Chapter 11 Henry
Eleven
Henry
As my body shifts between the sheets, my mind hovers somewhere between dream and waking. I retrace the fragments of what was, without question, the best damn dream I’ve ever had.
A woman.
Her skin was smooth, almost luminescent, with that soft pink hue that hinted at a natural blush. Her hair — golden curls cascading down her back, catching the light like strands of sunlight itself. Her eyes, deep brown and glinting with mischief, studied me like she already knew too much.
My hands had trailed down the soft fabric of her pink sundress, following the curves beneath, feeling her breath catch. My lips brushed her neck, and I felt her heartbeat race against my mouth. Goosebumps rose under my touch, urging me to taste, to take, to feel.
But when my mind finally caught up to the image, the realisation hit like cold water. I knew the woman in my dream.
Matilda.
Pink sundress. Flushed cheeks. Eyes that always meet mine for a beat too long.
My eyes snap open, and I curse under my breath. I’m not proud to admit that the only way to start my morning is with a cold shower and a solid ten minutes convincing myself that my subconscious hasn’t completely lost the plot.
Walking into the office later, I spot her instantly. Matilda’s at her desk, coat still on, the faintest hint of pink visible beneath it. Her shoes — baby pink heels that match the shade of her lipstick — peek out from under the chair.
Fucking heels.
“Morning, Henry. Here’s your coffee,” she says brightly, handing it to me with that smile. Her lips — the exact same shade I just saw in my dream — curve softly as she unwraps her coat, revealing the dress.
The pink one. White flowers. Sunlight incarnate.
I take a sip of coffee and immediately choke on it. Of course I do.
“Henry, are you okay?” she asks, her brow knitting in concern.
No, I’m absolutely not okay, Matilda.
But instead, I nod. “Fine, thank you. And yes, I need you in the nine o’clock meeting with Miss Wicks. Take minutes.”
Because apparently I’m a masochist.
Within twenty minutes, Miss Wicks is in my office with whatever young idiot she’s dragging around this month.
Matilda takes her seat opposite me, crossing one leg over the other to balance her notepad on her knee.
My jaw tightens. It’s instinct at this point — a reflex.
I don’t even know if it’s frustration or… something worse.
“Henry, darling,” Miss Wicks croons, “what’s the hold-up with Twenty-One Park Lane?”
Her boy toy shifts beside her, flashing Matilda a grin that’s all teeth and arrogance. My stomach knots.
I really need to implement a rule about clients bringing their latest conquests into my meetings.
“The issue’s still with Gary,” I reply evenly. “He’s contesting the designs, claiming there’s a problem with local regulations, though I’ve already proven otherwise.”
Miss Wicks rolls her eyes, taking a puff of her vape. “Bloody inspectors. Always a nightmare.”
“You’re telling me,” I mutter. “It doesn’t help that Gary’s got a personal feud with Hamlin — your structural engineer.”
“Hamlin?” she blinks.
I hear a quiet scoff from Matilda’s side of the desk and shoot her a look. She bites her lip and ducks her head, but I catch the twitch of amusement she’s trying to hide.
“Right,” Miss Wicks says, clearly lost. “Well, I’ll sort it. Can’t be throwing away money like this.”
“Agreed,” I say, tone clipped. “I’ve appointed Hamlin because he’s the best. Their personal issues don’t concern me — only the end result does.”
We wrap the meeting thirty minutes later.
Normally I’d be relieved, but today, the silence that follows feels heavier.
Matilda slips out of my office without a word.
Usually I prefer that — no small talk, no unnecessary chatter — but right now, I find myself wishing she’d lingered. Said something. Anything.
In the break room, I’m refilling my coffee when I feel it — that shift in the air, the faint floral scent that announces her before she even speaks. I turn slightly. She’s there, cup in hand, smiling nervously.
“Oh — sorry, am I in your way?” I ask, trying not to sound as tired as I feel.
Her eyes widen, that startled deer-in-headlights look that does something strange to my pulse. “Oh no, please. I can wait.”
“Here.” I gesture to her cup, ready to pour her one. I don’t know why I offer, just that it feels… natural.
Then the door opens, and some junior architect — Thomas — walks in. Barely old enough to shave, and already his eyes are glued to her like she hung the stars.
“Matilda, I was hoping to bump into you,” he says, completely ignoring me.
I know him vaguely from his interview. I did hire him, and now I’m regretting that. I’ll be looking up his file later.
“Thomas, hi,” Matilda replies, her voice soft, uncertain.
“You look lovely today. That dress suits you.”
My hand tightens around the coffee pot. Is this idiot seriously flirting with my assistant in front of me?
“Oh—thank you,” she says, smoothing her hands down the front of her dress. Her cheeks turn pink, and for a moment, I can’t tell if it’s embarrassment because I’m standing here, or because she likes him. The thought makes something ugly twist in my gut.
“Are you going to Blox tonight?” he asks, smiling like he’s just discovered flirting. “Jamie, Natalie, and the others are heading down. I was hoping you’d come.”
“You were?” she says, brow furrowed, genuinely confused. God, she has no idea he’s hitting on her. I almost laugh. Almost.
He fidgets. “Well, I was hoping to buy you that drink I mentioned the other day.”
The other day? He’s asked her out before? How the hell did I not know about this? The thought of her out at some bar with these idiots makes my chest tighten. Maybe I should add a no dating your boss’s assistant clause to the next round of contracts.
“Oh, right. Erm… I hadn’t made any plans for after work. I might have paperwork to catch up on,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward me.
Finally, Thomas notices me. His eyes flick up, and his face drains of colour.
Good.
I hold his gaze a little too long — not saying a word, just letting the silence stretch until he mumbles something about “catching her later” and bolts for the door.
I should feel smug, but I don’t. Just tired. Heavy.
I force a breath, glance at Matilda. She’s still watching the door, probably confused. I could tell her she’s done for the day, that she doesn’t need to worry about work. I could even apologise for scaring the kid off.
But I don’t. I just nod, take my coffee, and walk out.
Because whatever this thing inside me is — this jealousy, this restlessness — it’s not something I can afford to feel. Not for her.