Chapter 3
Cardboard box Armageddon.
That was the only way to describe it.
The room might have been an office or extra bedroom once upon a time. Not anymore. Now cardboard box towers leaned into each other like they’d given up. Logos shouted from every angle—sportswear, supplements, luxury brands, watches, tech. PR kits stacked on PR kits stacked on more PR kits.
“I don’t open this shit,” Knox said, gesturing vaguely. “It’s all free crap. People trying to buy goodwill.” He glanced at me, blue eyes sharp and assessing. “Sort it.”
My brain stuttered. “Sort it how?”
“With your hands, Quinn.”
This guy. . .
“I mean,” I said evenly, “how do you want it organized? By category? Brand? Value? Date received?”
He stared at me for a beat. “However the fuck it should be.”
Oh good, a test. And here I thought we were past the hazing portion of the day.
“Unless,” he added, tone casual, “this is too much for you?”
I met his eyes, the scar on his eyebrow raised slightly. “It’s not.”
Something flickered across his face—amusement, maybe. Or curiosity.
Then he dragged a chair from somewhere and dropped it directly in the doorway. Sat down. Stretched his legs out across the threshold, arms crossing over his chest.
Blocking the only exit.
He looked up at me, expression unreadable.
“You’re. . .” I said carefully. “You’re just going to sit there?”
His mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “No,” he said. “I’m gonna watch, too.”
Of course he was.
“You’re my assistant, Quinn,” he added, tone casual and infuriating. “Assist.”
Okay.
Fine.
If he wanted a show, I’d give him one.
“Is it okay if I—” I gestured to my navy suit jacket, my tie. “This might take a while.”
Knox’s gaze dragged over me slowly, deliberately. “Make yourself at home, Quinn.”
Mentally calling him every name I could think of, I took off my suit jacket and set it carefully on top of the nearest unopened box. I loosened my tie, slipped it free, folded it once before placing it with the jacket. Then I rolled up the sleeves of my button-down.
I could feel his attention sharpen as I got ready. He really was going to just sit there and watch me.
Sure. Whatever. If this was the test, then fuck it.
I started opening boxes.
Clothes into piles. Supplements into another. Tech stacked carefully along the wall. Trash filled a bag fast—foam inserts, shredded paper, the guts of things that looked expensive and meant nothing.
I worked quietly. Methodically. Let myself sink into it.
And Knox watched.
Not openly. Not staring. But shifting in the chair. Adjusting his posture. His gaze followed me every time I crossed the room, every time I bent or reached or hauled another box into place.
This had to be some kind of test to see if I’d crack under observation, if I’d get flustered or make mistakes or ask what the hell he was staring at.
But I’d been pressured before. Real pressure. Not some millionaire hockey player watching me unpack boxes.
So I ignored him.
An hour passed. Maybe two.
Sweat prickled at the back of my neck. Dust clung to my forearms. I was kneeling now, phone balanced in my hand as I logged items, surrounded by order slowly clawed out of chaos.
“You always do this kind of shit?” Knox asked.
“Organize messes?” I taped a box shut. “Yes.”
“Huh.”
The chair creaked.
I felt it before I saw it—his weight shifting forward, attention narrowing. I didn’t look at him, but I knew he was leaning in.
“You ready to quit yet?”
I glanced up at him through my glasses. “What?”
Knox’s expression didn’t change. “This. You ready to call it?”
“Over some boxes?”
Why the hell would I quit? I’d barely started.
Silence stretched between us.
Knox sat back slowly, something unreadable crossing his face. Then he stood.
“Keep going,” he said.
So I did.
Another box. Then another.
My knees ached against the floor, suit pants probably ruined beyond repair, arms burning in that dull, manageable way that meant I was past the worst of the anxiety and into something steadier.
When I reached for the trash bag again, it wasn’t there.
I frowned and straightened slightly, scanning the room. Knox had left at some point.
Then I heard it—the muted thump of the trash chute down the hall.
I turned just as Knox came back into view, hands empty, rolling his shoulders like he’d done something physical and already forgotten about it.
He stopped short when he saw me.
On the floor.
Surrounded by sorted piles. Sleeves rolled up. Tie gone. Breathing a little heavier than I wanted to be.
For one deeply uncomfortable second, neither of us moved.
The angle was wrong. Intimate. Me kneeling. Him standing. Big and relaxed and framed by the doorway like he owned the space.
I hated that my brain noticed.
Knox’s gaze dragged over the room and then landed back on me.
Slow.
Deliberate.
He said nothing as he crossed back to the chair and dropped into it, legs spreading slightly, elbows resting on his thighs. His eye line was almost level with my face now.
“It was full,” he said finally, like that explained everything.
That was it.
No acknowledgment. No expectation of thanks.
“Okay,” I said after a beat, forcing my voice steady.
His gaze flicked briefly to the stacks I’d already sorted, then away again like he hadn’t meant to look.
“One week,” he said.
“What?”
“I’ll give you one fucking week,” Knox said. “You make it that long without driving me insane or quitting like all the others, we’ll see about another one.”
It wasn’t a deal. It wasn’t even close. It was him giving himself permission to make my life hell for seven days before trying to fire me again.
But it was better than nothing.
“Deal,” I said.
Knox snorted. “Go home. You’re done for today.”
Relief hit me so hard it almost knocked the breath out of me.
I gathered my jacket and tie, pulse still loud in my ears.
One week.