Chapter 13
Thirteen
Henry
What the fuck is wrong with me?
How could I have been so fucking stupid? Cornering her like that, saying the things I said — what the hell was I thinking? She’s my assistant. My employee. And there I was, standing over her like some unhinged idiot with no self-control.
What must she think of me right now?
That I’m crossing lines. That I gave her that project because I want something in return. Jesus Christ, what if she thinks I’m the kind of man who uses power to get what he wants?
I drag both hands through my hair and start pacing the living room, each step heavier than the last. The more I replay it, the worse it feels.
It’s not just the obvious — that she works for me, that I promoted her — it’s that I can’t stand how much she gets under my skin. The way she smiles when she’s nervous. The way she looks at me like she sees past the bullshit. The way another man’s attention on her makes me want to break something.
I got jealous. Over Thomas. That smug, grinning prick from residentials. I almost sacked him today just for talking to her.
Pathetic.
And the worst part? I don’t even recognise myself anymore.
I grab my phone before I can talk myself out of it. I just need to hear her voice — to make sure she’s okay, to fix this mess before it festers any deeper.
The call connects, and all I can hear is noise — music, laughter, shouting. Then her voice, muffled but unmistakable.
“Hello?”
“Matilda, it’s Henry. I’m sorry to call so late, it’s ju—”
“Henry? Did you say it’s Henry?” she laughs, slurring my name.
Oh, God.
“Matilda, where are you?” But I already know the answer. The bass thuds through the speaker, heavy and chaotic. Blox. She went to Blox. She’s with him.
My pulse spikes, and I start pacing again. “Matilda?”
“I’m at Blox,” she giggles, voice hazy. “It’s really great — you should come.”
The sound of her laugh — tipsy, carefree — hits me somewhere deep in the chest. She’s drunk. Too drunk. My stomach twists with something hot and ugly.
“Matilda, are you okay?”
“No. I’m really drunk and I lost Natalie. I wanted to call you but I was scared you’d fire me.” Her voice cracks, soft and shaky beneath the background noise.
“Fire you? Why would you— Matilda, are you on your own?”
“No, people are here, I just can’t find them, I— I think I’m going to be sick. This is all your fault.”
That’s it.
“Matilda, listen to me,” I say firmly, already grabbing my keys. “Go to the front of Blox. Stand with the bouncer. I’m coming to get you.”
“Wait, what? No, I’m fine—”
“Matilda,” I cut her off. “Do as I say. I’m coming.”
I hang up before she can argue, shoving my phone in my pocket and heading for the door. My grip on the steering wheel is white-knuckled the entire drive. Every red light feels like a personal attack. Fifteen minutes later, I pull up outside the club, heart hammering.
She’s there.
Leaning against the brick wall, head tilted back, eyes half-closed. Her pink dress from earlier now crumpled, hair falling around her face. She looks exhausted — fragile, even.
At least she listened. She’s with the bouncers.
I nod at one of them as I approach, and he steps aside without a word.
“Matilda, are you okay?” I ask, touching her arm gently.
Her eyes flutter open, unfocused at first — then light up. “Henry,” she beams, throwing both arms around my neck.
The scent of tequila and red wine hits me hard. “You came,” she hums, voice soft against my skin.
“Of course I came,” I murmur, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
She stumbles as we walk, leaning into me like she’s trying to fuse herself to my side.
Once we reach the car, she flops gracelessly into the passenger seat with a dramatic sigh. I lean over to fasten her seatbelt — her hair brushing my cheek, her perfume wrapping around me — and she shakes her head.
“You always smell so good,” she says, pouting like a child.
I can’t help the small laugh that escapes me. “You’re drunk.”
“Yep,” she grins. “Didn’t mean to be. Thomas wanted to do shots and I’ve never been good with shots.”
Thomas. My grip on the wheel tightens again. “Thomas?” I say, voice colder than I intend.
“I know, you said he wasn’t any good for me.” She sighs, rubbing her forehead. “I went to tell him I wasn’t interested. He took it well. Then we did shots. Lots of shots. Too many shots.”
Relief rushes through me — hot and shameful. I shouldn’t feel this way, but I do.
“I’m glad you told him,” I say quietly.
She hums in response, head lolling against the window.
After a few moments, I try to clear the air, “You said it was my fault earlier… I’m—”
I glance over, ready to apologise for everything — for today, for every mixed signal I’ve ever sent — but she suddenly groans, covering her face with both hands.
“I’m so sorry. Please don’t fire me,” she mumbles into her palms.
“What? Matilda, why would I fire you?”
“Because I’m an idiot. And you smell so good. And you were looking at me with those big beautiful eyes and I wanted to kiss you, and I nearly messed everything up.” Her voice breaks, small and slurred. “I came out tonight to try and forget about you… and how much I want to smush your face.”
“Smush my face?” I repeat, incredulous.
She lets out a sleepy laugh. “Yep. Smush it.” Then her head lolls to the side again, eyes fluttering closed.
Christ. She wanted to kiss me.
By the time I pull up outside her flat, she’s completely out. I find her keys in her bag and, with her arm draped over my shoulder, carry her up the stairs. She’s small but warm in my arms, her breath soft against my neck.
Her flat is exactly what I expected — neat, bright, full of colour. A pink sofa, a lime-green blanket, and a ridiculous amount of kitchen gadgets. Everything in her world seems lighter than mine.
I lay her down on her bed and she curls into a tight ball. She kicks off her heels — small mercies — and I pull the sheet over her, careful not to disturb her. I find a pink bowl in the kitchen and place it beside the bed, just in case.
As I turn to leave, her hand touches my arm.
“Don’t go,” she murmurs.
“Matilda—”
“Stay,” she whispers, already half asleep.
And just like that, I can’t move. There’s something about the way she says it — soft, unguarded — that pins me to the spot.
So I do.
I grab the lime blanket from her sofa and settle into the armchair by her bed. The city hums faintly outside the window. Her breathing evens out.
I know I won’t sleep, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t leave her like this.
I stare at the ceiling, mind replaying every word she said — wanted to kiss you… came out to forget you.
Whether it was the alcohol talking or not, I can’t shake the sound of it.
Tomorrow, I’ll talk to her. I’ll apologise, tell her the truth — that this has gone too far, that I can’t keep crossing the line between professionalism and whatever this is.
But for tonight, I just sit there, watching over her in the soft glow of the streetlights, wondering when exactly she became the only thing in my life that still makes me feel human.