Chapter 14
Bea
By Friday afternoon, I’m ready to either quit or commit murder.
The second option is looking more appealing by the minute as Noah emerges from his office for the fifth time today, his six-foot-three frame filling the doorway like a storm cloud.
His jaw is clenched tight enough to crack walnuts, and those obsidian eyes of his purposely scan the room with predatory focus before landing on me, narrowing slightly at the corners—the telltale sign that another impossible task is brewing in that tyrannical mind of his.
“I need you to track down the original blueprints for the Riverside project,” he announces, dropping a manila folder on my desk like it’s contaminated. “They’re somewhere in the archives. Probably misfiled.”
I glance at the clock—4:47 p.m. The archives close at five, and they’re about a million floors down in the basement labyrinth I’ve never attempted to navigate.
“The archives that close in thirteen minutes?” I ask sweetly, my pen hovering over my notebook.
His mouth curves into that infuriating smirk. “Better hurry then, princess.”
I slam my pen down harder than necessary. “Anything else while I’m performing miracles?”
“Don’t get lost,” he drawls, already turning back to his office. “I’d hate to have to send a search party.”
I grab my purse and storm toward the elevators, my heels clicking an angry rhythm on the polished floors. This is exactly the kind of bullshit test he’s been putting me through all week—impossible deadlines, ridiculous errands, tasks designed to make me crack.
But I won’t give him the satisfaction.
The archives are a maze of filing cabinets and dusty boxes that smell like old paper and someone’s broken dreams. I weave through the narrow aisles, scanning labels that look like they haven’t been updated since the Carter administration.
My phone’s flashlight illuminates rows of identical brown folders, and I’m starting to think Noah sent me on a wild-goose chase just to watch me fail.
Then I spot it—a section marked “Riverside Development, 2001–2003.” I don’t think Noah was old enough to drive during those years, so his request for this specific project sounds more curious now. Maybe they’ll be redeveloping and building something new.
My fingers fly through the files, and there it is: the original blueprints, exactly where they should be. I snatch them up with a triumphant grin that Noah will never see.
The elevator ride back up feels like a victory lap. I march into the office at 5:30 p.m., blueprints in hand, ready to wipe that smug expression off his face with this dusty folder.
But his office is dark. Empty.
With blueprints in tow, I march to my desk to dial Martin and ask if Noah is there. It’s not unheard of the brothers being cooped up in one of their respective offices, plotting the board’s demise.
“He left twenty minutes ago,” Martin says cheerfully. “He stopped by Ezra’s office, and I heard him saying that he had a date.”
I stare at the blueprints in my hands, fury building in my chest like steam in a pressure cooker. He sent me on a frantic mission to the archives, made me race against the clock, and then just… left? For a date?
“Did he say it very loudly?” I ask through gritted teeth, even though I know it’s not Martin’s fault.
A pause is my answer. Then: “Actually, yes. It was unusually loud. And he was in a very good mood.”
“Of course he was,” I mutter, dropping the blueprints on the desk with enough force to scatter my perfectly arranged pens.
Hands shaking with rage, I grab my coat and purse. This isn’t about work—it’s about power. And it looks like the caveman has won this round.
The weekend is both a blessing and a curse.
A blessing because I don’t have to see Noah’s smug face for two whole days.
A curse because I’m left stewing in my own anger, replaying every infuriating interaction on a loop while I scrub my tiny bathroom tiles with a toothbrush to avoid thinking about Monday.
Or about Noah King having a good time with some faceless woman.
He can screw whoever he wants, it’s none of my business. And I can do just the same. The problem is that I haven’t been interested in anyone. Literally anyone because my body seems to respond to only one particular jerk.
My apartment feels especially small after spending all week in that glass-and-steel palace where Noah reigns supreme.
The leaky faucet’s steady drip-drip-drip calms my never-stopping anxiety, and I rethink the idea of calling my landlord to fix it.
It’s sort of like white noise at this point, and I don’t think I can sleep without it.
I slam the toothbrush down, splashing dirty water onto my worn sweatpants. “Screw you, Noah King,” I mutter to my empty apartment.
My phone buzzes with a text from Maeve.
“Brunch tomorrow? Our place?”
I hesitate, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Brunch means possibly seeing Ezra, which means possibly talking about Noah, which means possibly revealing how much I want to strangle his brother with his own designer tie.
“I’d love to but can’t. I’ve got things to do.”
I have nothing else to do, but my anger is too strong to spill it on my sister who’s living in her never-ending honeymoon phase. So I’ll have to carry it alone.
Instead of doing anything productive with my anger, and because there’s only so much one person can do in such a tiny place for two whole days, I google.
I google all the buildings Noah has designed, and it turns out to be a lot for someone his age.
He’s been drawing since college, and some of his early plans have been used to build actual places but not under King Developers.
Looks like he sold some of those designs to other companies and independent developers.
As I go through pictures of the places built out of his imagination, I realize how right Esther was. The majority of the buildings are out of New York, and I’ve actually been to a couple of them without realizing it.
There’s a small boutique hotel in SoHo that I visited with my parents two years ago—all clean lines and warm lighting that somehow made even their toxic presence bearable.
A ballroom that Maeve dragged me to for some charity event.
Both buildings have this quality I can’t quite name, like they were designed by someone who actually gives a damn about the people who’ll use them.
I take a sip of my lukewarm coffee and keep scrolling through the images, feeling a reluctant admiration growing like an unwanted weed.
Noah King might be the human equivalent of a migraine, but his buildings have soul.
There’s a thoughtfulness to them that contradicts the tyrannical jerk who’s been making my life hell.
I slam my laptop shut, annoyed that I’m thinking about Noah King in any context that doesn’t involve his demise. I refuse to give the walking migraine credit for anything, even if his buildings are admittedly gorgeous.
Monday comes too soon. Weaponized with my tightest black skirt and a little see-through white shirt I know distracts the tyrant, I stroll into the office ready for war.
I arrive at 6:50 a.m., determined to beat Noah to the office.
The King Developers building is eerily quiet this early, my heels echoing through the marble lobby as I make my way to the executive floor.
I settle at my desk, arrange my weapons—coffee (for me, not him), notebook, and the blueprints I rescued from the archives Friday night.
At exactly 7:05 a.m., the elevator dings. Noah strides in like he owns the place—which, technically, he does—but stops short when he sees me already settled at my desk.
“You’re early,” he says, genuine surprise flickering across his face before the mask drops back into place.
I flash my sweetest smile. “Good morning to you too, Mr. King.”
I stand, smoothing my pencil skirt with deliberate slowness, my fingertips tracing the tight fabric and pausing over my thighs for a moment. His dark eyes follow the movement, lingering at the hemline before snapping back to my face with an almost imperceptible flicker of his jaw.
“The blueprints you needed Friday are on your desk. I organized them chronologically and flagged the structural revisions.” My smile is so wide, it’s hurting my cheeks.
His jaw ticks—once, twice. “You actually found them.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?” I tilt my head, enjoying the momentary crack in his armor. “Coffee’s brewing. Would you like some, or are you sending me to Brooklyn again today?”
He narrows his eyes, studying me like I’m a puzzle with missing pieces. “Black. Throw in a sugar.”
“I thought you took it black,” I say sweetly.
“I changed my mind.”
“Of course you did,” I reply, my tone dry as I turn toward the break room. “Your royal wish is my command.”
As I walk away, I swear I feel his gaze burning into my back, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of turning around. In the break room, I dump extra sugar into his coffee just to spite him—three packets instead of one. Let him choke on the sweetness.
By the time I return, Noah’s already barricaded himself in his office, door firmly shut. Which doesn’t stop me since I’m delivering his order.
I place the mug on his desk with a loud thunk, sloshing a bit over the edge onto the pristine surface.
“Oops,” I murmur, not bothering to wipe it up.
He glances at the spreading puddle, then at me. Something flickers in his eyes—annoyance, yes, but something else too. Something that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
“Anything else?” I ask, propping a hand on my hip.
“No,” he replies, his voice surprisingly level.
“Good,” I say cheerfully, lingering by his desk.
When my presence is way over-welcomed, he slowly lifts his eyes. “Anything else?”
Funny, that’s usually my line.
“I trust you had a very pleasant Friday?” The smile doesn’t leave my face, and at this point, I think my facial muscles are spasming.