Chapter 7 Nico
Nico
“We have a problem,” my VP of communications says, phone in hand.
I raise an eyebrow. “Define problem.”
She sets her phone on my desk. The screen shows an industry forum post with our internal client segmentation plan attached.
Fuck.
A leak.
“Where did this come from?” I flatly.
“Posted anonymously three hours ago. Already picked up by MedTech Insider and two investigative accounts.”
I scan the document. It’s real. Selective excerpts that make us look like we’re using trauma survivors as marketing props while chasing elective cosmetic profits.
The optics are a disaster.
“Get Legal on it,” I say. “Take down notices. Find the source.”
“Nico.” Paloma’s voice is careful. “Donors are already calling.”
My jaw clenches.
Of course they are.
I spend the next four hours doing damage control that only makes things worse. My first instinct is to control the narrative, lock it down, threaten anyone who spreads it with legal action.
Paloma drafts a statement. I rewrite it to be more aggressive.
She comes back with a softened version.
I override her.
By Tuesday morning, three major donors have frozen their commitments. A corporate partner that licenses our tech sends a terse email about “reviewing the relationship pending clarification.”
Martin Hale calls for an emergency board meeting.
I’m standing at my office windows Wednesday afternoon, staring at the Hudson River, when my phone buzzes with a text from Dr. Helena Vasquez, one of the board members who actually gives a shit about the mission.
Martin is pushing for governance restructure. Trying to use this leak as leverage. Be ready.
Great. Just fucking great.
I should be strategizing. Planning my defense. Instead I’m watching Bree through the glass walls of my office.
She’s at her desk, typing something, her brow furrowed in concentration. The afternoon light catches the warm tones in her skin, and I notice she’s wearing that navy blazer again. The one that makes her look professional and put together and completely untouchable.
Which is good. Because I can’t touch her.
Won’t touch her.
Shouldn’t even be looking at her.
But I am.
I’ve been looking at her all week. Noticing things I have no business noticing. The way she straightens her spine when someone approaches her desk. The cinnamon lip balm she reapplies around three PM every day.
The way she watched me last Friday when I was reading that little girl’s letter, like she could see straight through the impenetrable facade I’ve spent years constructing.
I turn away from the window and force myself to focus on the crisis at hand.
Thursday morning I draft an email to our major donors. It takes an hour to write three paragraphs explaining that the leaked document lacks context, that our business model is sound, that the charity program is a priority not a loss leader.
I read it over.
It sounds corporate and cold.
My finger hovers over the send button and something stops me. Some instinct that says this isn’t going to work.
I save it to my drafts folder instead.
I need coffee.
I stand up, grab my empty mug, and nearly collide with Bree in my doorway.
“Sorry,” she says, stepping back. “I was just bringing you these contracts from Larissa.”
She hands me a folder. Our fingers don’t touch but I catch a hint of her scent. The same perfume that was all over my body that Saturday morning...
I take the folder without a word.
She nods once and returns to her desk.
I watch her go. The pencil skirt hugs her curves in a way that makes my brain short circuit for about three seconds before I remember I’m supposed to be a fucking CEO.
Supposed to be fixing this PR disaster.
I close my office door, sit back down, and stare at the draft email on my screen.
It’s terrible.
I know it’s terrible.
But I also don’t know how to make it better without sounding weak. Without admitting vulnerability. Without giving Martin Hale ammunition to use against me in the board meeting.
I leave it in drafts and focus on other work instead.
Around ten AM, I head to the break room for more coffee.
Paloma is there, looking exhausted.
“Any progress on finding the leak source?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “IT is reviewing access logs but it could be anyone. The document was shared internally with the entire executive team and their assistants.”
“So we’re looking at twenty possible suspects.”
She shakes her head. “More like thirty if you count everyone who had indirect access.”
I pour coffee. Add one sugar, no cream.
“What about the donor response?” I ask Paloma.
She hesitates. “Mixed. Some are waiting for more information. Others are talking about pulling out entirely.”
I take my coffee and head back to my office without another word.
When I sit down at my desk, I notice something immediately.
There’s a purple sticky note on top of the folder Bree brought me earlier. The one with the contracts.
Except when I look closer, I realize the folder doesn’t just contain contracts.
It contains two printed emails.
One is the draft I wrote this morning. My defensive, cold, corporate response to the donors.
The other is a rewrite.
She has access to my Drafts folder, of course, so she didn’t break any security protocols by doing retrieving it. Still, I didn’t ask for a rewrite.
Out of curiosity, I read it anyway.
Same basic structure. Same key points. But the tone is completely different.
Warm.
Accountable.
Human.
I read the sticky note.
This version won’t make them angrier.
No signature. But I know Bree’s handwriting by now. I’ve seen it on enough calendar updates and meeting notes.
I read her version again.
Then a third time, looking for flaws I can use to justify rejecting it.
There aren’t any.
It acknowledges donor concerns without being defensive. It reframes the charity program as an investment rather than a cost center.
It’s everything mine isn’t.
And I hate that.
I hate that my secretary, who’s been here less than two weeks, can write circles around my VP of Communications. I hate that she saw exactly what I was doing wrong and fixed it without being asked. I hate that I need her help when I’ve spent the last week treating her like shit.
Most of all, I hate how much I want to walk out there right now and ask her how she learned to write like this. How she knows exactly what people need to hear. How she makes accountability sound like strength instead of weakness.
But I don’t.
Instead, I open a new email draft and copy her version word for word. Change a few phrases to match my voice. Add a sentence here, remove one there.
When I’m done, it’s ninety percent her work with just enough of my fingerprints to maintain plausible deniability.
I hit send before I can second guess myself.
Then I take both printed versions, the original and her rewrite, and shove them in my desk drawer. Evidence of my inadequacy, filed away where no one can see it.
Through the glass walls, I watch Bree at her desk. She’s on the phone, nodding as she takes notes.
I should walk out there right now and tell her the email was brilliant and ask her to help me with the rest of this disaster because clearly I’m in over my head.
But that would require admitting weakness.
Admitting I need her.
Admitting that the walls I’ve been building between us are bullshit and we both know it.
So I do what I always do.
I stay behind my desk and pretend that night I spent with her never happened.
By Friday afternoon, the donor response to the email is overwhelmingly positive.
Three of the frozen commitments are reinstated. The corporate partner sends a follow up saying they’re satisfied with our response and are ready to move forward.
Even Dr. Vasquez texts me: Good email. This helps.
Paloma appears in my doorway.
“I don’t know what you did differently with that email,” she says, “but it worked. Several people have responded saying they appreciate the honesty and transparency.”
“Good,” I say without looking up.
“Can I ask what changed? Between your first draft and the final version? Did you have someone—”
I meet her eyes. “I revised it.”
“Right, but...” She trails off, clearly wanting to push but not quite brave enough.
“Was there something else you needed?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No. Just wanted to update you on the response.”
After she leaves, I glance at Bree’s desk.
She’s reading something on her screen, and I watch as her lips curve into a small smile.
She glances at her phone, scrolls through something, and the smile grows.
I wonder what she’s reading. Who she’s texting. Whether she’s thinking about the email at all or if helping me was just another task she completed and moved on from.
My inbox pings with a new message.
It’s from Martin Hale.
Glad to see the donor situation stabilizing. Board meeting is still scheduled for next week. We need to discuss long term governance structure.
I clearly read the threat underneath the professional courtesy. Martin isn’t backing down just because one email went well. He’s still planning to use this crisis as leverage to restructure the board, dilute my control, position the company for sale to his private equity partners.
I need a strategy.
A defense.
I need...
I glance at Bree again.
She’s gotten up from her desk, walking toward the break room with her empty coffee mug.
That pencil skirt. That blazer. The confidence in her stride that she didn’t have on her first day...
She’s been here less than two weeks and she’s already helped avert a crisis. And I’ve given her nothing in return except cold professionalism and micromanaged instructions.
She deserves better.
But I don’t know how to give it to her without crossing lines I’ve spent the last two weeks reinforcing.
My phone buzzes again. Dashiell, my CFO, needs me to review the Q4 forecast adjustments.
I pull up the spreadsheet and try to focus.
But I keep thinking about that sticky note.
This version won’t make them angrier.
She saw what I couldn’t see. Fixed what I couldn’t fix. Did something not even my dedicated PR person could do. Though in fairness, I basically ignored all the suggestions Paloma gave me.
But I accepted Bree’s. Because her suggestions were better.
But were they really? Or is that just my cock talking?
Either way, Bree did what she did without asking for credit or anything in return.
What am I going to do with her?