Chapter 31 Proving Herself
Proving Herself
Kate
The whispers start on Monday.
I'm walking through the office with a stack of files when I pass a group huddled near the break room. They don't see me at first, too caught up in their conversation.
"—just saying, it's suspicious. Three years as an assistant and suddenly she's COO?"
"Maybe she's actually qualified."
"Or maybe she's dating the right person."
I freeze mid-step.
They notice me then. Their faces flush. Someone mutters an apology.
I force a smile and keep walking.
But the words follow me all the way back to my office.
By Wednesday, the whispers have grown louder.
Not to my face—never to my face. But I hear them in the break room. See the skeptical looks when I enter meetings. Feel the weight of judgment in every presentation I give.
Some people are supportive. Marcus brings me coffee and tells me to ignore the haters. Jenna defends me in group chats I'm not even part of.
But others have already decided I don't belong here. That I'm a fraud. A placeholder. A girlfriend playing executive.
I try not to let it get to me.
I try to focus on the work.
But late Wednesday night, alone in my office with the city lights twinkling below, I let myself feel it.
I pull up my laptop and get back to work.
The next two weeks blur together.
I'm at the office by six every morning. I stay until eight or nine most nights. I review proposals, attend meetings, analyze data until my eyes blur.
I learn the business inside and out. Solar panel efficiency ratings. Client acquisition strategies. Supply chain logistics.
I memorize names, projects, budgets.
I work harder than I've ever worked in my life.
Grayson notices.
He finds me in my office on a Thursday night, hunched over my laptop with cold coffee and a half-eaten granola bar.
"You're still here," he says from the doorway.
"So are you."
He walks in, closing the door behind him. "Kate, it's almost nine."
"I know what time it is."
"You've been here since six again."
"I had work to do."
He sits on the edge of my desk. Watching me the way he does when he already knows the answer. "You're trying to prove something."
"Maybe I am. Is that so wrong?"
"It is if you're doing it because of what other people think."
"Easy for you to say. No one questions whether you earned your position."
His jaw tightens. "They did. For years. I had to prove myself, too."
"But not like this." I close my laptop, suddenly too tired to keep going. "Not with people thinking I only got here because I'm sleeping with the boss."
Grayson's expression darkens. "Who said that?"
"Does it matter? They're thinking it. I can see it in their faces."
He's quiet for a moment. Then he reaches out, taking my hand. "Come home with me."
"I have more work."
"It can wait." His voice is gentle but firm. "You need rest. Real rest."
I want to argue. Want to stay and keep proving myself.
But I'm exhausted.
So I let him pull me to my feet and lead me out of the office.
—
The weekend helps.
Saturday morning, I wake up in my own room in Grayson’s penthouse. Sunlight streams through the tall windows, and everything feels quiet and expensive in a way I’m still getting used to. I stretch beneath the soft sheets, enjoying the strange luxury of it all.
The smell of coffee pulls me out of bed.
I walk down the hallway and step into the kitchen. He’s already there, standing at the counter in sweatpants and a T-shirt, looking unfairly attractive for someone who just rolled out of bed.
He slides a mug across the counter without a word.
I take a sip, feeling the warmth spread through me. "What time is it?"
"Almost ten."
I nearly spit out my coffee. "Ten? I haven't slept past seven in weeks."
"Your body needed it."
He sets a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of me. "Eat. Then we're going out."
"Out where?"
"Somewhere that isn't the office or my apartment." He leans across the counter. "When's the last time you did something just for fun?"
I think about it. Draw a blank.
"Exactly." He grins. "Get ready. We're taking the day off."
We spend Saturday at Pike Place Market.
Touristy. Crowded. Completely wonderful.
Grayson holds my hand as we navigate through the crowds, his fingers laced with mine in a way that feels natural now. Essential, even.
He's dressed simply—jeans, a gray henley, worn leather boots—looking like any other Seattle local enjoying their Saturday. You'd never guess he's worth billions.
But that's the thing about Grayson. He doesn't flaunt anything. Never has. He just is.
We stop to watch the fish throwers, and I laugh when one of them calls out to Grayson, trying to get him to catch a salmon.
"Absolutely not."
"Scared?" I tease.
"Practical. I'm wearing a gray shirt."
"Still gray."
"Still not catching a fish."
I laugh, and he smiles that quiet smile that makes my heart flutter.
He pulls me toward a quieter corridor lined with flower stalls—colors bright and vibrant against the gray Seattle sky.
"Pick one," he says.
"Grayson, you don't have to—"
"Pick one."
I choose soft pink peonies. The vendor quotes twelve dollars. Grayson pays in cash, tips generously, and thanks him like he's doing him a favor.
Then, Grayson tucks one bloom behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my cheek.
"Beautiful," he murmurs.
My breath catches. "The flowers?"
"You."
For a moment we just stand there, people rushing past on all sides, but it feels like we're the only two people in the world.
He kisses my forehead. Soft and slow and sweet.
I'm smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.
We browse the craft stalls hand in hand until I stop at a booth selling handmade jewelry. A leather bracelet catches my eye—simple, earthy, a little like Maple Glen.
He picks it up before I can say anything.
"That one?" he asks.
"It's nothing. Just looking."
He talks to the artist for a few minutes—asks about her process, her materials, her decision to sell at the market instead of opening a storefront. She lights up. He listens like it matters.
Then, he pays for the bracelet and fastens it around my wrist, his touch gentle.
"Consider it a 'congratulations on surviving your first month as COO' gift."
I stare at the bracelet, then at him.
"You're impossible," I say softly.
"And you love it."
He's right. I do.
We find a quiet bench overlooking Elliott Bay. Worn wood, slightly weathered. Grayson could be at some exclusive yacht club right now. Instead he's here. With me. Perfectly content.
His arm is around my shoulders, and I'm tucked against his chest, the peonies resting in my lap.
"Thank you for this," I say quietly.
"For what?"
"For being you. You could be anywhere. Doing anything."
He's quiet for a moment. "Money doesn't make moments matter, Kate. People do."
My throat tightens. "How are you real?"
He turns to look at me, and the expression on his face—tender, proud, utterly devoted—makes my heart swell.
"I love you," I say.
He smiles. That rare, full smile he only gives me. "I love you too."
—
Monday morning, I come back refreshed.
And ready.
I walk into the office with my head high and my strategy clear.
I'm not going to let the whispers dictate my worth.
I'm going to let my work speak for itself.
The opportunity comes sooner than expected.
Tuesday afternoon, Maxwell pulls me into a meeting about a potential client: GreenTech Industries, a major renewable energy company looking to expand their solar infrastructure.
"They're big," Maxwell says, sliding a folder across the table. "Really big. If we land them, it could mean a twenty-million-dollar contract."
I flip through the proposal. "What's the catch?"
"They're meeting with three other companies. We're not the frontrunner."
"So, we need to stand out."
"Exactly." He leans back in his chair. "I'm assigning this to you. Full lead. If you can close this deal, it'll prove to everyone—including the skeptics—that you earned your position."
The weight of it settles over me.
This is my chance.
"I'll get it done," I say.
Then he tells me the pitch meeting is in four days.
Four days to prepare for the most important presentation of my career.
No pressure.