Chapter 11 Bullet
Bullet
The Sullivan Enterprises executive offices had emptied out over an hour ago, the staff unaccustomed to seeing their CEO still present as they took their leave.
Archer typically handled evening work from his penthouse office, a concession to not wanting to lose the best assistant he ever had, Jennifer.
Years ago it was common for him to be haunting his office late into the evening, however when she came on board just a few years ago and not only minimized his workload, but also had an uncanny ability to know when a deal would go south.
It was a good system as he wasn’t willing to lose the best assistant he ever had because of his workaholic tendencies, but tonight, he’d lingered even through Jennifer’s scrutiny as she took her leave.
The thought of returning to his sterile living space, filled with expensive but impersonal furnishings, held little appeal compared to the warmth of Morgan’s modest apartment.
His private phone vibrated and his heart rate kicked up a notch.
Just got home. Cooking has commenced. See you at 7?
Archer smiled behind his privacy screen of office blinds. On my way.
He slipped the phone into his pocket and gathered his riding jacket. As he headed toward the private elevator that would take him to the garage level where his Ducati waited, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the darkened windows.
Archer Sullivan, CEO, was nowhere to be seen since he’d changed out of his suit in his private bathroom. The man in the reflection—leather jacket, dark jeans, excited gleam in his eye—looked like someone else entirely. Someone freer. Someone who might be worthy of a woman like Morgan.
The ride to her apartment through evening traffic gave him time to clear his head. Today had been complicated—in the latest batch of companies his enterprise was looking at purchasing, and Vertex Creative was near the top of the list.
However, Vertex’s financial analysis had revealed inconsistencies that troubled him and acquisition negotiations were becoming contentious.
His executive team was starting to question his unusual interest in this particular small company.
A company they would have quickly passed over with the difficulties it was presenting.
None of that mattered right now. For the next few hours, he wasn’t Archer Sullivan with the weight of a corporate empire on his shoulders.
He was just Archer, a man looking forward to dinner with a woman who made him want to throw caution to the wind and break all his careful rules that kept his public and private lives separate.
As he climbed the stairs to her sixth-floor apartment, Archer caught the scent of garlic and herbs wafting down the stairwell. His stomach rumbled in appreciation—he’d skipped lunch for back-to-back meetings.
She opened the door before he could knock, as if she’d been waiting for the sound of his footsteps. The sight of her—barefoot in jeans and a soft blue sweater, hair loose around her shoulders, cheeks flushed from cooking—hit him with unexpected force.
“Hi,” she said, a smile spreading across her face. “You’re right on time.” She reached for him and pulled him into an unexpected hug that he barely had time to reciprocate before she was darting back towards the kitchen.
“Something smells amazing,” he replied, stepping inside.
“Chicken piccata. Nothing fancy, but it’s one of the few dishes I can make without a recipe.”
Archer removed his jacket but kept his helmet on. The routine was becoming familiar, though no less absurd. What kind of man kept his face hidden during dinner? The kind who’d created walls so high between his identities that breaking them down felt impossible.
“Can I help with anything?” he offered, following her to the kitchen.
“You can open the wine.” She pointed over her shoulder, “There’s a bottle of Pinot Grigio in the fridge.”
He found the wine and a corkscrew waiting for him on the counter, then paused, facing a practical problem. “I’ll need to take my helmet off to taste this.”
Morgan glanced over her shoulder from where she was draining pasta. “I can turn around whenever you need to drink or eat. No peeking, I promise.”
The arrangement was ridiculous, yet she accepted it without question. Her casual accommodation of this unusual circumstance touched something deep in his chest.
“Thank you,” he said, the words inadequate for what he was really trying to express.
Morgan seemed to understand anyway, her smile softening. “It’s ready. Hope you’re hungry.”
They sat at her small dining table, and Archer found himself relaxing as Morgan talked about her day.
She described her lunch with Tessa, laughing about her friend’s reaction to their unconventional relationship.
The word “relationship” hung in the air between them, neither acknowledging it directly.
“How was your day?” she asked, looking at him expectantly.
Archer hesitated. What could he say? I spent the morning reviewing acquisition targets including your employer.
I met with with foreign investors who might back my next expansion.
I fired a sales team for ethical violations I discovered during a security audit.
None of that belonged in this room, with this woman.
“Long,” he said finally. “Meetings. Spreadsheets. The usual corporate landscape.”
“Security consulting involves a lot of spreadsheets?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“More than you’d think. Risk assessments are largely statistical.”
Morgan nodded, seeming to accept this. “I’m going to turn around,” she said suddenly.
“What?”
“So you can take off your helmet and eat before your food gets cold.”
Archer complied, removing his helmet once her back was to him. The first bite of chicken piccata nearly made him groan aloud—perfectly cooked, the lemon and caper sauce bright against the richness of the chicken.
“You can turn back,” he said after swallowing and putting the helmet back on.
“Good?” she asked hopefully.
“Incredible. You’ve been hiding culinary talents.”
The meal continued in this manner—comfortable conversation interspersed with Morgan turning away so he could take bites or sips of wine. Despite the awkwardness, there was something intimate about the trust it required, the silent acknowledgment that this peculiar arrangement was worth the effort.
“I stood up to my boss today,” Morgan said as they finished eating.
“Oh?” Archer carefully kept his voice neutral, though his interest sharpened immediately. The report on Vertex Creative had flagged the department head—Richard Jenkins—as a potential problem. Several financial irregularities traced back to projects under his supervision.
“He wanted me to stay late, again, to redo work that was already finished. No overtime pay, of course.” She shook her head. “I refused. Told him I had plans and that I wasn’t staying past five.”
“How did he take it?” Archer asked, genuinely curious.
“Not well. But he backed down, which surprised me.” Morgan tilted her head, studying him through the visor of his helmet. “I don’t think I would have done that before meeting you.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Something about you and your friends... you all seem so certain of your worth. It made me realize I’ve been letting people determine mine for too long.”
Archer felt a complex tangle of emotions—pride in her standing up for herself, concern about her boss’s behavior, and a strange guilt that his presence in her life might be disrupting her professional situation.
Whether Sullivan Enterprises acquired Vertex or not, he’d make sure she was taken care of, but would she hate him for it?
Many of the problems his parents had were because of who their son was. Money could solve a lot of problems, but could create a lot of problems too. It had wreaked havoc on his parent’s marriage. They’d made it work, but his fame was ultimately what had caused the car accident that killed them.
It’s why he made such an effort to keep his private life just that, private. When no one knew who was really close to you, they couldn’t hurt you.
“I think that strength was always in you,” he said carefully. “But I’m glad if I played any part in helping you see it.”
Morgan smiled, the expression reaching her amber eyes. “I’ll get dessert,” she announced, rising from her chair.
Archer watched her through his helmet’s visor as she moved to the refrigerator, admiring the graceful efficiency of her movements.
The domesticity of the moment struck him—sitting at her table, sharing a meal she’d prepared, talking about their days.
This simple intimacy was something he hadn’t experienced since he was a kid.
“Tiramisu,” she said, returning with two small plates. “Store-bought, I confess. My culinary skills only extend so far.”
When she set the dessert before him, her fingers brushed against his briefly. Even that minimal contact sent warmth spreading through his chest.
Morgan settled across from him again, studying him with those perceptive eyes. “Can I ask you something?”
He nodded.
She traced the rim of her wine glass with one finger. “Why keep doing this? The helmet, I mean. You know I’m not going to press you about your identity, right?”
Archer considered his response carefully. “It’s complicated.”
“Most things worth doing are.”
He exhaled slowly. “When I’m not covered up, security is a big concern. When this comes off,” he pointed to his helmet. “It needs to be because you’ve taken the time to make that decision with all the information. The line between my professional world and my personal one has always been absolute.”
“And which side am I on?” she asked, the question gentle rather than demanding.
“That’s part of what makes this complicated.” Archer leaned forward slightly. “You’re the first person who’s ever truly existed in between.”
Morgan absorbed this, her expression thoughtful. “And is that a good thing or a bad thing?”