Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Violet
“Company summit today, guys,” Mark announces with a clap as if he hasn’t already bombarded us with fifty reminders this week. He straightens his tie, smoothing down an expensive suit that looks more suited for a wedding than the Knightwell auditorium.
“Glad to see everyone has at least attempted to look smart,” he adds, casting a dubious glance at Seb. “We can’t have the Sales team saying Software Development doesn’t turn up.”
Mark hates the Sales team. To him, they’re the office nemesis, always strutting around in designer suits, throwing out their big-dick energy. Secretly, I think he wants to be one of them.
“You mean the same Sales team that thinks all we do is tell people to reboot their computers?” Seb quips, earning a chuckle from the room and a genuine smile from Mark.
Mark points a triumphant finger in the air. “Yes, but I know for a fact—Chase never sits in on their meetings.”
Oh, here we go again. This is Mark’s favorite line at the moment. As if Batman himself had sat in on our meeting.
I brush lint from my suit jacket, pulling it tighter. I’ve worn my favorite navy silk shirt with a skirt that flares over my hips and sits just above the knees. My hair is styled half-up, half-down—an annual event in itself. Seb calls it my undercover baddie day.
The company summit is basically an over-hyped pep rally where Chase, the senior exec team, and department heads remind us how great they are. I could do without it. I’ve got a pile of work waiting, and this is two hours of my life I won’t get back.
The hum of scattered conversation hangs in the air as we file into the auditorium. The entire New York office is attending while the remote teams tune in live. I flash Seb a grin when I spot the next available seats, right next to the Sales team.
“Oh, look who it is,” I say waggling my eyebrows at Seb. “By the way, I saw what you were doing earlier.”
Seb chuckles. “Yeah, rule 101 of getting in Mark’s good books—trash talk Sales. Figured I’d get one in early.”
I slide into a seat next to Ryan, who, with his sun-bleached blond hair and year-round tan, looks like he was born on the waves of a Californian beach rather than glued to his phone in Manhattan.
Ryan glances up from his phone, flashing his charming salesman’s smile that probably closes more deals than actual strategy.
“Hey, Ryan,” I say, settling in. “How’s life in the real world?”
He chuckles, lowering his voice. “Mark still chaining you to your desk and only letting you out at night?”
“Yeah, it’s the first time we’ve seen other humans in a while,” Seb chimes in. “Although it’s probably for the best. Violet took me to her sister’s soccer game last weekend, and I almost took out the referee.”
“You did what?” Ryan’s eyebrows almost shoot off his head.
I groan, already laughing. “All true. Gracie scored, and Seb was celebrating so hard, his phone flew out of his hand...” I lift my pen, tracing the doomed trajectory in the air.
Ryan snickers. “Oh, come on. Please tell me it hit someone.”
“Oh, it did.” I flick my wrist, sending my pen into a slow-motion descent. “Boom. Right on the ref’s ass. They had to stop the game for five minutes. Seb almost got banned.”
Ryan looks between us, grinning. “That might be the most Seb thing I’ve ever heard.”
Seb shrugs. “No regrets.”
I’m still holding my pen mid-flight when a hush rolls over the space like an icy breeze. All at once, hundreds of heads snap toward the door.
Chase strides in like he owns the place—which, technically, he does.
His eyes find me instantly.
A brief flick of his gaze, cold and unreadable but with an intensity that makes my stomach tighten. Like he barely spares me a second—but in that second, he sees everything.
My fingers tighten around my pen, suddenly very aware that I’m still holding it aloft like an idiot. Slowly, I lower it, clearing my throat as I remind myself I’m in the middle of a business summit.
As usual, he looks sensational, like he took a wrong turn on his way to an Armani shoot and ended up here among us mere mortals.
The silk tie, the crisp white shirt, the tailored black suit—all of it sculpted to his body as if stitched in place.
He exudes power effortlessly, making everyone else in the room seem just a little smaller.
Bethany, his PA, follows behind him. She’s the picture of competence in a pinstriped pantsuit and black stilettos, not a single hair out of place—impressive, considering she wrangled four kids through breakfast and onto the school bus before showing up to manage this whole production.
Chase heads straight to the senior executive team, shaking their hands, holding court with polished ease.
I can’t help but notice how different we are.
He fits into this world so naturally, while I always feel like I’m slipping in through a side door, trying to look like I belong.
The other night, when he gave me a ride home, he seemed different—softer, a little more human.
But that side of him doesn’t exist here. Not in this room.
Bethany queues up his presentation, stepping aside as Chase approaches the podium.
Immediately, the room falls silent. He takes a moment before speaking, scanning the audience like he’s assessing something only he can see.
Then, he leans into the mic, his voice smooth and assured, filling the space with ease.
“Good morning.” A deliberate pause. Just long enough to hold everyone in suspense. “Let’s get started.”
He doesn’t need grand gestures to hold the room. The weight of his presence does that on its own.
“This year marks our first major milestone. Ten years ago, this company was just an idea. A risk. Some would have called it impossible.” His gaze moves through the crowd, landing on faces as if daring them to disagree. “And yet, here we are. Not just standing—but thriving.”
His tone carries conviction, the kind that makes people listen and want to believe.
“We’ve outpaced the competition. And that’s not luck—that’s you. Your talent, your drive, your willingness to push forward even when the odds are stacked against us. That’s why we succeed.”
The energy in the room transforms, a ripple of silent engagement moving through the crowd, every single person drawn in, eager to be part of whatever vision he’s laying out.
He moves through the usual acknowledgments, recognizing key milestones, thanking the department heads for their leadership, and giving a nod to the long hours and commitment that got them here.
He calls out a few standout projects, citing them as examples of the company’s innovation, before shifting toward what’s next.
As he speaks, Ryan leans in a little too close for comfort and whispers, “Guess this year he’s going for inspirational instead of vague threats.”
I turn my head toward him, smiling, but he’s so close that a strand of my hair gets caught in his shirt button. Flustered, I fiddle with it, while Ryan snickers, unwinding it quickly and jerking away, only to be met with something far worse.
Chase’s stare.
Hard. Unyielding.
The sort of look that turns a room ice-cold.
His head tilts, a flicker of something savage crossing his face. “Of course,” he says, voice deceptively light. “Not everyone is invested in what we’re building here.”
The tension in the room shifts, an almost imperceptible change in the air as people straighten, glancing around to see who’s about to be torn apart.
My stomach drops.
“If you’d rather be somewhere else, Violet, feel free to leave,” he continues in a tone that could freeze fire. “I wouldn’t want to take up your valuable time.”
A few whispers stir through the crowd as everyone cranes their necks to get a good look at me. My face burns, a mix of anger and humiliation crawling up my spine.
I straighten, keeping my expression neutral despite the way Seb stiffens beside me. “I’m fine,” I say, my voice steady even as something unsettled knots beneath my ribs.
Chase holds my gaze a moment longer—long enough to send my pulse into overdrive—before looking away like I’m nothing. Like he hadn’t just gutted me in front of the entire company.
The rest of the meeting is a blur.
Department heads cycle through their updates, but their words barely register. All I hear is the blood roaring in my ears.
At some point, I risk a glance at Chase. He looks completely at ease, untouched by the tension still gripping my chest, exactly like the cold-hearted bastard he is.
Then, just as the last speaker steps away, Chase moves forward again, smoothly reclaiming the room. “Before we wrap up, our ten-year anniversary is coming up, and we’re celebrating in style.”
A ripple of interest moves through the crowd, murmurs spreading.
“We’ve booked the Waldorf Astoria for a masquerade ball. Formal invitations and a few gifts from the hotel will be handed out now. Consider it a thank you for your hard work.”
The doors at the back of the auditorium fly open, and a procession of hotel staff sweeps in, dressed in elaborate, gilded costumes, their masked faces adding a theatrical touch.
The reaction is immediate—low whistles, amused laughter, the rustle of people sitting up to get a closer look.
Everybody reaches eagerly for the invitations and small velvet boxes they’re handing out, the intrigue lightening the mood entirely.
I don’t take one.
Ryan glances at me as the masked attendants move through the aisles, his voice tinged with sympathy. “Guess I spoke too soon. He threw in a vague threat, after all.” He hesitates, then adds, “Sorry, that was my fault. You okay?”
I force a small smile, but inside, I’m hollow, like something has curled in on itself. “Yeah. Just need the bathroom.”
I slip out of my row, weaving past the chattering crowd. I don’t look at the masked attendants or the sleek invitations they hand out.
I don’t look at Chase as I pass him.
But as I reach the door, his voice cuts through the noise, low and rough. “Take the damn invitation, Violet.”
I want to tell him to go fuck himself. That I would rather spend the evening watching paint dry.
I don’t.
I may have got away with running my mouth once, but I’m not stupid enough to think I’ll get away with it again. Instead, I focus my mind on Gracie. Picturing her being happy at college. And I don’t acknowledge him at all.
But I sense his eyes on me the entire way out.