Chapter 2 Henry
Two
Henry
“Mr Chase, your ten o’clock has arrived,” Jennifer’s voice crackled through the intercom.
I grunted in response — more out of frustration than acknowledgment. Another interview. Another parade of overly rehearsed candidates who’d tell me their “biggest weakness” was being too much of a perfectionist. Christ, spare me.
“Thanks,” I said flatly, pushing back my chair and grabbing the next CV from the neat pile Jennifer had prepared. I didn’t have the patience to read them myself — all the self-proclaimed overachievers started to sound the same after a while.
Matilda Green.
The name didn’t mean much. Not yet.
When I stepped into reception, the first thing I noticed was the sound of frantic tapping — heels on marble. Pink heels. Who the hell wore pink stilettos to an interview?
“Miss Green?” I called.
She startled so hard I thought she might fall over. Her hair flipped back as she looked up at me, and for a second, I forgot what I was supposed to be doing.
Her eyes — warm, deep brown, curious — met mine. She stood quickly, extending a hand, and I took it before I had time to think. Her hand was small and soft, swallowed by mine, and when she stepped in closer, the faint scent of vanilla and something floral hit me like a sucker punch.
Her dress — purple, fitted, far too distracting — didn’t help. I clenched my jaw, annoyed at myself for noticing. I shouldn’t notice. I didn’t notice things like that.
“Mr Chase,” she said with a nervous smile that sent a ripple of something unwelcome through me.
“Come in,” I said, forcing my voice into something gruff, controlled. Whatever this was, I needed to shut it down.
I led her into the conference room, every step echoing louder than it should. Something twisted low in my gut — irritation, attraction, or maybe both — and I hated not knowing which.
“So,” I said, cutting straight to the point, “why do you want the assistant position?”
It was my standard opening line — quick, blunt, effective at sorting out the ones who had no clue why they were sitting in front of me.
But her answer wasn’t standard. Not even close.
She spoke clearly, confidently — about sustainable design, client satisfaction rates, and company growth — quoting facts and figures I hadn’t even expected her to know. The more she spoke, the more my initial irritation morphed into something else entirely.
Interest.
I leaned back in my chair, studying her. “So if you have a degree in architecture, why aren’t you working as a junior architect?”
She didn’t flinch. “I’ve tried,” she said simply, “but everyone wants experience— and you can’t get experience until someone gives you a chance.”
A wry smile tugged at my lips before I caught it. “Ah yes, that old paradox. I remember it well.” I scoffed.
She smiled — not the fake, forced kind I saw in most interviews — but something real. It hit harder than it should have.
“Do you actually have any experience as an assistant?” I asked, trying to steer things back to the point.
“Yes,” she replied, gesturing to the CV beside me. “I worked for the owner of a high-end estate agency all through university. I’m organised, reliable, and good with clients.”
I glanced at her CV — the first one I’d actually looked at all morning. “Well,” I muttered, “I’m not exactly great with… people. That could be useful.”
The words came out awkwardly, like they’d skipped the part of my brain that filtered stupid comments. She tilted her head, and for the briefest moment, her lips curved — amused. The silence between us stretched, charged.
Her eyes lingered on mine, and suddenly the air felt too thick. My throat tightened, my thoughts jammed. I should have said something else, anything else, but my mind went blank.
Then she stood abruptly, breaking whatever spell had been creeping in.
“Can you start Monday?” I blurted before I could stop myself.
Her head snapped toward me. “Y–yes. I can start Monday.”
Good. Fine. End this.
“Official start time is nine,” I said briskly. “I’m usually here by eight. Take that as you will.”
It came out sharper than intended, but I needed the distance — the control. She threw me off balance, and I didn’t like it.
As she nodded and hurried out, I sank back into my chair, the weight of my decision settling in my chest.
Hiring her was either the smartest thing I’d done in months — or a monumental mistake.