Chapter 18 #2
“I can tell,” she says quietly, her eyes flitting to the older scars crisscrossing my knuckles. Her touch is featherlight as she traces one particularly jagged line. “How many tables have you fought and lost to?”
“Too many to count,” I admit. The confession makes me feel raw and exposed. “But I don’t lose all the time,” I add with a dark chuckle.
“You must have quite the collection of scars,” she says gently as she applies an antibiotic ointment to the open wound. Her touch is careful, clinical almost, but there’s something in the way her fingertips linger that makes my skin warm beneath her hands.
“Occupational hazard,” I mutter, watching her face as she works.
The office lights catch in her hair, sparkling as though in the sun, but now it has a different undertone.
I’ve noticed the light does it often—gets tangled in her hair—probably drawn by her personality, and I suddenly imagine this color all over my office.
Cold and dark tones suddenly feel too empty, and I want to bask my space in warmth.
“Of being an architect or being Noah King?” she asks, unaware of the redesign happening in my head.
“Both.” I flex my fingers experimentally as she secures the bandage around my hand. “Thanks.”
She nods, packing away the first aid supplies. Then, instead of leaving like any sane person would, she glances around the mess I’ve made. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”
“You don’t need to do that,” I protest, but she’s already kneeling to pick up scattered pens that rolled under my desk.
“I know I don’t need to,” she says simply. “I want to.”
I stand here like a complete moron, watching her for a moment, completely bewildered by this version of Beatrice—calm, unflinching, helping me when I least deserve it. My hand throbs beneath the bandage as I move to right the overturned chair.
“Why?” I ask, the question escaping before I can stop it.
She looks up, a handful of drafting tools in her palm. “Why what?”
“Why are you helping me?” I gesture around at the destruction. “This isn’t exactly in your job description.”
She considers me for a moment before replying. “Because—”
She never gets to finish because Martin appears in the doorway, and his neon-green flamingo socks instantly give me a headache. I should put in an HR notice for Martin to be forced to wear longer pants to cover his daily artful disasters.
“Whoa, Noah, you okay? This place feels like a crime scene,” he says without a hint of worry, waving at the ruined office.
“We’ve got it handled,” I mutter in a low voice, rubbing my knuckles and feeling the angry wound under the bandage. “Apparently.”
Martin’s gaze darts between me and Beatrice, his eyebrows rising to his hairline as he takes in the bandaged hand and the scattered office debris.
“Well, well, well,” he drawls, leaning against the glass window with a smirk spreading across his face.
“Looks like Beauty tamed the Beast. Should I be expecting singing teapots next?”
“Not now, Martin,” I growl. The momentary peace I’d found with Bea evaporates under his knowing gaze. I can’t believe there was a moment when I was jealous that my brother found the perfect assistant.
“What?” he asks innocently. “I’m just saying, it’s nice to see someone survived Hurricane Noah without jumping ship. Though,” he adds, eyeing the overturned furniture, “the ship does look rather sunk.”
I feel my jaw clenching so hard my teeth might crack. “Did you need something, or are you just here to provide running commentary on my office drama?” I snap, glaring at him.
Martin clutches his chest in mock offense. “I came to tell you that Ezra’s looking for you, but now I’m staying for the show.” He turns to Bea with a conspiratorial grin. “Has he thrown anything at you yet? That’s usually phase two of the King Meltdown Protocol.”
“Martin, I swear to god—” I start, but Bea cuts me off.
“Actually, we’re in the middle of something important,” she says smoothly, stepping between us. “A coffee incident destroyed Noah’s blueprints for the Newside presentation tomorrow.”
Martin’s playful expression drops instantly. “Shit. The community project? The one for the zoning board?”
I nod grimly, my momentary anger at Martin fading into the heavier weight of the situation. “The same one.”
“The one you’ve been obsessing over for months? That’s due tomorrow?” Martin’s eyes widen.
“Yes, Martin,” I growl. “That’s why I’m having a mild breakdown in my office while my assistant picks up the pieces.”
Martin’s gaze darts around the place before settling back on my face. Then, in classic Martin fashion, he tries to lighten the mood with the worst possible joke.
“Well,” he says, gesturing to my bloody knuckles, “at least you’ve got a built-in excuse now. Just tell the board you were so passionate about the project, you literally put your blood into it.”
I glare at him. “Not. Helping.”
“What? It’s a solid plan.”
He shrugs, and I begin imagining all the things I want to do to him and his headache-inducing socks.
Martin’s gaze darts from me to the ruined blueprint. “So that’s what the office wrestling match was about.” He leans against the doorframe with his mouth curling into a grin that makes my fist itch. “You know, most people just swear when they spill coffee. You go full WWE on the furniture.”
“Thanks for the insight,” I say, my bandaged hand starts throbbing more. “Anything else you’d like to point out while I’m already having the day from hell?”
“Well, now that you mention it—” Martin starts, but the sound of approaching footsteps cuts him off.
When Ezra appears in the doorway, his expression shifts from neutral to concerned as he takes in the chaos of my office. His eyes land on my bandaged hand, and I see the familiar mixture of disappointment and worry that’s been there since we were kids.
“What happened?”
“Just redecorating,” I mutter, flexing my bandaged hand. “Thought the office needed a more chaotic vibe.”
“He had a disagreement with gravity,” Martin chimes in, gesturing dramatically at the mess. “The coffee won, the blueprint lost, and Noah’s knuckles came in third.”
I shoot Martin a death glare that would wither most people, but he just grins wider, clearly enjoying my misery.
Ezra’s eyes narrow as he surveys the destruction, then focus on the bandaged hand. His jaw tightens—the same way mine does when I’m trying to restrain myself. It’s a family trait apparently.
“The Newside presentation,” he says, not a question but a statement. He knows me too well.
My nod is curt and sharp. No need to explain anything; he knows how much this project means for me.
“It’s ruined,” I admit, hating how defeated I sound. “The final presentation is tomorrow, and I’ve got nothing to show them. Like a fucking idiot, I didn’t save a copy.”
“You’ve got your bloody knuckles,” Martin quips, wiggling his eyebrows. “Very dramatic. Maybe wave your bandaged hand around—everyone loves a tortured artist.”
I clench my jaw so tight I can hear my molars grinding. “Martin, I swear to God—”
“Perhaps,” Ezra cuts in, his voice measured but tense, “you could reconstruct it from memory? You’ve been working on this for months.”
I laugh but the sound comes out hollow and bitter. “It took me weeks to get those measurements perfect. The elevation calculations alone—” I break off, running my good hand through my hair.
Ezra’s expression darkens as his gaze zeroes in on Bea, who is silently moving toward my desk to stack the last of the scattered papers. “Why is your assistant cleaning up your mess?”
“Excellent question!” Martin chimes in, bouncing on his heels. “Maybe she’s gunning for a promotion to ‘Office Disaster Recovery Specialist.’ I hear the benefits are terrible, but the drama is top-notch.”
I shoot him another glare. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Preferably another continent?”
Martin grins, completely immune to my fury. “And miss this family reunion? Not a chance. It’s like a reality show where everyone’s too rich and too angry.” He picks an invisible speck of lint from his sleeve. “I’m just waiting for someone to flip a table.”
“Already did that,” I mutter, and I’m about to tell Martin to go fuck himself when Bea suddenly rises from the floor, slamming the pile of paper onto the desk with a thump.
“Enough!” she snaps, her voice cutting through the tension like a whip. “All of you, just stop it!”
The room falls silent as three pairs of eyes turn to stare at her, including mine—I didn’t know she possessed such a commanding tone. She’s standing with her hands on her hips, her cheeks flushed pink, all five feet of fury looking more alive and fierce than I’ve ever seen her.
“Noah’s project is ruined,” she continues, her voice is steady despite the fire in her eyes. “The one thing he deeply cares about. And instead of helping, you’re both just what? Making jokes? Lecturing him?”
Martin’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. Ezra’s eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline.
“This isn’t helping anyone,” Bea continues, her voice rising with each word. “You two are supposed to be his support system, but you’re acting like this is some kind of entertainment!”
I stare at her, stunned into silence. Beatrice Wrong—my assistant, my adversary, the woman I spent weeks tormenting—is defending me. To my brother. To Martin. The absurdity of it almost makes me laugh, but there’s something in her eyes that stops me cold.
“Noah needs help, not an audience,” she says, turning to Martin with a glare that could melt steel.
“And you—” she rounds on Ezra, not a hint of intimidation despite his imposing presence, “—your brother is clearly struggling, and your first instinct is to criticize him for how I’m choosing to help? ”
Ezra’s face darkens. “I wasn’t—” Ezra starts, but Bea cuts him off with a raised hand.