Chapter 37 Lunch
Violet
I arrive early.
Not because I’m eager. Not because I slept well.
Because routine is the only thing that still makes sense.
Camille stumbles in beside me, keys jangling, hair half-tamed, sunglasses still perched on her head even though we’re indoors.
“I hate mornings,” she mutters. “But I love that latte machine. I did the math—this thing is already saving me money.”
“You did not do the math,” I say, shrugging out of my jacket.
“I did vibes math,” she corrects, yawning. “Which counts.”
She drops into her chair and immediately starts pulling her makeup bag out of her tote.
While Camille blends concealer like her life depends on it, I’m already moving.
Coffee first.
Rowan’s mug is washed, warmed, ready. Black. Two ice cubes on the side because he likes the option. The muffin goes into the warmer, blueberry, his favorite.
I print his schedule, align the pages, clip them once. No staples. He hates staples.
The building hums awake around us.
Security checks in. Elevators ding. Phones start lighting up like they’ve been waiting for permission.
I log in.
The switchboard comes alive under my fingers.
"Ashcroft Industries, Violet Pierce speaking."
"No, he’s unavailable at the moment."
"Yes, I can take a message."
"I’ll have legal return your call."
"Please stop yelling, sir, I can hear you just fine."
Camille snorts softly at one particularly dramatic caller and mouths yikes.
Rowan appears exactly when he always does.
He stops at my desk, already reading the schedule before I finish sliding it toward him. He takes the coffee without comment, the muffin with a nod.
“Reroute non-political calls,” he says, scanning the page. “I’ll take the political ones.”
I look up. “All of them?”
His mouth tightens. “Unfortunately. Damage control.”
I don’t ask which councilwoman. I don’t need to.
“She likes to talk trash,” he adds flatly.
“Noted,” I say, already making the adjustment on the board.
He pauses, glances at me—really glances, like he’s checking something invisible—then nods once and heads into his office.
The door closes.
And the day officially begins.
The phones do not stop.
A lobbyist demands to be patched through immediately. I tell him no and give him a time slot instead. A donor wants reassurance that nothing is “wrong.” I tell her everything is proceeding as scheduled. A reporter tries to sneak past under the guise of “just a quick question.”
I transfer him to legal.
Camille handles walk-ins with a smile sharp enough to cut glass.
I juggle calendars, adjust buffers, flag urgent emails, and make sure no one with a microphone gets anywhere near Rowan without permission.
At one point, I realize I’ve taken three calls at once, sipped my coffee, and corrected a typo on a contract without even thinking about it.
This is the only place my brain quiets.
Around ten, Camille leans over and whispers, “You’re scary good at this.”
I don’t look up. “Don’t spread that around.”
She grins. “Too late.”
By noon, I’ve rerouted seven political calls, blocked two unscheduled visitors, and prevented one very persistent aide from staging an ambush in the elevator.
Rowan doesn’t come out once.
Which means things are bad—but contained.
And as exhausting as it is, as heavy as everything feels beneath the surface, there’s a strange steadiness in knowing exactly what I’m doing.
I’m too busy juggling calls, logging messages, and correcting a calendar conflict before it can become a problem. But somewhere between rerouting a donor and fielding a very persistent city aide, it clicks.
Rowan hasn’t asked for lunch.
He always asks for lunch.
The thought sits wrong in my stomach. Not panic—something quieter. Like noticing the hum of a machine go silent and realizing you don’t know how long it’s been that way.
I glance at the clock.
12:07.
I hesitate.
Then I do something stupid.
I knock once—more out of habit than permission—and walk straight into his office.
Bad idea.
Rowan is standing, phone pressed hard to his ear, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up. His voice is sharp enough to cut.
“No,” he snaps. “Those numbers don’t match the reports, and I’m not signing off on fabricated optimism just because it makes you feel better.”
Silence on the other end. Then—
“I don’t care what your assistant said,” he continues, pacing. “Fix it. We’ll discuss this over lunch tomorrow. I’m moving the meeting up, and if you’re not there—” He stops short, eyes lifting to me. “—then don’t bother showing up at all. Lose my number.”
He ends the call without waiting for a response.
The room feels charged, like the air right before a storm breaks.
He turns to me slowly.
Disapproval flickers across his face—brief, controlled—but it’s there.
And annoyingly, distracting as hell.
Riled up like this, there’s an edge to him I understand now. Not charm. Not polish. Pressure. Focus. The kind of intensity people mistake for confidence and get hooked on.
I clear my throat. “You didn’t ask for lunch.”
He blinks, like he’d forgotten the concept entirely.
“I didn’t,” he agrees.
“Do you have plans,” I ask carefully, “or would you like me to grab something from the café across the street?”
He studies me for a second too long, then exhales through his nose.
“Yes,” he says. “Get lunch.”
He rattles it off like it’s muscle memory.
“Turkey sandwich. Rye bread. No mayo. Extra mustard. Tomato, but only if it’s fresh—if it looks sad, skip it. Pickles on the side, not on the sandwich. And a latte. Oat milk. One pump vanilla. Extra hot.”
I nod once.
No questions. No clarifications.
I already know better.
“Thirty minutes,” he adds, already turning back toward his desk. “I’ll be on calls.”
“I’ll be back before that,” I say.
He doesn’t respond.
I leave, closing the door quietly behind me.
As I walk back to my desk, I file the order away in my head under critical information.
Not because he asked.
But because remembering it feels… necessary.
Like my life depends on it.