Chapter 31 Chaos
Rowan
I am losing my goddamn mind.
The phones will not stop ringing. Not one line—all of them. The switchboard lights are blinking like a malfunctioning aircraft panel, emitting sounds I’ve never noticed before because I’ve never had to. Sharp beeps. Low hums. An alarm that might mean something important or might just mean I pressed the wrong button.
People keep talking to me.
That’s the real problem.
They’re asking questions. Too many questions. Questions that should never reach me. Questions Violet filters before they even become words.
“How do you want this routed?”
“Where should these go?”
“Is this approved?”
“Do you know this person?”
No.
No.
No.
And absolutely not.
Someone is trying to move boxes through the lobby—actual boxes, labeled in red—and I tell him they don’t go there. I tell him clearly. Calmly. Slowly.
He just stares at me.
Like he can’t believe I’m the one speaking.
So I call security and have them removed, only for the mailroom to appear ten seconds later with a stack of envelopes and a handheld scanner.
“Sir, I need your signature.”
My what?
“I’ve never signed off on mail in my life,” I snap.
He blinks. “Well… Violet usually—”
Of course she does.
I sign blindly, irritation climbing, and the moment I do, my phone starts ringing again.
Councilman. Same one. Same voice. Same circular argument.
I hang up.
The line reconnects.
I hang up again.
Still there.
I stab at buttons on the phone. HOLD. MUTE. TRANSFER. NOTHING WORKS.
“How the hell are you still here?” I demand into the receiver.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” the councilman says cheerfully.
I close my eyes.
This—this is chaos.
This is what Violet handles. This is what she stands in the middle of every single day without flinching. How does she even breathe in this environment? How does she take a sip of coffee? How does she not throttle someone before noon?
And there she is.
Violet steps inside like she belongs here—because she does—and the noise seems to pull back, just a fraction. My shoulders loosen before I even realize they were tight.
Then I see her eyes.
Red-rimmed. Too shiny. Tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix.
Shit.
What fresh hell did she just come from?
She looks at me, takes in the room in one sweep, already cataloging problems, already preparing to fix them—and I hate that she has to.
I cross the room toward her without thinking. Lower my voice.
“You okay?” I ask.
It’s the first time I’ve asked anyone that in years.
She nods, but it’s tight. Controlled. The kind of nod that means not really.
“I’ll take over,” she says quietly. “Go sit.”
Not should you.
Not maybe.
A directive.
And for the first time all day, I don’t argue.
Because whatever is happening outside these walls—whatever broke her before she walked back in—
This place needs her.
And judging by the look in her eyes, she needs something solid to hold onto.
I don’t close my office door.
I tell myself it’s because the airflow is better.
That’s a lie.
I leave it open because I want to watch her.
Violet slips back into place like she never left—like the world didn’t just rip her open and demand answers she doesn’t have. She sets her bag down, shrugs out of her jacket, and in under thirty seconds the chaos starts to… bend.
Not stop.
Bend.
The switchboard is still lighting up, but now it’s intentional. She presses buttons in combinations I’ve never seen, listens for half a breath, then redirects with precision that borders on instinct.
“Yes, that’s correct—legal handles that, extension 412.”
“No, he’s unavailable. You can send it in writing.”
“If you’re not on the calendar, you’re not coming upstairs.”
She doesn’t raise her voice.
She doesn’t apologize.
She simply decides.
People listen.
Someone approaches the desk—an executive I vaguely recognize, out of place and already irritated. Violet looks up, meets his eyes, and gestures calmly to the seating area without standing.
“You’ll want to wait there,” she says. “Security will verify your badge.”
He opens his mouth to argue.
She tilts her head just slightly.
He sits.
I exhale slowly and lean back in my chair.
How the hell does she do that?
She finally picks up her coffee—still hot, still untouched—and takes a single sip while simultaneously scanning an incoming email and rerouting a call with her free hand. It’s seamless. Like she’s been doing this forever.
The main line rings again.
She answers—and I see it.
The wince.
Just a flicker, gone as fast as it appears.
The councilman.
I don’t hear his voice, but I don’t need to.
“Good afternoon,” Violet says evenly. “No, that won’t be possible.”
Pause.
“No,” she continues. “Because I never agreed to that, which means Mr. Ashcroft never agreed to that.”
Another pause. Longer.
Her fingers move—three buttons pressed in quick succession.
“I understand you’re frustrated,” she says, tone flat. “You can submit a formal request through the appropriate channel.”
She doesn’t wait for a response.
She transfers the call.
Immediately answers another.
Ashcroft Industries hums back into something resembling order.
Camille, meanwhile, is sweating.
Not metaphorically—she’s actually pushing her hair back, juggling two visitors and a stack of folders, eyes darting toward Violet like she’s watching a miracle in real time. Camille is good. Very good.
But Violet?
Violet is something else entirely.
I’m just about to close my eyes—just for a second—when the energy in the lobby shifts again.
Not louder.
Sharper.
Purposeful.
A man steps through the doors with the kind of confidence that doesn’t ask permission. Mid-forties. Neutral suit. No wasted motion. He pauses at security only long enough to be logged, then his gaze lifts—straight to Violet.
She looks up.
They assess each other in a single glance.
Not tension. Not curiosity.
Recognition.
She checks the clock on her screen.
4:18 p.m.
Early.
Her fingers hover over the keyboard as she lifts her eyes—to me.
I straighten slightly in my chair.
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t signal. Just waits.
I meet her gaze through the open doorway and give a single, precise nod.
Send him in.
Her chin dips once in acknowledgment.
She turns back to the man. “Mr. Hale?”
The PI smiles faintly. “That’s me.”
“You’re early,” she says, already standing.
“Couldn’t help myself.”
“Mr. Ashcroft will see you now.”
She doesn’t call upstairs. Doesn’t announce him over the system. She simply gestures toward my office, calm and unquestioned.
The man’s eyes flick—just once—to Violet again, sharper now.
Interesting.