1. Cassidy #3
Even seated, he’s tall. All long lines and controlled strength.
There’s nothing soft about him.
“Nothing,” I whisper, shaking my head. “Um, I’m Cassie—”
“I know all about you,” he says bluntly. “The resident troublemaker.”
The words land like an insult. His eyes don’t seem amused.
My heart sinks into my stomach. Troublemaker.
Is that really how he sees me?
His jaw tightens like he’s biting back something else, his agitation clear. His nostrils flare—one sharp inhale as if testing the air around us—and then his expression goes blank like he’s shut something down.
I’ve never been called that in my life.
Peacekeeper, yes. Helper, always. But trouble?
I fix problems.
I don’t create them.
“Where’s Milena?” he asks, reaching for the water bottle on his desk.
His shoulders strain against the charcoal shirt rolled to his forearms. The fabric pulls slightly when he shifts. His focus pins me in place before his hazel eyes even lift fully to mine.
High cheekbones carve his face into something sharp and disciplined. His mouth rests sternly like he forgot to smile.
There’s a faint bend in his nose—like it’s been broken once and never properly healed.
A minor imperfection on a man who looks like he’s never had to apologise for existing.
“Her phone rang,” I explain, “She said she’d be back shortly but that you were expecting me.”
His eyes narrow. Something flickers behind them—confusion, maybe? Annoyance?
It vanishes behind a practiced neutrality.
“I’m expecting a lot of people today,” he says like it’s a problem he didn’t ask for. “What exactly did she tell you about why you’re here?”
I swallow hard, trying to find my voice, but it’s difficult. He’s so intimidating. So oppressive, even without meaning to be.
“That I’ve caused enough issues to be labeled a problem,” I say quietly, twisting my hands in my lap. “You’re being forced to take me on so that I can stop disrupting everyone else.”
I bite my lip as his eyebrows shoot up. He seems genuinely blindsided.
The air thickens. If he weren’t dripping with scent neutraliser—so sharp and clinical, it stings my nose—I think it would swallow me whole.
His dark blonde hair is slightly too long on top, like he hasn’t bothered to tame it, and it falls forward when he leans forward onto his desk. If anything, it makes him look more dangerous.
My pulse stutters.
Because beneath the irritation—beneath the barely leashed anger at being stuck with me—there’s something else.
Cedar, maybe? Smoke?
It’s gone the second I try to pin it down.
“I see,” he says dryly—almost sarcastically. “So, you’re the problem, and I’m the babysitter.”
I nod once, and a muscle in his jaw jumps. If that’s the narrative, I’ll adapt. I’ve always been good at becoming what people need me to be.
No arguing. No fuss.
No softness he can mistake for omega manipulation.
I understand exactly how much I’ve messed up.
I’ll take my punishment with grace. I’ll be the hardest worker he’s ever regretted underestimating.
“And what sort of problem omega are you exactly?” His gaze pins me in place. “The kind who thinks batting her eyelashes will get her special treatment, or the kind who falls apart at the first sign of pressure?”
The words hit me like a physical blow. Can he read my mind? Smell it on me? Is my scent betraying my pain?
“No, no,” I say, shaking my head rapidly. “You won’t have any problems from me. I’ll behave. I’ve made a mistake, that’s obvious, but I will learn from it. I won’t make your life harder.”
“You already have.”
For a split second, something conflicted crosses his face. Regret? It’s gone before I can name it.
“Let me make something perfectly clear, Miss Hargrove. I didn’t ask for someone who can’t manage her workload, disrupting mine,” he says bluntly.
“I have actual work to accomplish, not handholding someone who can’t manage basic tasks.
Find your office, get yourself acquainted with it, and report back here first thing tomorrow. ”
His tone leaves no room for argument, and it hits me like ice water, shocking my system entirely.
I can feel the blood drain from my face as I grip the edge of the chair to steady myself.
“Yes, sir. Of course,” I manage to whisper, my voice barely audible even to my own ears.
I’ve only been here for five minutes, and I’m already failing.
I stand on shaky legs and force myself to not look back. Looking back feels like begging, and I won’t beg.
I refuse to let him think I need special treatment.
My heart is heavy, my head is throbbing, but I know this is all my fault.
I won’t cry here.
I close the door behind me softly, proving I can exist in his orbit without disturbing it.
I know how to handle this. If I make myself useful enough, he won’t regret being saddled with me.
He’ll understand that I’m good. Capable. That I’m worth the space I occupy.
I smooth down my skirt with sweaty palms, lift my chin, and breathe through my nose until my lungs stop stuttering.
Tomorrow, I won’t take up space. I’ll make his life easier.
I’ll be exactly what he needs so he never has a reason to send me away.