Cassidy #4
“You’re going to put your things in your office, get us both a mug of tea, and then come back here in half an hour,” he says calmly. “You’re going to work with me on fixing this problem.”
“How can it be fixed?” I whisper.
He reaches forward, tucking a loose hair behind my ear. Another shiver dances up my spine, my skin covered in goosebumps.
“Shit, sorry,” he says, shaking his head and stepping back. There’s more space between us now—too much. The air feels colder without him standing there.
“Use your time to look over the campaign Visaro released. It’s not identical, but the visual direction overlaps with ours too much, and it’ll be bad for Aurelion.”
I nod. “I can do that. I, um—”
“Is there something else?” he asks, and there’s a cold edge to his voice now, one that wasn’t there before.
“It feels like a coincidence, but after Saturday—”
“We already thought of that,” Harlan says dismissively. “No one from our side shared anything with Frankie Bennett, and I doubt you did either.”
“I didn’t. I really didn’t. I would never—”
“It’s a coincidence,” he says firmly. “The leech was nothing more than a drain on our night—not the downfall of this shoot, okay?”
I gasp at his words, but Harlan only raises a brow, waiting for my agreement.
“Okay.”
I don’t agree with his words, but I know that any protest will only make things worse for me—worse for us both. Stress is high enough today.
“Do you want me to… contact him?”
The question slips out automatically. I just need to make myself useful.
Useful.
Useful.
Useful.
Harlan’s gaze sharpens, then his attention drops briefly to my clasped hands, my whitening knuckles, and back to my face.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” he says. “That alpha is nothing to you. You shouldn’t waste your time on someone so beneath you.”
My eyes widen, and I don’t understand the sharp, angry edge to his words.
“I need you to look at their images and tell me where the overlap is strongest.”
I blink but nod. “That’s all?”
“No. Then I need you to tell me what still works in ours.”
My mouth goes dry, and I look out at the chaos in the bullpen, at all the qualified people who should be the ones giving this insight to him.
“In ours?”
“Yes.”
“But I’m not—” I start, but I barely get the words out before he’s cutting me off.
“You are the person in this building most familiar with the emotional progression of the lookbook.” His tone is clipped, impatient, but not cruel. “Silas agrees.”
My pulse stumbles at Silas’s name. Harlan notices.
Of course, he notices.
His eyes narrow for half a second before he looks away, jaw tightening again.
“Your job is not to panic,” he says. “Your job is to think, and then do. Regardless of what’s happened, I am still meant to be teaching you, so learn you will.”
The words should feel harsh, but they don’t. Beneath the annoyance, there’s the expectation.
He still thinks I’m useful.
Well, capable, at least.
I nod, even though my throat feels too tight to speak.
“What are you waiting for?” he demands. “An escort out of my office? A song and dance sequence to transition you on?”
My face flushes, and I shake my head quickly, tightening my hold on my bag. “No, sir, I can—”
“Stop calling me sir,” he snarls, storming away from me, back to his desk. The extra distance between us makes me feel cold in a way it shouldn’t, even with the neutraliser flattening every scent in the room.
I shouldn’t be this… pathetic.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
Harlan’s shoulders tense. For one terrible second, I think he’s going to snap again, but he doesn’t.
He stands there with his back to me, one hand braced against the edge of his desk, the other curled too tightly around his phone.
When he speaks again, his voice is lower.
“Some idiot shared information they shouldn’t have. That is not the same thing as you failing.”
I blink at his back, but I don’t know if he senses my shock or not.
“This shit happens,” he continues like the words physically pain him. “People leak, they lie, they steal. Assholes take what isn’t theirs and try to make it look original before anyone can prove otherwise.”
“I don’t—”
His jaw tightens as he finally turns back to me. “It’s also common enough that there are processes in place. Legal will be involved. Digital will be involved. Silas will be insufferable. Evander will probably try to fire half our department before lunch.”
Despite myself, my lips part slightly. Harlan looks irritated.
“My point,” he says sharply, “is that this is not the end of the world. It is a problem. Problems get solved.”
I nod, holding onto that because it sounds very Harlan.
“Like I said, we’ve got a meeting in an hour,” he says. “We’ll convene with Silas, then the rest of my day will be taken up by legal, digital, production, and the executive leads. You will not attend those.”
My stomach sinks, but I can’t decide whether it’s from panic or relief.
“Oh.”
His eyes narrow, and there’s a flicker of amusement on his face. “That was not a punishment. I’m saving you, trust me.”
My face burns, and I nod, ducking my head so I can hide it from him.
Harlan looks down at his phone, his expression hardening as another notification flashes across the screen. Whatever he reads makes the air around him sharpen. Then his gaze cuts back to mine.
“Go to your office. Put your things down. Make the tea. Look at Visaro’s release. Do not spiral. Do not interrogate yourself into taking responsibility for a leak you didn’t commit. Do not contact Bennett.”
I nod quickly.
“And, make sure you eat something.”
I freeze, my eyes widening, and I open my mouth to… what? Protest? Agree?
His mouth flattens immediately like he regrets the words the second they leave him.
“There will be no use having you faint again before eight,” he adds, colder this time.
Oh.
Of course. That makes more sense.
We don’t have the time for my dramatics today.
“Okay,” I say softly.
Harlan looks at me for a second too long.
Then he turns back to his desk. “You’re dismissed.”
I take the dismissal for what it is and get out before either of us can make this worse.
The second I step back onto the fashion floor, the noise hits me all over again.
Phones ringing.
People arguing.
Garment bags rustling.
The sharp, stressed cadence of professionals pretending they aren’t panicking when they absolutely are.
I pull the office door closed behind me and breathe through it.
It doesn’t work as well without Harlan telling me to do it, which is an embarrassing realisation I’m absolutely not examining right now.
I keep my head down as I cross the bullpen, aiming for the relative safety of my office. Still, I can feel people looking. Maybe they aren’t. Maybe I’m imagining it.
But every whisper seems sharper now. Every glance feels like it sticks to my skin.
Harlan called me into his office in front of everyone.
On the morning something went catastrophically wrong.
Of course, people are going to wonder why.
Of course, they’re going to assume it’s my fault.
I’m almost at the corridor when that prickling sensation crawls up the back of my neck.
The feeling of being watched. My stomach flips, stupid and immediate.
For half a second, I think it’ll be Silas.
Some ridiculous part of me expects to find him leaning somewhere impossible, dark eyes steady, looking at me like he already knows exactly what’s happened and what I’m going to do about it.
But when I turn, it isn’t Silas.
It’s Gemma.
She’s standing near one of the layout tables, a tablet hugged against her chest, her blonde hair pulled back messily like she’s been here for hours already.
Our eyes meet, and for one strange second, she raises a brow, and it’s like she’s challenging something in me.
Then she gives me a tiny wave and grins.
Before I can react, someone calls her name sharply from across the floor, and she turns away, hurrying back into the chaos.
I stand there for a moment too long, staring after her. There’s nothing strange about a colleague waving at me on a stressful morning.
And yet, something uneasy curls low in my stomach anyway.
I tighten my grip on my bag and force myself to keep walking.
My office first.
Tea second.
Then Visaro.