miles.
He answers on the second ring.
“Come to my office,” I say.
He's there within minutes, closing the door behind him with the instinct of a man who knows when something is wrong. I hand the iPad to him without explanation. His expression changes as he reads.
“That did not come through me,” he says slowly.
Odd. He handles all the background checks on our employees. But if he’s saying it’s not him, then who?
“I figured.”
“It looks like it bounced through a shell,” he continues. “Like her name was run by an old client.”
My fingers curl against the edge of the desk. “Which means someone went looking for her without wanting to leave evidence.”
Miles nods slowly. “That’s my take too.”
“Who?” I ask, my patience thinning.
He hesitates, looking like he’s deep in thought. “Westbridge Solutions had access like this years ago, before we cut ties. They were always sloppy about cleanup. Wouldn’t shock me if someone over there’s fishing, seeing if they can try to play in our sandbox.”
Westbridge. The name settles in place easily, too easily, because it fits.
A rival security firm with a history involving us.
A company whose president used to be my COO until I found out what a snake in the grass he is and cut ties, which led to Miles’ promotion.
Thank god MIles was able to catch what he was doing before it ruined my company.
“But why start with my assistant?” I raise a brow. “Why not me?”
“You and I both know that’s not how leverage works.”
I lean forward, palms flat on the desk. “Then what do you know that you’re trying not to say?” My voice is low, tight. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”
He hesitates, then meets my gaze. “I see how you look at Ms. Hale,” he says carefully. “Not like you’ve looked at other employees. It hasn’t gone unnoticed that she’s in your office for longer stretches either. And when she leaves, she looks… disheveled.”
I straighten slowly, heat rolling up my spine. “Watch yourself.”
Miles’s jaw tightens, but he holds his ground. “I’m not judging. I’m pointing out how it might look from the outside.”
“She is not leverage,” I say flatly. “She’s not a weakness. And she sure as hell isn’t being used.”
“I didn’t say she was,” he replies.
“You implied it,” I snap. “And you’re wrong. Constance Hale does her job exceptionally well. What I do in my office and with whom is my business. Constance is my business, no one else’s.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and charged.
I stare at the screen again, at her name where it never should've been. “Run it down…quietly. I want to know who did this and why.”
Miles nods once. “I’ll find it.”
“And Miles,” I add without looking up. “If anyone thinks they can use her to get to me, they’re going to learn how badly they miscalculated.”
He pauses at the door. “Sometimes people get caught in things bigger than them,” he shrugs. “Collateral damage happens.”
The comment sits wrong in my chest, though I can’t immediately say why.