Chapter 2
Everett
The call from security comes through before I reach my office door.
"Mr. Lockwood, HR confirms Margot Bennett. Executive assistant pool, assigned to the seventeenth floor. Employed here fourteen months. No prior incidents. A clean record."
"Fine." I end the call, pocket my phone, and keep walking.
Behind me, somewhere in that maze of cubicles and glass, she waits. Margot Bennett. Messy bun, ink-stained fingers, eyes wide with panic when I cornered her in the elevator. The image sticks. Her on her knees, scrambling for papers, with that ridiculous binder clutched to her chest.
My assistant Patricia glances up as I pass her desk. "Sir, I have security on hold."
"Tell them to let her go." I don't break stride. "She works here."
"Oh. Should I -"
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intend. I soften it by half a degree. "Handle it."
My office swallows me whole - floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan, leather and dark wood, silence thick enough to breathe. I drop into my chair, pull up the merger files, and try to focus on the numbers that should matter more than anything else right now.
They blur.
I see her instead. The way she flinched when I spoke. The tremor in her hands. The humiliation burning across her face when I made her walk that floor in front of everyone.
Excessive. The reaction was excessive.
I know this. I don't care.
The phone on my desk buzzes. Rowan's name lights up the screen. I consider ignoring it, decide against it. He'll assume I'm dead and show up with paramedics.
"What?" I answer.
"Good morning to you too, sunshine." His voice carries that perpetual edge of amusement, the sound of someone who finds the world entertaining instead of exhausting. "Calling to check on your sparkling personality. Also to ask…who've you got lined up for next Friday?"
Next Friday. The charity gala. The one the board made crystal clear I couldn't skip.
"I'm working on it," I say.
"That's code for 'nobody.'" Papers rustle on his end. "Want me to make some calls? I know a few…"
"No." The word lands too fast, too final. I soften my tone. "I'll handle it."
"Handle it how? With another actress who'll sell the story to Page Six before dessert arrives?" He pauses, lets that land. "The board's already crawling up your ass about the merger. You really want to add fuel?"
My jaw tightens. Outside the window, the city spreads out in all directions—millions of people, millions of problems, none of them mine until they cost me money or time. "I'm aware of the optics."
"Are you? Because from where I'm sitting, you're about three tabloid photos away from tanking the whole deal." His voice shifts, loses the humor. "They want stability, Ev. Family values. Whatever corporate bullshit makes them feel warm and fuzzy about handing over their company."
"I know what they want."
"Then deliver it. Find someone respectable. Someone boring. Someone who won't show up in a barely-there dress and make headlines." He stops. Waits. "You still there?"
"Yeah."
"You sound distracted."
I am. My screen shows the assistant pool directory—names, photos, departments. Standard HR file. I scroll without meaning to, without deciding to. The cursor hovers.
"I have to go," I tell Rowan. "I'll figure it out."
"Before next Friday?"
"Before next Friday."
I end the call as my office line buzzes again. My assistant's voice, crisp and efficient: "Mr. Lockwood, Lenora Harrow on line one."
Perfect.
I punch the button. "Lenora."
"Everett." Her voice could freeze water. Elegant, controlled, twenty years of board experience packed into every syllable. She's old enough to be my mother, carries herself with the same iron-spined authority mine did. The comparison grates. "Do you have a moment?"
"Always." I lean back in my chair, brace for impact.
"The charity gala on next week. You're attending."
Not a question. "Yes."
"Someone appropriate, I trust." Ice cracks through the phone line.
Heat climbs my spine—anger, frustration, the familiar weight of being managed. "I'm aware of the board's concerns."
"Are you?" She doesn't raise her voice. Doesn't need to. "Because the merger depends on us presenting a stable, respectable image. We’re down to the wire and I don’t want any excuses for terms to change.
The Hartwell Group is a family company, Everett.
Traditional values. Conservative leadership.
They're already nervous about your... lifestyle. "
"My lifestyle." I repeat the words flat, emotionless.
"Your revolving door of companions. Your late-night appearances in gossip columns. Your reputation as Manhattan's most eligible—and least committal—bachelor." She pauses. "It's become a liability."
The words land where she aims them. Direct hit.
"This upcoming event is critical," she continues.
"The Hartwell CEO will be there. His wife.
His board members. They'll be watching. Evaluating.
Deciding if we're really the kind of company they want to merge with.
" Another pause, this one weighted with ultimatum.
"Bring someone stable. Someone respectable. Someone who won't embarrass us."
"Or what?"
"Or we reconsider your role in these negotiations." Her tone doesn't shift, doesn't soften. "The board has options, Everett. We can send other representatives. People who understand the importance of image."
My breath comes shallow, controlled. The threat sits between us, clean and sharp. "Understood."
"Good. I look forward to meeting your guest." She ends the call without waiting for a response.
I set the phone down. Carefully. My hand wants to throw it through the window.
Outside, the city gleams in afternoon light. Somewhere in this building, in one of a thousand identical cubicles, people work. People I employ. People who depend on the decisions I make to keep this company running, growing, profitable.
The merger. The timeline. The necessity of appearing stable, settled, safe.
My screen still shows the assistant pool directory. I scroll through faces, qualifications, hire dates. Most of them fade together - competent, invisible, interchangeable. The way they're supposed to be.
Then I see her.
Margot Bennett. Employee photo from her start date - professional, neat, nothing special. Except I've seen her now. Seen the fire in her eyes when she snapped back at me in the elevator. Seen the way she held herself together even when cornered.
Temporary. Disposable. Exactly what I need.
My finger hovers over her name.
This is insane. She's an employee. She already hates me after this morning's disaster. She'll say no.
But she needs money—that much was obvious from the recycled paper, the worn bag, the desperation in her voice. Everyone needs money.
And I need someone who won't get ideas. Won't see this as an audition for something permanent. Won't mistake a business arrangement for a relationship.
Someone I can control.
My hand moves. Clicks. Her full file opens—work history, performance reviews, emergency contacts. Standard information. Nothing remarkable.
Except she survived fourteen months on the executive floor. Survived the turnover, the pressure, the impossible demands. That takes something.
I reach for my desk phone, punch the extension for my assistant.
"Yes, Mr. Lockwood?"
"Get me Margot Bennett from the assistant pool." The words come out before I can reconsider them. "Have her report to my office."
A pause. Brief, professional. "Right away, sir."
I end the call. Sit back. Wait.
The merger clock ticks in my head—deadlines, deliverables, the weight of hundreds of employees who trust me to keep this company afloat. Who don't know how much I've sacrificed. How much I've buried.
How much I'll do to avoid failing again.
My phone buzzes. A text from Rowan: Seriously, let me make some calls. I know people.
I don't answer.
Instead, I pull up the contract template my lawyers keep on file. Standard NDA. Non-compete clause. Compensation package. The framework for making problems disappear.
For making solutions appear.
The intercom crackles. "Mr. Lockwood, I'm having trouble locating Ms. Bennett. Security released her after your call, and she's not at her desk. Should I—"
"Find her." My voice comes out harder than I intend. "Now."
"Yes, sir."
I stand. Walk to the window. Manhattan spreads below me—steel and glass and ambition, the city that takes everything and gives nothing back unless you fight for it.
I've been fighting my whole life.
I'm not about to stop now.
My phone buzzes again. My assistant: Ms. Bennett located. Sending her up.
Good.
I straighten my tie. Check my reflection in the window glass. Compose my face into the mask I wear for negotiations—calm, controlled, untouchable.
She'll say yes.
She has to.
Because Friday’s Gala is but days away, and I'm out of options.
The elevator chimes in the hallway outside my office. Footsteps approach—hesitant, uneven. A soft knock on my door.
"Come in," I call.
The door opens.
Margot Bennett stands in the threshold, binder clutched against her chest, eyes wary. She's composed herself since this morning—fixed her hair, straightened her blouse—but I can still see the tension in her shoulders. The fear.
Good. Fear means leverage.
***
"Ms. Bennett." I gesture to the chair across from my desk. "Sit down. We need to talk."
She doesn't move. "Am I being fired?"
"No." I meet her gaze, hold it. "I have a proposition for you."
Her eyebrows lift. Suspicion flickers across her face, sharp and intelligent. "What kind of proposition?"
I smile. Cold. Professional. The smile that closes deals and ends arguments.
"The kind you can't refuse."