Chapter 3 Matilda
Three
Matilda
Waiting in the lift each morning, watching the numbers slowly climb toward my floor, always fills me with the same sense of dread. Please be in a good mood today.
Henry Chase — my boss for the last four years — is the thorn in my side, the pain in my neck, and the dark cloud over every Monday morning. On the rare occasion he’s in a good mood, I might get a good morning, but it’s rare enough to count as a national holiday.
So here I stand, clutching my soy latte and his americano — our usual — praying that today will be a good day.
I’ve worked at Chase Architects for four years now, and for all four of those, I’ve been Henry Chase’s assistant. Henry Chase, CEO and founder of one of the biggest architectural firms in London.
I’m sure he isn’t all bad. I mean, he must smile occasionally, right?
Who am I kidding? The man’s the devil in a tailored suit.
I still remember the first time I met him — those dark green eyes practically burned through me during my interview, like my very existence offended him.
The interview lasted all of ten minutes, and I spent nine of those minutes trying not to stare at his mouth.
So when I was offered the job, I nearly fainted.
The attraction died soon after, though — hard to stay attracted to someone who communicates mainly in grunts.
The elevator chimes, snapping me out of my daydream. I take a deep breath as the doors slide open.
“Matilda, where’s the Chong file?” The words hit me before the doors even open halfway.
Of course.
I wait for the elevator to fully open, hoping I imagined his tone. Nope. There he is — standing right in front of the doors, nose buried in a binder.
“It’s on my desk. I was bringing it with your coffee,” I say sweetly, offering him his cup.
He takes it without even glancing at me. “Bring it to my office,” he mutters, already striding away.
I sigh, slipping off my coat. Then he turns, face twisted like he’s just bitten into a lemon.
“What is this crap?”
Oh, no.
I look at the cup on my desk — the one clearly marked Henry. Great. I must’ve handed him my soy latte. He glares at me, unimpressed.
“Sorry!” I swap the cups quickly, forcing a bright smile. He doesn’t even respond — just shuts his office door in my face.
“Dick,” I mutter under my breath.
I grab the Chong file, take a much-needed gulp of my latte, and head for his office.
Henry designed the entire workspace himself — minimalist, glass everywhere, sharp lines.
His office is a glass box overlooking London, and unfortunately, my desk is directly opposite. So yes, I get a great view. Of him.
And fine, I’ll admit it — he looks good. The man was built for suits. Dark hair, green eyes, a jaw that could probably cut steel. But after two weeks of working with him, the halo slipped. Gorgeous packaging, hellish personality.
“Matilda?” His voice snaps me out of my staring. I’ve been standing in his doorway like a lemon.
“Yes — sorry, your file.” I place it on his desk. “Anything else?”
“Yes. I have a meeting tonight with a new client. I’ll need you there to take notes.”
The words sink like a stone in my stomach. I had plans tonight — but saying no isn’t an option.
“This is a big client,” he adds, noticing my face. “We need our A game.”
“Of course,” I manage, feeling my shoulders drop.
“I’ve booked a table at Nook for seven. You can ride with me if you wish.”
Ride with him? My jaw nearly hits the floor. He’s never offered that before.
“Thank you. That would be nice,” I say, trying not to sound shocked as I walk back to my desk.
Guilt twists in my chest. I’ll have to cancel on Rachel — our long-awaited speed dating night. She’ll understand, but it still sucks. My sister has been desperate to go; she claims it’s “research” for her new romance novel. I think she just likes collecting awkward stories.
I send her a quick message:
Matilda: Can’t make it tonight. The devil wants me at a client dinner. I owe you one.
Her reply comes seconds later:
Sis <3: I officially hate your boss. Who does business dinners on a Friday?!
I can’t help the chuckle that slips from my lips, but instantly I feel Henry’s eyes on me through the glass — sharp, burning, like hot pins down my neck. I quickly shove my phone into the drawer.
Right. Back to work.
The day drifts on as usual — me juggling Henry’s endless workload, darting back and forth with files and messages from clients. Honestly, I have no idea how he keeps all these plates spinning without collapsing, though it probably explains his permanent state of irritation.
As lunch approaches, I head out to grab his usual: chicken salad, no dressing.
I mean, what kind of monster eats salad without dressing?
I, on the other hand, go for a chicken, bacon and avocado wrap.
One of the perks of my job — Henry always pays.
He’s got a tab at the deli, pays it off once a month.
For someone who’s moody 90% of the time, he’s surprisingly generous. Gentlemanly, even. A grumpy gentleman.
At least tonight’s dinner is on him too. One less thing to stress about when we’re headed to one of the most expensive restaurants in London.
“Are you ready?” Henry’s voice cuts through at 6:30 p.m. as he strides out of his office, swinging a navy coat over his shoulders.
The deep blue makes his crisp white shirt pop — all broad shoulders and understated strength.
I might not like the man most days, but I can still appreciate good tailoring.
I pretend to be finishing up, even though I wrapped everything forty-five minutes ago. “Yep, all done. Shall we?”
I stand, smoothing down my pencil skirt and straightening my shirt.
I’d managed to sneak to the bathroom earlier to touch up my makeup and tame my hair, hoping to look halfway professional.
Henry pauses mid-step, eyes flicking over me for a moment.
I freeze, unsure whether I’ve got lipstick on my teeth or committed a capital offence.
Then he simply turns, presses the elevator button, and gestures for me to follow.
He raises a hand, letting me step in first. No eye contact.
Classic Henry. My heels click on the marble floor and soften against the carpet as we ride down in silence.
I stare at my red stilettos, resisting the urge to fidget.
For someone I spend forty hours a week with, he still manages to make me feel like I’m waiting outside the headmaster’s office.
When the elevator dings at the basement, I realise we’ll be sharing a fifteen-minute car journey together. If we can’t handle one minute in a lift, this is going to be torture.
His Maserati waits, glossy and intimidating. And to my surprise, Henry opens the passenger door for me. What alternate universe is this?
“Thank you,” I say, sliding in.
He circles the car and gets in beside me.
“Thanks for the lift. The train wouldn’t have been ideal in these heels.”
He glances down at my bright red shoes, gaze skimming up my legs before he catches himself. His jaw tightens. “I can imagine,” he mutters, clipped.
His tone makes me shrink slightly. If it pains him this much to be civil, why bother? They’re just shoes, not a moral crisis.
He fires up the engine, and we glide out of the car park.
Come on, Matilda, make conversation. Anything but awkward silence.
“So, which client are we meeting tonight?” I ask brightly.
“The American one who wanted the fully solar-powered tower with voice activation,” he says, tone calm and businesslike.
“Oh, the guy from Nashville who kept calling me sweetheart over the phone?”
“The very same.” I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch. “He’s finally become more reasonable with his budget, so we’re meeting him while he’s in town.”
“Oh, great,” I reply, unable to keep the sarcasm out.
His smirk almost breaks through. “I’ll try to make it a quick meal. I had plans tonight.”
“Anything nice?” I ask before my brain can intervene. Abort. Abort.
“Just meeting a friend,” he says smoothly, no elaboration.
A friend. My stomach twists — ridiculous, really, but still. A tall, leggy blonde, my mind supplies helpfully.
“That’s a shame,” I say lightly. The lie tastes strange on my tongue.
“It’s fine. I’ll see them another day,” he replies, then glances my way. “What about you? Big Friday night plans before I ruined them?”
“Oh — I was meant to meet my sister. We were going to a speed dating event, but it’s been rearranged, so all good. Nothing ruined.”
His hands tighten on the wheel. Just a flicker. Then it’s gone. “Speed dating?” he repeats, like the words themselves offend him. “You’ve never eaten at Nook before?”
“No, first time. I’ve always wanted to. The food’s supposed to be amazing.”
“It is,” he says after a pause. “But I’ll let you be the judge tonight. Thanks for coming, by the way. I don’t think I could handle this guy alone.”
His tone softens, and something warm curls in my chest.
“You’re welcome, Henry.” I can’t help the small smile that escapes me — or the way his name feels on my tongue.
At the restaurant, he offers a steadying hand on my lower back as we’re ushered inside. The gesture is unexpected, almost tender.
“Table for Mr Chase,” he tells the hostess — tall, blonde, beautiful. Her smile is syrupy sweet. My eyes roll before I can stop them. Of course she’s his type.
Dinner goes smoothly. I watch Henry in work mode — sharp, commanding, magnetic. He manages to let the client feel brilliant while quietly pulling every string. It’s impressive, really.
By the time Mr. Kipham — complete with cowboy hat and Bond-villain charm — leaves, contract signed, I can’t help laughing.
“Sorry, but that guy was something else.”
“He was… unique,” Henry says, lips twitching. “Come on, I’ll give you a lift home.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I can grab the train.”
He glances at my heels again. “In those? Not a chance.”
There’s no arguing with him.
Once in the car, silence settles again — comfortable, surprisingly. Until:
“So, this speed dating thing,” he says casually, eyes on the road. “You’re hoping to meet someone?”
I laugh, startled. “God, no. Why do you ask?”
He shifts in his seat. “Just… curious.” The word sounds foreign on his tongue.
“Was your ‘friend’ a date?” I shoot back before I can stop myself.
“No,” he says too quickly, and I bite back a smile.
We fall quiet again, until I blurt, “I don’t really date anymore. Gave up about a year ago.”
He glances at me. “Bad experience?”
“Yeah. Dated a guy for a year. Found out I was the other woman — he already had a girlfriend.”
Henry’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. “What a dick,” he growls. “Some men don’t know how good they have it.”
My chest tightens. I can’t tell if he’s talking about Eli… or something else entirely.
“It’s fine,” I say softly. “It was a long time ago. I’m just focusing on work now.”
“You don’t have to say that for my benefit,” he mutters, and I catch the ghost of a smirk.
“What about you?” I ask. “You dating anyone?”
He exhales slowly. “No. I’ve got other things on my plate right now.”
Before I can ask what that means, he pulls the handbrake. My flat looms outside the window—
“Thanks for tonight, Matilda,” he says quietly.
I turn. “No problem, Henry.”
Our eyes meet. For a moment, neither of us moves. The air between us thickens, heavy with something I can’t quite wrap my head around. His gaze flickers down to my lips, and my breath catches. I swear the world narrows — just him and me and the hum of the engine.
There’s a pulse — electric, heavy — that races through me like a warning and a dare all at once.
My heart pounds so hard I’m sure he can hear it.
His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking beneath his skin, and then he looks away — too quickly, like he’s just stopped himself from doing something reckless.
Silence stretches between us, taut and unbearable. I fumble for the door handle, desperate to break it, to breathe again. “Thanks for the lift,” I manage, though my voice sounds strange — breathless, uneven.
He nods once, eyes still fixed on the road ahead, knuckles white around the steering wheel. “See you Monday,” he says, clipped, restrained, but there’s a rough edge there — like he’s forcing control.
I mumble a goodbye and practically flee the car, clutching my bag to my chest as I step into the cold evening air. My hands tremble as I fish for my keys. The sound of his tyres screeching as he pulls away slices through the quiet street, leaving the faint smell of burnt rubber in his wake.
Leaning back against my front door, I press a hand to my chest, trying to steady the frantic rhythm beneath my ribs. My lips still tingle, and I hate that I’m wondering what it would’ve felt like if he hadn’t looked away.
What the hell just happened?