Chapter 14 Nico
Nico
Monday morning and I still can’t get Thursday out of my head.
You’ve been using my work for a while now. So stop pretending I don’t exist when there are witnesses.
I’ve replayed that conversation about forty times since then. Dissected every word like I’m performing an autopsy on my own goddamn psyche.
And the worst part? What I said back.
I don’t think you’re beneath me.
What a stupid fucking thing to say.
Loaded with meaning I didn’t intend.
Or maybe did intend.
I don’t even know anymore.
I should have apologized.
Should have acknowledged what she said, given her the credit she deserves, promised to do better.
Instead I sent her a business-as-usual email. Board prep meeting. Take notes. Ensure coffee service is arranged.
What a moron.
Classic Nico Rossi.
So here I am, Monday morning, sitting in my office pretending to review some random documents while my attention keeps drifting to the woman at the desk outside my glass walls.
Walls that seem somehow symbolic of my own. Transparent when I want to project authority, opaque when I need privacy. State-of-the-art technology that somehow became the perfect metaphor for every defense mechanism I’ve spent a decade perfecting.
Walls.
My eyes focus on her, and will her to look at me.
She doesn’t.
And that’s when I actually see her.
She’s wearing a dress. Deep blue, fitted in all the right places, hugging the curves I’ve tried so very hard not to think about since that night in her apartment. The neckline is modest but the way the fabric moves when she breathes makes my mouth go dry.
She’s done something with her makeup, too. More than her usual professional minimum. Her lips look fuller, darker. Her eyes more dramatic.
Bree never dresses like this for work.
Who the fuck is she dressing up for?
The question lodges in my brain like a splinter and refuses to budge.
I force myself to return my attention to my computer, but the morning drags.
I make it until nine-thirty before I look up again. Then nine-forty-five. Then ten. I’ve read the same paragraph four times and retained nothing.
What exceptional use of my Ivy League education and two decades of business experience, staring at my secretary while pretending to work.
By ten fifteen, I’ve noticed something else.
The way she keeps checking her phone. Bree never checks her phone during work hours. She’s got better discipline than half my executive team.
But today she’s checked it at least six times. And every time, there’s this tiny smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth.
Who the fuck’s making her smile like that?
I watch her through the remaining morning meetings. Through the ops review where Elspeth presents revised clinic partnership timelines. And through all of it, she remains professionally invisible.
But there’s an energy about her today.
A distraction.
I should focus on the actual crises demanding my attention.
Martin Hale. Dashiell’s forensic review of his communications is still progressing but not fast enough.
Then there’s that business magazine profile that’s still scheduled to drop soon.
Have to get ahead of whatever narrative they’re planning to put forward.
But instead of thinking about any of that, I’m thinking about Bree’s phone. And her dress.
Who keeps texting her? Why is she dressed that way?
At 4:47 PM, she starts packing up her things.
I frown at my monitor. She never leaves before seven. Since our confrontation Thursday she’s been going home earlier, that’s true. No more late nights at her desk waiting until I leave. But she’s never left before five before.
I check my calendar. Nothing scheduled that would require her to stay. No reason she shouldn’t leave whenever she wants.
So why does watching her gather her coat feel like a knife sliding between my ribs?
She stands. Smooths her dress. The fabric stretches across her hips and I have to look away before I do something stupid like call her into my office just to keep her from leaving.
She waves goodbye to Cressida. Walks down the hall.
I have to stand up to keep her in sight, now.
I watch her pass Piper at reception and walk through the glass barriers separating Rossi Industries from the elevator bank. I duck down slightly as she turns around while waiting for the elevator to arrive, because I don’t want her to spot me.
Finally the elevator dings and she steps inside.
The doors close.
She’s gone.
And I’m standing there like an idiot, staring at the empty space where she was standing, wondering where she’s going dressed like that.
Twenty seconds pass.
Something snaps.
Before I can think it through, I’m racing out of my office. The elevators are occupied. I can see through the glass that both cars are heading down. By the time one comes back, she’ll be long gone. I whip past Piper in reception, and burst out the main entry doors.
I shove through the south emergency stairwell door.
The crash bar echoes through the concrete shaft as I start down. Twenty-eight floors. I take the stairs four at a time, my leather shoes slapping against the metal grating. My hand trails the railing for balance.
This is insane.
I know this is insane.
But I don’t stop.
My breath comes harder as I pass floor twenty. Fifteen. Ten. My thighs are burning by the time I hit the parking garage level.
I burst through the exit door and spot Indira and Callahan by the Mercedes, running through pre-departure checks. They both look up, surprised.
I’m not supposed to be down here for another two hours.
“We’re leaving,” I say. My voice sounds rough. Unhinged. I’m gasping for breath.
Callahan’s expression doesn’t change at all. He’s professional to the fucking core. “Where to, sir?”
I don’t know. I look at Indira. “Just drive.”
Indira exchanges a glance with Callahan. The kind of look that says this is weird and should we be concerned?
But they don’t question me. They never do.
Which is probably part of the problem.
Too many yes men.
We’re pulling out of the garage in under thirty seconds. I scan the street through tinted windows, my heart pounding.
There.
A Black Uber pulls away from the loading zone. Bree’s profile is visible through the rear window.
“That car,” I say. “Follow it. Stay back.”
Another exchanged look. Callahan’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. But Indira pulls into traffic three cars behind.
The Uber heads downtown. Through Midtown. Past Union Square. The evening traffic crawls and I’m grateful for it because every stop light gives me a chance to catch my breath and ask myself what the hell I’m doing.
Following my secretary.
Like a stalker.
Because she put on a nice dress and left work on time.
I should tell Indira to turn around. Go home. Open a bottle of whiskey and forget this ever happened.
But I don’t.
The Uber pulls over near West 4th Street. Bree gets out. I watch her check her phone, adjust her hair, and start walking west.
“Park somewhere with sightlines,” I hear myself say. “Stay in the vehicle.”
Indira obeys.
Callahan turns slightly in the passenger seat. “Sir, if you want us to maintain a protective perimeter, I should accompany you.”
“No. I’m staying here.” I sit in the back of the Mercedes and watch through the tinted windows as Bree walks three blocks and enters a cozy wine bar on the corner.
The kind of place you take a date.
“Park closer,” I instruct Indira.
He obeys.
Through the wine bar’s large front window, I can see a narrow counter running the length of the glass. Bar stools lined up against it, facing out toward the street.
Bree takes one near the center. Settles in with her back to the interior of the bar, her face visible to anyone passing by.
To me.
She adjusts her dress. Checks her phone one more time. Then he appears beside her, claiming the stool to her right, and her entire face transforms.
That smile.
The real one.
The one she’s only ever aimed at me once.
The night we met.
It guts me.
As for the man... he hugs her. Hugs. His arms wrap around her waist and he holds her close. She lets him.
My jaw clenches so hard I feel the scar tissue pull.
Their position gives me a perfect view of every interaction. Every smile. Every touch.
“Sir.” Callahan’s voice is carefully neutral. “Would you like us to run a background check on this individual?”
“No.” I seethe. “No background check.”
Shut the fuck up for once, Callahan.
Let me suffer in peace.
I watch them order drinks. Watch the man lean forward, laughing at something Bree said. Watch Bree’s hand rest on the table and his fingers drift across to brush against hers.
She doesn’t pull away.
Something dark and possessive coils inside me.
A rejection response.
That’s what this is.
My body registering incompatible tissue, preparing to attack the foreign presence that doesn’t belong.
Except I’m the one who doesn’t belong.
I’m the one sitting in a car across the street like a goddamn psychopath while my secretary has dinner with someone who makes her smile.
The man says something and Bree throws her head back laughing.
She’s never laughed like that around me.
Not since that first night.
And why would she? I’ve spent weeks treating her like garbage. Micromanaging her into oblivion. Taking credit for her work. Sending her for coffee like she’s nothing more than hired help.
I did this.
And this is my reward.
Watching her be happy with someone else through a tinted car window.
“Indira.” My voice sounds like gravel. “How long have we been here?”
She checks the dashboard clock. “Forty-seven minutes, sir.”
Jesus Christ.
I’ve been sitting in this car for almost an hour watching my secretary on a date.
What is wrong with me?
“Sir.” Callahan again. Still neutral. But there’s something in his voice that might be concern. “Perhaps we should return to the residence.”
“No,” I hiss.
Inside the wine bar, the man reaches across the table fully takes Bree’s hand now. As in, actually holding it. Bree doesn’t pull away.
The same hand I kissed in her apartment when we were tangled in her sheets and nothing else existed except her skin under my mouth.
He doesn’t know her.
Not like I do.
He doesn’t know anything.
And she’s letting him touch her anyway.
Ninety minutes. We sit there for ninety agonizing minutes while Bree and this man share wine and laughter. My driver and my head of security say nothing. They don’t have to. I can feel their judgment oozing from the front seats.
Finally, mercifully, Bree and the man stand up.
My heart rate spikes.
They walk toward the door. He holds it open for her. His hand rests on the small of her back as they walk onto the sidewalk.
They start heading east. Toward Sixth Avenue. Toward the subway.
No. Not the subway.
Her apartment.
Fucker’s walking her home.
“Follow them,” I command.
Indira hesitates. “Sir, shouldn’t—”
“Follow. Them.”