Chapter 43 Stepping In
Violet
The SUV glides to the curb like it belongs there.
That’s the first thing that makes my stomach tighten.
The second is the way people stare when Camille and I step out—two black-clad bodyguards flanking us, doors opened before we can reach for the handles, the kind of quiet efficiency that turns heads without making a sound.
I keep my face neutral. Calm. Professional.
Inside, though, I feel like I’m wearing a spotlight.
Camille leans in as we walk through the doors. “If anyone asks, I’m pretending this is a celebrity thing.”
I huff under my breath. “You are not a celebrity.”
“Tell that to the guy who just tripped over a potted plant staring at us.”
I don’t look. I don’t need to.
The lobby feels different today—charged. Conversations die when we pass. Eyes follow. People are curious, nervous, speculative. News travels fast in this building, and the combination of yesterday’s fallout and today’s visible security has turned me into something people want to poke at.
Or test.
Or blame.
I square my shoulders and keep walking.
Theo is waiting near the security desk.
He looks like he slept maybe three hours. His tie is crooked. His smile, though—easy, familiar—is firmly in place, like a shield.
“Morning, ladies,” he says brightly. “Hope you enjoyed the royal escort.”
Camille raises an eyebrow. “Are we knights now, or damsels?”
“Depends,” he replies. “Do you have swords?”
I don’t smile, but my shoulders loosen a fraction.
Theo’s gaze flicks to me, sharper now. Measuring. “Rowan’s taking the day off,” he says. “I’m in charge.”
I stop walking.
Slowly, I turn to face him.
“In charge,” I repeat.
“Yes,” he says, nodding once. “Handling everything. Calls, meetings, damage control—”
“Theo,” I say flatly.
He holds my stare for exactly three seconds.
Then he folds.
“Okay, correction,” he sighs. “Rowan put you in charge of the appointments. I’m… overseeing.”
Camille snorts. “Wow. That lasted long.”
Theo rubs the back of his neck. “He was very specific. And very grumpy. And very clear that if I touched the schedule without you, he’d bury me under legal paperwork.”
That tracks.
I exhale slowly. “Alright. I’ll handle it.”
Theo brightens immediately. “Knew you would. I’ll be around if you need anything.”
I nod once and head to my desk.
The moment I sit down, the screen lights up like it’s been waiting for me.
Calendar. Inbox. Voicemail queue.
I don’t hesitate.
I pull up Rowan’s schedule and start triaging.
First: anything political that isn’t urgent gets rerouted. Anything internal gets pushed back. Anything that looks like posturing rather than necessity? Cancelled with a polite but firm follow-up.
I start calling.
“Good morning, this is Violet from Ashcroft Industries—”
“Yes, I understand the inconvenience—”
“No, unfortunately Mr. Ashcroft is unavailable today—”
“Yes, I can offer Thursday at ten or Monday at two—”
Some people are gracious. Some are annoyed. A few try to bully their way through.
Those get redirected to me.
By the time I hang up the fifth call, Camille is watching me like I’ve grown a second head.
“You’re scary when you’re calm,” she murmurs.
“I’m efficient,” I correct, already dialing again.
Two appointments refuse to budge.
One is a hedge fund manager who insists his “window is today or never.”
The other is a lobbying group that apparently thinks yelling into the phone will manifest compliance.
I make a note.
They’ll be coming in.
To speak with me.
I don’t feel intimidated. I feel… prepared.
Then I see it.
The lunch.
Rowan’s lunch.
With the development company.
My stomach drops.
I click into the details—private room, high-end restaurant, four attendees. I already made the reservation days ago, but Rowan’s name is still firmly attached to it, and no matter how many times I refresh the page, the restaurant doesn’t magically pick up when I call.
Straight to voicemail.
I try again.
Nothing.
Of course.
This isn’t something I can cancel without consequences. This isn’t a phone call or a meeting I can reschedule with charm and authority.
This is big.
And Rowan is not here.
I stare at the screen for a long moment.
Then I do the thing I’ve been avoiding all morning.
I pull out my phone.
His name is already there.
I type carefully.
Violet: Morning. I know you’re out today. I’ve rescheduled what I can, but the development lunch isn’t budging. They’re confirmed and expecting you. How would you like me to handle it?
I hesitate, then add:
Violet: I can attend on your behalf if needed, but I want to make sure that’s acceptable.
I hit send.
My phone buzzes almost immediately.
Not a reply—just the confirmation that the message was delivered.
Camille watches me from her desk. “You okay?”
“I will be,” I say, setting the phone face down and straightening the stack of folders beside me. “It’s just… a lot.”
She softens. “You don’t have to prove anything today.”
I don’t look at her.
“I know,” I say quietly. “But I will.”
The lobby doors open.
The first of the unmovable appointments arrives.
I lift my chin, square my shoulders, and stand.
The hedge fund manager arrives at exactly ten thirty.
Of course he does.
He’s tall, silver-haired, expensive in that way men get when they’ve never been told no. His personal assistant trails half a step behind him, tablet clutched to her chest like a shield. She looks younger than me. Tired in a way I recognize.
I stand the moment they approach.
“Mr. Calloway?” I say smoothly. “I’m Violet Pierce. If you’ll follow me.”
He blinks once.
Not what he expected.
But he nods.
I lead them down the hall to the smaller conference room—glass walls frosted halfway up, privacy without isolation. I gesture them inside, then take the seat at the head of the table before either of them can hesitate.
Control matters.
His assistant’s eyes flicker—surprised—but she recovers quickly and takes a seat beside him.
“I was under the impression I’d be meeting with Mr. Ashcroft,” Calloway says, folding his hands.
“You were,” I reply calmly. “Unfortunately, he’s unavailable today. I’m fully authorized to speak on his behalf.”
That gives him pause.
“Authorized how?” he asks.
I don’t bristle. I don’t rush.
“I manage his calendar, contracts, and executive negotiations,” I say. “If something requires his final signature, I’ll flag it. If it doesn’t, I’ll resolve it.”
Silence stretches.