Chapter 10 #2
She’s standing outside the break room, coffee in one hand, phone in the other. Her posture is rigid, her expression locked. Pale, still.
She’s seen it. Too late.
“Sara,” I say, voice low, steady.
She looks up slowly. Her voice is thin. “It’s me,” she says. “In the photo.”
I nod. “Come with me.”
There’s hesitation. The kind that comes when the floor shifts under you and you don’t know what to grab. I take one step closer. Not touching. Just presence. She follows.
I lead her down the hall and into the nearest office, closing the door behind us.
She turns to face me. Sets the coffee down with both hands before it slips through her fingers.
“There’s a photo,” she says, still processing. “Online. Of us. This morning.”
“I’ve seen it. It’s already circulating.”
Her breath catches. She drops into a chair, slow and mechanical, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead.
“I don’t do this. I don’t want attention. I don’t know how to live under that kind of scrutiny.”
“I know.”
“This morning I was barefoot in an oversized shirt walking my dog, and now people are arguing over my body and your hand and calling it breaking news.” Her eyes find mine. Wide, uncertain. “What do I do?”
“I’m handling it.”
“How?”
“I’m denying it’s you.”
She blinks. “You’re what?”
“The image is dark. No clear facial ID. No statement has been made. I’ll tell the board it’s someone else. We let the ambiguity work for us.”
There’s a long pause. Then: “You’d lie for me.”
I lower myself to her level. Voice even. Expression stoic.
“Yes.”
She exhales, shaky. The panic’s still there, under the surface.
“I’ll take the speculation,” I say. “Let them assume. Let them talk. No confirmation from me. None from you. It burns out, eventually. It always does.”
She nods once, slow. Then she lifts her eyes again. This time, her voice is softer. Not afraid, just exposed.
“And what about us?”
I don’t answer immediately. The weight of the question deserves more than reflex.
“We stop,” I say. “At work. No contact. No involvement. Not until this passes.”
She doesn’t speak, but the shift in her expression says enough. I see it, the sting of the line being drawn.
And I hate that it’s necessary.
“For now,” I say, voice level. “We don’t cross paths. No contact at the office. No appearances together outside of work. Nothing that can escalate this.”
She leans back, folding her arms, constructing distance. The armor is familiar; I’ve seen her wear it before. “So what, you just want me to ignore you in the hallway? Pretend last night didn’t happen?”
“No,” I answer. “I want you employed. I want you protected. And I want the chance to revisit this when it isn’t framed by scandal, HR protocols, or internet commentary on your wardrobe.”
That earns me something real. A small smile, unguarded at the edges.
She exhales, nods once. “Okay. No contact at work. We keep our distance.”
I straighten, locking down the instinct to reach for more. “I’m sorry this happened.”
She rises too, brushing a hand through her hair, the movement revealing more steadiness than she probably feels. “You didn’t take the photo. And you didn’t leak it.”
“No. But I should have anticipated it. I should’ve protected you better.”
She studies me for a long beat, then says quietly, “You’re trying to. Now.”
I hold her gaze. “Let me handle it.”
She lifts her chin. “I trust you.”
The weight of that word lands in the center of my chest, heavy and absolute. She doesn’t give it lightly. Not to someone like me.
I nod once and step back, giving her space. It’s the right decision. But it doesn’t feel right. Not when every part of me is still aware of her presence. Not when I already know the distance won’t hold.
By the time I’m back in my office, the decision is made. It goes against every protocol I’ve enforced over the last two decades, but none of those rules were built with her in mind.
I’ve built a career on calculated risks. And this, her, is the one I’m willing to take…
Later that afternoon, once the noise in the building softens and the cycle shifts to newer distractions, I type out a message and send it before I can second-guess the impulse.
Nick: There’s a charity event Saturday night. It’s mine. Private guest list. No press. Quiet venue. Come with me.
Five minutes pass. Then ten. The silence isn’t surprising. She’s weighing consequences.
Then finally…
Sara: Does that seem like a good idea? With everything going on?
Nick: No press. No one from the office. Just a night away from all of this.
Sara: I have nothing to wear to a fancy event like that…
I exhale through a grin.
Nick: That’s the easiest problem I’ve solved all day. A car will pick you up Saturday at 6. I’ll handle the rest.
There’s a pause.
Sara: You’re impossible.
Nick: I know. See you Saturday.
I close the chat window and lean back in my chair.
She’s coming.
And I don’t care what the board says. Or Jonah. Or the internet’s relentless appetite for blood.
I need to see her again.
In my space. On my terms. On my arm.
Not as a rumor. Not as a scandal. Not as my subordinate.
Just as her.
And for one night: undisturbed, undisputed, mine.