Chapter 12 Bree
Bree
I’ve become an expert at looking busy while doing absolutely nothing.
Sitting in my usual corner seat with my laptop open and my professional mask firmly in place, I’m supposed to be taking notes.
What I’m actually doing is watching Nico prepare to charm three high-net-worth philanthropists whose perfectly lit home offices are currently displayed on the massive video screen.
Nico is at the head of the table, of course.
Sleeves rolled to his elbows in that way he does when he’s preparing for battle.
The scar on his face catches the morning light every time he turns his head, and I hate that I still find it attractive.
I hate that I notice the way his forearms flex when he gestures, or how his voice drops to that gravelly register when he’s being deliberately persuasive.
I’ve been at this job how long now? Almost four weeks? And I’m still cataloging the physical details of my boss like some kind of obsessed teenager.
Excellent professional development, Bree.
Truly stellar.
Elspeth sits to Nico’s right. Paloma is across from her, looking like she hasn’t slept in three days. Dr. Helena Vasquez is on the screen too, joining from her office at the hospital, her presence a reminder that at least one board member is firmly in Nico’s corner.
The donors are asking pointed questions.
Richard Pemberton, old money with an older grudge.
Catherine Wang, tech fortune, reputation for pulling funding at the first sign of PR trouble.
And Tiberius Brody, the quietest of the three, who built his philanthropy empire on “accountability metrics” and loves reminding everyone about it.
I take notes. That’s my job.
Be invisible.
“The leaked documents raised significant concerns,” Catherine says. “The optics are... troubling.”
Nico leans forward slightly. “I understand the concern, and I appreciate you giving us the opportunity to address it directly.”
In proceeds to launch into the framework I put together when I edited Paloma’s document.
Not that anyone knows that.
Tiberius Brody speaks up. “We’d like to hear more about the foundation restructuring proposal that was mentioned. The separation of nonprofit and for-profit arms.”
My fingers pause on the keyboard. Just for a second.
That’s another part of the strategy document I left on Nico’s desk. The one he brought to the board without ever mentioning where it came from.
Nico nods, confident and in control. “The restructuring creates clear firewalls between commercial operations and charitable activities. The foundation will have independent governance, and a dedicated funding stream that’s completely separate from our premium product revenue.”
My words.
My framework.
“Fifteen minutes,” Catherine says, glancing at something off-screen. “We have a board meeting at eleven.”
“Of course.” Nico turns his head. And looks directly at me. “Bree, get coffee. Everyone’s orders.”
The words land like a slap.
I freeze for half a second. Maybe less. But it feels like an eternity.
Elspeth winces. I catch it in my peripheral vision. Dr. Vasquez’s expression on the screen flickers with something that might be disapproval. Paloma doesn’t react at all, which somehow makes it worse.
The donors on the screen are watching. Three sets of wealthy, discerning eyes, witnessing the CEO send his secretary for coffee in the middle of a strategic discussion about the very proposal she wrote.
Smile.
Keep smiling.
“Of course, Mr. Rossi.” My voice comes out perfectly steady. A miracle of muscle memory.
Guess he doesn’t want any notes for this next part.
I close my laptop a little harder than necessary.
Fuck him.
He turns toward the other two in the room. “Elspeth? Paloma?”
Elspeth asks for black coffee, no sugar. Paloma requests green tea.
And Nico himself doesn’t bother to tell me his order, because I already know it.
I walk out of the conference room.
The hallway stretches forever. Glass walls everywhere. No privacy. Someone from the communications team glances up as I pass, and I can already see the question forming in their eyes.
Why is the secretary leaving the big donor meeting?
The break room is mercifully empty.
I grip the counter with both hands and count to ten.
One. Two. Three.
Heat prickles behind my eyes. I blink rapidly, staring at the coffee maker.
Four. Five. Six.
I have a master’s degree. I spent two years researching crisis communications and nonprofit governance. I wrote my thesis on stakeholder management during organizational scandal.
I am not this.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
But I am, though.
I’m exactly this.
The underemployed secretary who gets sent for coffee.
The person whose ideas get taken and passed off as someone else’s.
Ten.
I prepare the coffee tray.
Elspeth’s black coffee. Paloma’s green tea, perfectly steeped. Nico’s coffee, one sugar, no cream.
I take an extra thirty seconds to arrange everything perfectly. Then another thirty just because I can.
For a brief, glorious moment, I consider what would happen if I just... strategically contaminated each cup. Nothing dramatic. Just a little something extra from my mouth. A personal contribution to the beverage service.
The fantasy is vivid and satisfying. Nico mid-sip, that controlled expression faltering. Paloma pausing mid-gesture. The dawning horror.
But then I’d be that person. The bitter assistant who literally spat in her boss’s coffee because he’s a condescending asshole. I’d be confirming every dismissive assumption they’ve already made about me. Poor Bree, so emotional. So unprofessional.
Also, gross.
I may be many things. Underemployed, underappreciated, possibly losing my mind one coffee order at a time, but I’m not going to sabotage my own integrity over a man who doesn’t deserve my time and energy.
Even if he really, really deserves a little spit in his coffee.
When I finally return to the conference room, the conversation has moved on. They’re discussing the transparency review. Catherine Wang is nodding along. Tiberius Brody is taking notes of his own.
I distribute the drinks silently to the local members of the meeting. Elspeth gives me a small, grateful smile. Paloma mouths “thank you.” Nico doesn’t acknowledge me at all.
Then Tiberius Brody asks: “The foundation restructuring you proposed. Can you walk us through the governance model? Specifically the independent oversight mechanisms?”
He answers the question with my framework, but I say nothing, and return instead to my corner seat. I open my laptop and resume taking notes.
Professional note taker.
That’s what I am.
The meeting ends with the donors cautiously optimistic. They promise to recommend to their respective boards that funding should continue, pending implementation of the restructuring proposal.
“Nico’s” proposal.
As the video call disconnects, Nico stands, already looking at his phone, already moving on to the next crisis. Elspeth gathers her materials. Paloma looks exhausted but relieved.
I pack up my laptop and leave. When I reach my desk, I set the device down and pull out my emergency makeup kit. The one I started keeping in my desk after the first week of working for Nico.
Then I keep walking. Past Cressida’s desk outside Elspeth’s office. Past the break room where I just stood counting to ten so I wouldn’t cry. Past Piper at main reception, who gives me her usual fake-sweet smile.
The bathroom door closes behind me and I finally let myself breathe.
There’s only one other person in here. A woman from accounting, washing her hands. I smile politely, wait for her to leave, then I check under all the stall doors.
Empty.
I lock myself in the last stall, sit on the closed toilet lid, and press my palms against my eyes.
Don’t cry.
If you cry, your mascara will run, and you’ll have to redo your makeup.
The tears come anyway.
It’s the dismissiveness that does it. The way Nico looked right through me when he told me to get coffee. The casual cruelty of it, the assumption that my purpose begins and ends with beverage service.
And suddenly I’m twenty-four again, standing in Dr. Kendrick’s office while he explains that my thesis ideas are “derivative” and “lacking rigor,” like he’s doing me a favor by tearing apart original work we both know I developed. The same voice he used when—
No.
Not this again.
It’s been a few weeks since the last one. I was doing so well. Three months before that, actually, which felt like progress.
My therapist would probably say something wise about trauma responses and triggers and how healing isn’t linear.
To be fair to Nico, and I’m trying to be fair, even though he’s an asshole, he probably didn’t cause this.
My job title is literally secretary. Going on the occasional coffee run is part of the job description.
He might have accelerated the timeline a bit with that casual dismissiveness, but these episodes happen regardless. They’re like emotional landmines buried in my psyche, and eventually I step on one whether there’s an immediate trigger or not.
This is not the time. This is not the place. I left that behind five years ago. I survived it. I rebuilt myself from the rubble of my reputation and I’m not going back there.
I wipe my eyes carefully with toilet paper.
Check my phone. Two minutes. I’ll give myself two minutes to ride out this completely predictable trauma response, and then I’ll fix my makeup and go back to my desk and keep being the invisible secretary who writes proposals that other people take credit for.
At least I’m getting better at the recovery time. Last year this would have taken twenty minutes and a phone call to Sora.
Progress.
Finally I stand up, smooth my blazer, and exit the stall. The mirror reflects someone I barely recognize. Eyes slightly red but nothing some concealer won’t fix.
I pull out my emergency makeup kit. The one from my desk. Concealer under the eyes. Powder to set it. Mascara touch-up.
There.
Perfect.
You’re handling this.
You don’t need anyone’s validation.
Except I do. That’s the pathetic part. I want someone to see me. To recognize what I contribute. To say “Bree, that proposal was brilliant, thank you for writing it.”
But I’ll never get that from Nico.
I realize that now.
Dear Mr. Rossi,
Please accept this letter as two weeks’ notice of my resignation from the position of Executive Secretary...
The words compose themselves in my head as I walk back to my desk. I don’t write them down. Not yet. But they’re there, waiting.
Ready.
It’s too bad I really need this job.
My laptop still has the meeting notes on screen. I save the document, close it, and pull up my email.
Three new messages from donors requesting follow-up information. Two calendar invites for next week. One email from Paloma asking for the meeting transcript.
I start typing.
Dear Ms. Vance,
Please find attached the full transcript of today’s donor call...
The words are mechanical.
Exactly what’s expected of me.
Nico’s office door is closed. Through the glass walls, I can see him on the phone, pacing, one hand rubbing the scar at his jaw like he always does when he’s stressed.
Good.
Let him be stressed.
He deserves it.
Except he doesn’t, not really. The crisis isn’t his fault. Martin Hale is actively trying to destroy him. The board is circling. The media is sharpening their knives.
And I keep helping him anyway. Because I’m apparently incapable of not caring about him, even when he treats me like I’m invisible.
The afternoon stretches ahead of me, endless and gray.
I wonder how long I can keep doing this before I snap.