10. Luther
Luther
“You survived another one-on-one with Anouk. Congratulations.” Erin settles into the chair and lifts her legs, setting her Louboutins on my desk with practiced ease—part provocation, part habit, and entirely Erin.
I give her a look. “Get your expensive shoes off my desk, Erin.”
She smirks and does as I ask.
“You saw the debacle in the conference room. Luther, you can’t have her present to the board. Your father will rip you a new one if you do.”
I bristle. “Erin—”
She lifts a manicured hand. “You know it, too.”
Yeah, I do.
“Talking to her is like trying to decode alien speech.” She rises and walks toward the wall-to-ceiling windows. She can’t sit still, always on the move, like me, which is why we get along so well. And this is why we didn’t work out as a couple.
Once upon a time, we dated.
It was at NYU. I was twenty. She was twenty-one. We ended things because we were too similar—too competitive—and because my heart was never in it the way hers was.
Now we’re colleagues.
Lately, though, something has shifted on her end. Not mine. I see it in the way she lingers, in the way her gaze stays a beat too long.
I’m not blind. I know she wants more from me than I can give.
I’m not attracted to her—not even remotely.
I keep hoping we won’t have to name it out loud, but if she doesn’t stop coming on to me, subtle as it is, I suspect we will—especially since she and her boyfriend broke up a couple of months ago.
She leans against the frame, arms crossed. The sun is behind her—gold halo, perfect cheekbones, textbook corporate powerhouse.
“So, how did it really go with her?” she asks.
I shrug. “It was fine.”
“She stuttered a lot, didn’t she?” Erin smirks. “She always does and always will. It’s who she is.”
“It’s not incompetence,” I say. “It’s physiological.”
Erin lifts an eyebrow—mildly impressed. “Dot’s been lecturing you, I see.”
“She has a point.”
“Mm.” Erin tilts her head. “Are you defending her?”
“I’m observing her.” I clear my throat. “She’s smart.”
“Smart doesn’t always mean fit for leadership.”
“She’s not in leadership,” I point out.
“And let’s keep it that way.”
I look away.
Erin steps closer, voice softening. She leans against my desk, close to my chair, close to me. “Luther, I know you. I know how hard you try to do well. To lead well.”
There’s tenderness there—real or strategic, I’m not sure.
“You’ve been lonely these past few years,” she adds, a hand on my shoulder. “The rotations. The expectations. The pressure. I’m here. You know that.”
I don’t flinch at her touch, but internally something locks.
Not this. Damn it!
She’s raw right now—her boyfriend cheated on her and then walked away. I genuinely feel for her. But sympathy isn’t a reason to cross a line. I won’t be her rebound.
“We shouldn’t—” I begin.
“We’re adults,” she cuts in gently. “And we work well together.”
She steps closer, eyes dipping to my mouth. “We could be good again.”
Her perfume is familiar. Her proximity is familiar. Her confidence is familiar.
Familiar but not attractive.
“I don’t think so, Erin,” I say carefully. “I’m not interested in you like that.”
With Erin, you have to be blunt because nuances don’t work with her, not when she’s going after something she wants.
“Come on, Luther, we used to be…amazing.”
That’s an exaggeration I can’t get behind. Would it be easy if I were into her? Yes, absolutely. But I can’t force attraction. I can’t fake interest.
She leans in. Her breath warms the air between us. A face flashes through my mind.
Soft brown hair. Warm, startled green eyes. A hesitant smile she tries to hide.
Anouk Starling.
In the conference room. Trembling. Trying so damn hard. And despite everything—despite her stutter, her fear, her nerves—she holds my attention in a way Erin never has.
I roll my chair away from Erin and stand up. “Not happening, Erin.”
She looks like I hit her. “Luther—”
“We work together, Erin, and I like working with you; let’s not fuck it up.” My warning is clear. If this happens again, you’re gone.
She takes a long breath, nods. “Long day,” she says, her cheeks flushed. She’s embarrassed, but like always, she moves past it. “Get some rest.”
“Yeah,” I murmur.
She reaches the door, hesitates. “I…ah….” She shakes her head as if deciding against saying what she’s thinking and leaves.
I run a hand through my hair and exhale hard.
My phone rings then.
It’s Dot.
“Do you know where Anouk is?” she asks without preamble.
“I…we were at a meeting and then she—”
“She didn’t come back to her office.” There’s panic in Dot’s voice.
“What’s going on?”
“I got a call from her brother. She’s upset. I can’t find her.”
I frown. “Her brother?”
“Yes. Luther, find her and just…look, just be with her until…hell.”
“Dot? What the fuck is going on?”
“She’s not answering her phone, and she’s not in her cubicle,” she cries out.
I’ve never heard Dot afraid. This is serious.
“Okay. I’ll find her, alright.” I step outside and see Vijay. “Hey, have you seen Anouk?”
He scowls. “Yeah. She went into a privacy room and—”
“Which one?” I demand.
He nods to the one across from the conference room, where she’d just stumbled all over herself during the presentation.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say casually, but my heart is hammering. I walk to the conference room, knock once, and open the door.
Inside, I see Anouk. She’s sitting on a chair. Frozen. Like a doll.
“I found her,” I whisper into the phone at Dot and close the door behind me.
“Okay. How is she?”
“Anouk?” I ask softly.
She looks up at me. “Luther?”
“Are you okay?”
She nods vaguely. ”Of course.”
No stutter at all.
There is a blankness to her.
“Luther, just be with her. Finn is on his way, and he’ll take her home,” Dot barks. “I’m in Sacramento for a meeting and….”
“Finn?” The fucking boyfriend?
“Yes, her brother. He’ll be there. And you just…be with her.”
He’s her brother? What the fuck?
“I will,” I promise and end the call.
I close the door behind me and pull a chair next to her.
Something is very wrong.
This is not the woman I know. She’s not mousy or quiet, she’s not giggling, she’s not…anything. She’s empty. I text the front desk and let them know that when Finn comes for Anouk, to send him to this room.
“Hey, you okay?”
She raises her eyes. The green is bright. There are tears in her eyes. I’ve never seen that before.
“Okay,” she says automatically.
I don’t know why, but I take her hand in mine. It’s frozen cold. I take both her hands in mine and rub some heat into them.
“Your…ah…Finn is on his way.”
She doesn’t respond. She’s scaring me.
“Anouk, baby, hey, look at me.”
She does.
Empty. Still nothing.
“What’s going on?”
“She’s dying,” she whispers. Her voice is now almost childlike. “I don’t know how to feel about it.”
Not one fucking stutter.
What happened to her? What’s going on?
“Who’s dying?” I ask softly.
She lets out a brittle laugh—the kind that has no joy in it. “She is.”
Still no stutter. Not a single broken syllable.
Something inside me goes still.
“Anouk,” I say gently, keeping my voice low. “Who’s dying?”
She blinks, once, twice, as if her brain is lagging behind her mouth. “I just…I don’t know how to feel about it.”
Her voice is calm—a flat line.
I inhale sharply.
She looks down at her hands in my grasp, as if they belong to someone else. “I should feel something. I should feel sad or angry or relieved or…something, right?” She swallows. “But it’s just blank in my head. Like someone turned off all the lights.”
Ah, hell.
I don’t know how to deal with this. I don’t even know who is dying and why she’s in shock.
I shift closer and, carefully—not pushing, not assuming—place my arm around her shoulders.
She stiffens for half a breath.
Then she collapses into me. Leans into me, like her bones are giving up their job and trusting mine instead.
I wrap both arms around her, pulling her gently against me.
She’s shaking. Tiny tremors. Barely there. They break me.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel,” she whispers repeatedly into my shirt. “I don’t know what the right feeling is.”
“There isn’t one,” I murmur. “There’s no script for this, Anouk.”
“I don’t want her to die.”
Pause, a soft moan.
“I don’t want her to live either.” Emotion cracks her voice.
She presses her forehead to my chest. My hand moves on instinct, stroking her hair, wanting to comfort her.
“You’re allowed to feel all of that,” I whisper. “Or none of it. There’s no right answer.”
She shudders and grips my sleeve tightly, as if she needs something to keep from falling.
Her breathing changes gradually—from shallow and sharp to slow, uneven, and thready.
She’s melting into me. This is trust. Raw and unguarded.
It feels like someone is handing me a glass heart and begging me not to drop it.
After a while, I don’t know how long, a knock sounds at the door.
She flinches violently.
“It’s okay,” I murmur. “It’s Finn.”
Her eyes widen, panic slipping in.
I squeeze her hand. “He’s here for you.”
There’s a muffled noise from the outside. “Annie? You in there, baby? It’s Finn.”
I stand, not letting go of her hand until the last possible second. Then I open the door.
Finn is in uniform pants and a firehouse T-shirt, hair still damp like he ran water through it before leaving.
His eyes sweep the room in one hard, assessing pass.
They land on Anouk. The hardness disappears instantly, replaced by fierce concern.
“Annie,” he breathes.
She looks so small in the chair, shoulders caved inward.
“Hey,” he says softly, crouching in front of her.
Her face crumples. Finn cups the back of her head, pulling her forehead to his.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
I step back, giving them space.
Finn looks up at me. I brace for anger, for suspicion, for a punch to the jaw—because I don’t know what he knows or what he assumes.
He surprises me by saying, “Thank you. Thank you for staying with her.”
I swallow. “Of course.”
Finn slides his arm around her shoulders. “Come on, Annie. Let’s get you home.”
She stands shakily.
Before they leave, she looks back at me.
Her eyes—usually bright—are dim and raw, but there’s something else there, too.
Recognition? Connection? There’s a fragile thread tied between us, which snaps tight in my chest.
“Luther, thank you,” she whispers.
“You’re most welcome,” I reply simply.
She lets Finn lead her out.
I watch them walk to the elevator bay; every muscle in my body trembles with the effort not to go after her.
This woman is getting under my skin, and I don’t know how to feel about it.
But I do know I want her to trust me like she does Finn…her brother, boyfriend, or whomever he is.
I want her to look at me like that—with full confidence that he’s got her.