Chapter Two #2
Footsteps cross the threshold, light and hesitant. Paper rustles.
"Good morning, Mr. Kauffman. I brought the sponsorship breakdown reports you asked for."
Her.
Of course.
I glance up. She’s standing there in a simple blouse and pencil skirt, hair pulled back in a knot that exposes the slope of her neck. There’s a faint crease between her brows, like she’s concentrating too hard on not spilling anything.
My pulse stutters. I notice, and I hate that I notice.
I ignore it. She’s an employee. And even if she weren’t, emotions only get in the way.
"Set them on the desk," I say.
She steps closer, just within reach, and there’s a faint scent of her shampoo or laundry soap. I won’t bother to ask which. Her hand trembles slightly as she aligns the reports with the edge of the blotter.
I notice the tremble. It’s what makes me good at negotiations. I don’t miss even the most subtle of cues.
"Is there anything else you need?" she asks, her voice soft but steady.
One word slams into my brain like a warning siren.
Dangerous. Because though it’s not likely intentional, Aria is a distraction. A subtle one, but nonetheless, a distraction that has no place in my world.
I shouldn’t know the exact cadence of her voice. I shouldn’t know that she chews the inside of her cheek when she’s stressed. I shouldn’t know that she takes the stairs at the end of the day instead of the elevator, like she’s trying to stretch out her minutes in the building.
These are details I do not have the bandwidth for.
"You can go," I say.
She nods, that tiny crease deepening, and then turns to leave.
Before she reaches the door, my mouth is already forming the words that have been sitting like a stone in my gut since last week.
"Miss Taylor."
She stops and turns back, eyes wide, fingers tightening around the edge of her notepad. "Yes?"
I stand, straightening my jacket like I’m going into a board presentation rather than detonating someone’s life.
"We need to discuss your position."
Her throat moves as she swallows. "My position?"
"Yes. Close the door, please."
Her hand trembles on the handle for a fraction of a second, but she does as I ask and then sits in the chair opposite my desk, smoothing her skirt over her knees. She looks like she’s trying to make herself smaller without actually shrinking.
I sit back down, steeple my fingers, and keep my expression unreadable.
"The Hawkeyes organization is undergoing restructuring," I begin. "We’ve reviewed all staff roles in light of existing administrative support. Your position was created by Mr. Carlton and duplicates many of the functions already covered by my existing team."
Her eyes meeting mine feel like getting hit in the chest with a spotlight.
"You’re letting me go," she says.
It’s not really a question. I’ve made my feelings known to her since I took over the team, but something has kept me from letting her go earlier.
I tell myself it’s because I had more important items on my plate than an assistant with a salary that’s barely a drop in the bucket, and because the work she performs for me is above adequate.
I appreciate an assistant who learns and adapts quickly.
I nod once, deciding that ripping off the band-aid is the best course of action before I table this issue again, and she stays on another six months. "Your role is redundant. HR has prepared a severance package. Two weeks paid plus a letter of recommendation."
"Redundant." She repeats the word like she’s trying to translate it into a language she understands. Her fingers curl tightly around the notepad in her lap. Her knuckles turn white.
"Was my performance unsatisfactory?" she asks.
This is where most employees either get angry, cry, or shut down. She does none of the above.
"No. Your performance was fine."
"Did I do something wrong?" Her eyes are searching my face.
"No," I say again. "This is a structural decision."
I can see it in her eyes. A dozen emotions trying to break through all at once. Panic, confusion... probably even hurt.
She swallows hard.
"I’ve been coming in early," she says. "Staying late. I reorganized all the Carlton files to match your system. I’ve been trying to anticipate what you need before you ask.
" Her voice steadies. "If there’s something I can improve, I can adjust. I can take on more responsibility. Longer hours. Whatever is necessary."
"Miss Taylor—"
"I get your coffee wrong sometimes, I know that." She rushes on, cheeks flushing. "You don’t drink it the way Phil did, and I’m still learning your preferences. But I can—"
"This is not about coffee," I cut in.
She flinches.
I don't like being the one who caused it. Then I see it. The thing I don’t want to see and can’t unsee now that it’s there.
She’s terrified.
Not just inconvenienced. Not just disappointed. Terrified.
Something twists in my chest. This is why I don’t ask questions. This is why I don’t want to know more about my employees than I absolutely have to. Information creates obligation, and obligation creates weakness.
"I can work longer days," she continues, fighting for composure. "I can split my time with your other assistant if that helps. I just need this job. It’s the best opportunity I’ve ever had. And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to keep it."
There it is again. That phrase.
Whatever it takes.
Every instinct in me wants to demand—Why? Why do you need this? Why this job? What are you not telling me?
I don’t ask.
I can’t afford to ask.
Because if I know the answer—if it’s something like medical bills or a family crisis—I’ll either have to help or live with the knowledge that I didn’t. And either option is a distraction from what I'm born and raised to do. Maintain an empire.
Phil Carlton paid her more than her position requires… but why? There has to be a reason.
"I’m sorry," I say instead, keeping my voice flat. "The decision has been made. It’s not a reflection of your effort. It’s simply unnecessary duplication."
The word sounds hollow even to my own ears, though the reasoning is true. She is a duplication.
She goes very still. Her shoulders rise and fall with one long, slow breath, like she’s trying to hold herself together through sheer force of will.
"Right," she says at last. "Of course."
Her gaze drops to the papers on my desk, then to her lap. "Is there any chance this can be reconsidered?" she asks quietly. "Even temporarily? If I could have just another month to—"
"No."
Because the more time she spends in my orbit, the more I feel that pull. That shift in my focus. That awareness I don’t know what to do with. The more I hear myself barking at my brother for asking if she’s single.
She isn’t the problem. I am. And the only variable I can control is distance.
"I’ve asked HR to include an additional two weeks’ pay in your severance package," I add. Like that makes it better. Like money solves everything. "Four weeks total. More than standard for your level."
Her mouth curves—not into a smile, but into something brittle.
"Generous," she says.
It’s the first time I hear an edge in her voice.
She stands slowly, pressing her palm against her skirt to smooth out wrinkles that aren’t there.
"I’ll collect my things," she says. "And thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Kauffman."
The way she says my name lands harder than it should. Professional, distant, and most important—final. The safest option, for both of us.
I can’t have her in my space anymore.
If I have a type, it’s someone like Sienna—driven, self-contained, comfortable with distance.
Aria isn’t that. She's twenty-six. Nine years younger than me and too sweet and optimistic for the compartmentalized life I would give her.
A woman like Aria would never be content with scraps, and I have nothing else to offer anyone.
Sienna understood that for four years. Dinner when our schedules aligned. The occasional night at her place when it didn’t. A polished date for whatever gala needed attending. It worked until it didn’t. Until she found someone who made room for her in his life.
If that’s what Sienna wanted, it’s better that she found it with someone else. She never would have gotten that from me.
Aria turns and walks out, closing the door quietly behind her.
I stare at the place she was standing a moment ago and feel my jaw clench. I don’t examine why. Irritation? Definitely—at her, at myself. Mostly at myself. Mostly because I should have done this sooner and not given her false hope that I had any plans to keep her on long-term.
I exhale through my nose and reach for my mouse. There’s work to do. There’s always work to do.
I open my inbox. The words on the screen blur for a second.
All I can see is the look on her face when she asked if she’d done something wrong.
You’re a distraction I can’t afford, I want to say.
I never said it out loud. Which makes this the right decision. It has to be.
A sharp knock breaks through my thoughts, but I don't have to guess who it is as the door swings open. My assistant, Jeremy, comes straight in. He looks up from his tablet just long enough to make sure I'm not on the phone.
"Are you ready for your morning brief, Sir?" he asks, his finger already scrolling through my calendar on his screen.
Slicked back hair, perfectly tailored suit. He knows what it takes to be an assistant at this level—extreme focus, and he looks the part. Jeremy has worked with me long enough to read a room without asking questions. That’s one of the reasons he isn’t redundant.
He interned for my father before he passed. He knows Kauffman Enterprises inside out, is only a year younger than me, and his institutional knowledge is unmatched. I exhale first.
"Go ahead," I confirm.