Chapter 14 Nick
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Nick
There was a time when this office gave me clarity.
Hard edges. Clean surfaces. No variables. A space built for execution, not chaos.
Now it’s compromised.
I should be reviewing the Q3 projections. Preparing for the board review. Finalizing terms on the European expansion before markets shift. There are two dozen urgent matters in motion, any one of which could cost millions if left untended.
And all I can see is green satin.
Sara, in that dress. Her hand on my arm. The look she gave me at the gala, unguarded, tentative, as if some part of her had decided to trust me. As if she didn’t see the damage coming.
I press a hand to my face, exhale, and glance at my phone.
Another message.
Rebecca.
Of course.
As if the engineered run-in at the gala wasn’t enough. As if her words to Sara—coated in venom behind a smile, hadn’t made her position clear. Now she’s back in my inbox. Just like before. False charm, thinly veiled control. A performance she’s perfected.
Rebecca: We should talk, Nick. About old times. About what you’re doing.
Rebecca: I saw the way you looked at me, even if you were with her. You think no one else noticed? You forget, I know you better than anyone.
She doesn’t. Not in any way that matters. But she knows enough.
Enough to damage me. Enough to hurt Sara.
I grip the edge of the desk, grounding myself in the grain of the wood, the structure, the weight. I hear her voice again, too easily. Soft, rehearsed, precise.
“You ruin things, Nick. That’s what you do. You destroy everything you touch.”
She said it often enough that it found a permanent place in my memory. And on the worst days, I believe her.
The phone buzzes again.
Rebecca: Does she know about Evelyn? About what happened to her?
Cold slices through me. The kind that precedes impact.
I put the phone down, hard. Face down. A breath short of shattered glass.
But I don’t sit still. Not this time.
I unlock my private contact list and pull up half a dozen numbers. Legal, PR, crisis management, the old fixers from my London days. My thumb hovers over one name: Katherine Li. The best nondisclosure lawyer in Manhattan.
I start a draft:
“Former partner threatening reputational blackmail. Leverage includes private history and current employee. Need NDA, threat containment, options for preemptive response.”
Another part of me wants to call her. To rip into her. End this the way I used to, fast and ruthless.
I type her number in. Let it ring.
She picks up. Her voice is smooth poison. “Missed me?”
“You mention Evelyn again,” I say, voice flat, “and I will bury you in litigation so deep you won’t see daylight until you’re eighty. Stay away from Sara.”
A pause. Then a laugh. Soft. Cruel. “Oh, sweetheart. I was hoping you still had teeth.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone.
For a second, I let myself believe it worked. That she’ll back off. That the threat landed.
Until another message appears.
Rebecca: Interesting, by the way… to learn about that little thing on your arm Saturday. I did some digging. Cute dress. Cuter resume. She works for you, doesn’t she? Lower-level admin in your gleaming New York office. God, Nick. How predictable. You’re fucking the help now? What a cliché…
Then another. Worse. So much worse.
Rebecca: You really should be more careful about the girls you pick. Sara Brooks. Twenty-six. Student loans. Spotty employment history. A father who’s disappeared with a petty theft conviction. Cute. So very salt of the earth.
Rebecca: People don’t just hire girls like that unless they’re sleeping with them. That’s the story I’d tell. And I’ve already found someone who’s very interested in listening.
My stomach drops. Every word is acid. Every detail, precise. She’s dug into Sara’s background, found what little she has, and twisted it into something rotten.
The fury is instant. Total.
I could end her. I’ve done worse with less provocation.
But this?
This isn’t about me anymore.
It’s about what she’ll do to Sara.
The story writes itself. The narrative is irresistible. A junior assistant caught in an affair with her powerful boss. The media won’t hesitate. They’ll tear her apart. Turn her ambition into seduction. Her success into scandal. Her name will become ammunition.
And it will all trace back to me.
My history. My decisions. My recklessness.
She will suffer the fallout.
Rebecca: Be smart, Nick. Cut her loose. Before I decide to make this… messy. You know how good I am at that.
I close my eyes. Jaw locked.
There’s no winning here. No outplaying her. Not without dragging Sara through the fire first.
And she wouldn’t just endure it.
She’d try to protect me. She’d go down swinging.
And I can’t allow that.
Sara Brooks. The woman who walked into my building without fear, without calculation, without any idea what kind of man was waiting for her behind the walls.
She’s too good for this.
Too real. Too principled.
Another message.
Rebecca: Just doing my civic duty, darling. Wouldn’t want your assistant’s little secrets getting out… unless they have to.
I pick up my phone. Type one line.
Nick: This ends now. Stay the hell away from her.
But the message isn’t for Rebecca. It’s a directive for myself.
Because if I don’t walk away now, I won’t be able to later.
The knock comes before I see her.
That quiet tap, so professional it hurts.
Sara steps into the office with the same smile she’s worn all week. Executive polished. A woman at work. A woman protecting herself.
She appears composed. Untouchable. And for the first time, that’s the only version she gives me.
It should be enough.
It isn’t.
“Good morning, Mr. Ashford,” she says, holding a printed agenda. “Your nine o’clock with Development is confirmed. The updated pitch deck is in your inbox. I included the notes from last week.”
I keep my eyes on the screen in front of me. Data. Graphs. Nothing I actually see.
“Understood,” I say. “Thank you.”
She lingers a beat. Then she turns and walks out.
Each step taking her further away from something neither of us are ready to admit was real.
My phone buzzes again.
Rebecca: So, you will take my advice? She doesn’t strike me as someone who could handle a fall from grace. Soft girls rarely do.
I slam a hand against the desk. The sound echoes.
I should cut her off. Block her. Burn it all down.
But Sara is the leverage. And Rebecca knows how to use it.
So I sit.
Still. Silent. Seething.
Playing the part of the man who never let anything touch him.
If I want to keep Sara safe, I have to let her go. At least until I can get Rebecca off her case and as far away from me as possible.
I have to let her believe none of it mattered.
That I was only ever one thing to her: her boss.
A name on her paycheck. A decision she regrets.
And nothing more.