CHAPTER 12
Helisa’s POV:
The glass walls of E-Tech didn’t just let in the morning light; they broadcasted the entire skyline of Manhattan like a living, breathing trophy.
From the forty-second floor, the rest of the world looked small, manageable, and entirely subject to the decisions made inside these pristine, soundproofed corridors.
The silver skyscrapers cut into the pale blue of the morning sky, casting long, geometric shadows across the grid of the city below.
Down there, millions of people were rushing, fighting for space, and drowning in the noise of the blocks.
Up here, the silence was expensive. It was the kind of quiet that took decades of sacrifice, flawless performance, and an ironclad emotional detachment to buy.
I stood by Ciara’s workstation, my tailored navy blazer unbuttoned just enough to show the sharp, disciplined lines of my ivory silk shell underneath.
I leaned slightly over her sleek dual-monitor setup, the polished metal of my designer watch catching the glare of the screens.
I tapped my manicured fingernail against the edge of the mahogany desk, a slow, rhythmic sound that I knew was eating away at whatever patience she had left.
"If the Washington distribution numbers don't align by noon, Ciara, the entire regional forecast is going to look like an absolute joke to the board," I said, my voice carrying that measured, executive weight that kept everyone on this floor functioning at maximum capacity.
"I don't need projections. I need the hard metrics from the D.C.
hub, and I need them before the executive committee logs onto the briefing call. "
"I'm updating the data sheets now, Helisa," Ciara replied.
Her voice dropped into a flat, icy register that let me know she was already operating on a dangerously short fuse.
She didn't look up from her monitors, but the sharp, rigid set of her jaw and the way her fingers flew across the mechanical keyboard with an aggressive, rapid-fire rhythm told me everything I needed to know.
"The D.C. team has been dragging their feet on the production metrics all week, and frankly, I'm doing the work of three people today while you're focused on handling the new talent. "
I narrowed my eyes, my posture going instantly rigid.
"Watch your tone, Ciara. My focus is exactly where it needs to be—on securing the revenue pipelines for this entire quarter.
If the logistics team in Washington can't deliver, that's a management failure on your end, not an invitation to comment on my schedule. "
"Management failure?" Ciara let out a sharp, dry laugh, her fingers freezing over the keys as she finally turned her head to look at me.
Her eyes were dark, intense, and glittering with a mixture of professional frustration and something much deeper, much more toxic that had been brewing between us for months.
"I’ve been running this floor flawlessly for three years, Helisa.
Don't act like my performance is the issue here.
We both know the energy on this floor shifted the exact minute that girl walked through those glass doors. "
Before I could answer her—before I could check her for bringing that messy, low-vibrational street energy into my workspace—the heavy glass doors at the end of the reception hallway slid open with a soft, expensive hiss.
My attention snapped toward the entrance, and my heart gave a sudden, violent throb against my ribs—a sharp, fluttering rush of butterflies that completely derailed my thoughts and left me momentarily breathless.
Miley Palmer stepped into the office, and deadass, she looked sexy as fuck.
She was wearing an ivory silk blouse that caught the high-altitude sunlight perfectly, tucked into a high-waisted black pencil skirt that mapped out the heavy, magnificent curves of her hips and thighs with absolute, mathematical precision.
Every single step she took in her high stiletto heels echoed through the minimalist, polished concrete office space like a declaration of war against anyone who dared to look at her.
She carried her black Telfar bag on her forearm, her head held high, her long box braids swinging like a heavy dark curtain around her shoulders.
The second she cleared the threshold, my mind completely betrayed my professional composure.
The corporate metrics, the Washington files, the looming board meeting—all of it just evaporated, replaced by a reckless, racing memory of thirty-six hours ago.
I was right back in the cramped, shadowed interior of my Jeep.
I could still smell the rain on the windshield; I could still hear SZA’s voice bleeding through the premium speakers, filling the small space with that heavy, melancholic rhythm while we sang along, our voices blending together in the dark right before I leaned across the center console and seized her mouth.
The memory of her lips—warm, yielding, tasting like fresh mint and unbothered confidence—made my throat go completely dry.
I stood up straight, pulling down the fabric of my blazer to smooth out the lines of my silhouette, forcing myself into the persona of Helisa Smith, Senior Vice President of Operations.
"Morning, Palmer. Just in time," I said, my voice cutting through the open floor with a cool, authoritative clarity that cost me an immense amount of willpower to fake. "I want you to look at these schematics for me and write it out well to send it back to Washington."
Miley stopped right in front of my desk, letting out a long, heavy heave—a deep sigh of pure relief that dropped her shoulders and broke through her usual stone-faced composure.
She looked at me, her dark eyes clouded with a lingering, heavy frustration that she was clearly trying her best to mask behind a professional intern smile.
"Gotcha, boss," Miley said, her voice dropping into that smoky, sloe-eyed Harlem cadence that always made the hairs on my arms stand up.
She reached down, putting her handbag to the side of her desk with a sharp, agitated motion.
"Just let me get settled down in this seat first. My morning has already been a whole-ass marathon, and I haven't even had a chance to log into the network yet. "
I watched her closely, my analytical brain instantly reading the microscopic tells—the slight tremor in her fingers, the way her lips pressed together in a tight line when she thought I wasn't looking, the restless energy humming beneath her skin.
"What’s up with you today, Palmer?" I asked, stepping closer into her personal space, dropping my volume so the conversation stayed strictly between the two of us. "It seems like someone out there really pissed you off before you even got on the train."
Miley let out a dry, sharp chuckle, looking up at me through her long lashes with a gaze that was entirely too heavy for nine o'clock in the morning.
"I Ubered instead of using the subway. But you hit the nail right on the head, boss.
Straight up. People just don't know how to keep their energy right when the sun comes up.
They want to drag you down into their own messy-ass feelings. "
"Wanna talk about it?" I asked, shifting the heavy manila folders in my hands, holding them against my chest like an excuse to stay standing right there, feeling the heat radiating off her body.
Before Miley could answer, a cold, sharp cough broke the air behind us.
I turned my head slightly. Ciara was standing up from her chair, her arms tightly crossed over her chest, her eyes locked onto the two of us with a terrifying, piercing intensity.
The look she gave me was dripping with an unspoken, territorial fury that made the entire room feel twenty degrees colder.
"Helisa," Ciara said, her voice dropping into a flat, dangerous register that cut through the office like a blade. "Let me talk to you real quick in the office. Now."
The heavy mahogany door to my private office hadn't even clicked completely shut before Ciara let me have it.
I walked past my glass desk, sliding into my high-backed leather executive chair, trying to maximize the physical distance between us to maintain some semblance of authority.
I needed the desk between us; I needed the reminders of my title and my status to keep this conversation from turning into a street fight.
But Ciara wasn't playing by the corporate handbook today.
She didn't sit down in the guest chair. She marched straight up to the edge of the desk, her hands slamming down onto the polished wood as she leaned her torso forward, cornering my space.
"Helisa, why the fuck are you getting so cozy with the new intern?" Ciara demanded, her voice a harsh, furious whisper that practically vibrated the glass walls.
I leaned back in my chair, folding my hands neatly over my stomach, forcing my expression into a mask of pure, unbothered confusion—even though my heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
I knew full well what she was hinting at, but I wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of a confession.
"What are you saying right now, Ciara?" I asked, my voice smooth and ice-cold. "Palmer is an asset to this team, and she’s working on the Washington accounts under my direct supervision. I suggest you keep your tone professional."