Chapter 17 Crossing lines
Holland stared at the small digits glowing in the bottom-right corner of her desktop screen. 6:45 p.m. She exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that carried more weight than she realized, and turned away from the larger monitor. Her gaze drifted toward the spreadsheet open on her laptop, numbers swimming into each other, meaningless. Her thoughts refused to stay anchored.
She glanced up again.
Just outside her office, Camille Lustrelle remained at her desk, head bent over papers, as if Friday night didn’t exist, as if the entire world outside the office didn’t matter.
Go out for drinks.
The words replayed in Holland’s mind, casual and audacious. Bold. And after their earlier clash, no less. She wasn’t sure what unsettled her more—the sheer nerve or the way Camille had delivered it without hesitation, without a trace of intimidation. Holland leaned back in her chair, letting another long breath slide out. Why did it feel as though Camille had stripped her bare with a few words?
Most people flinched at her title, avoided her, or bent their will to suit her presence. Not Camille. The girl spoke with candor, with unfiltered boldness. Maybe it was the confidence bred from wealth and status. Maybe it was something inherent. Whatever it was, it rattled Holland more than she would admit.
Holland shut her laptop with a deliberate motion, gathering her belongings slowly. Ever since Oliver’s unannounced visit and the clash with Camille, she had begun leaving earlier than usual. Where she once stayed late without question, she now drove aimlessly through the city, wandering between tasks and obligations, killing time before going home. That old habit of buried work was beginning to crack, and she didn’t entirely dislike it.
Camille had made it clear from her first day as Holland’s assistant: she wouldn’t leave until Holland did. And tonight, on a Friday, Holland couldn’t help feeling she was delaying her young assistant’s evening, keeping her from what she might have wanted.
"Leaving already?" Camille’s voice cut through the quiet hum of the office. She rose from her chair, snapping her notebook closed with quick efficiency.
Holland’s gaze flickered to the notebook, then to Camille. "Yes," she said simply. "Have a wonderful evening. And I expect you here tomorrow at eight."
Camille blinked, confused. “Wait, what? Tomorrow?”
Holland paused by her desk, adjusting the weight of her bag on her shoulder. “Yes. We’re in the middle of a major launch. The company is busy. It’ll only be a half day,” she added, her tone calm, carefully neutral.
“Of course,” she continued, feigning a softness she didn’t entirely feel. “If you want to sleep in, that’s fine. Not everyone is cut out for this kind of work.”
Camille’s eyes narrowed, catching the subtle taunt beneath the words. Holland was pushing, testing. After a pause, Camille crossed her arms, holding her gaze firmly. “I’ll be here. Bright and early.”
Holland turned to leave but tossed a few more words over her shoulder. “You don’t have to keep playing office, Camille.”
“I’m fine,” Camille replied with a smirk that tugged slightly at the corners of her mouth.
Holland nodded once, moving toward the elevators. “Have a good night.”
Camille watched her go, then quickly stuffed her notebook into her bag and followed.
“Wait,” she called, a hint of urgency in her tone. “There’s still time to catch this thing called happy hour. Mandy said so. You could come.”
Holland exhaled softly, turning slowly to face her. “Is this going to be a thing?”
Camille frowned. “What thing?”
“You’re crossing the set lines, again ,” Holland said, the words low and firm. “I’m your superior. I expect you to respect that.”
Camille laughed lightly, the sound filling the small space around them. “Superior? Wow?” She raised a brow. “I... I honestly haven’t heard that word in quite a while.” Her expression softened. “Okay, just to put it out there, I respect you. I really do, Chief.”
“I don’t think you do,” Holland said, voice dropping almost to a murmur.
“I do. I swear,” Camille replied, meeting her gaze squarely. “I respect how brilliant you are. Your work ethic. The way you carry yourself. I’ve only worked with you a few days, but already, I respect you more than most people I’ve met in my life.”
Holland opened her mouth but no words came. She had no response, and the absence of one said more than any remark could.
The elevator doors opened, and they stepped inside together.
“So… drinks?” Camille ventured again, a faint, hopeful lilt in her voice.
Holland shook her head slightly. “Stop.”
“So… heading out for a date with your husband then?” Camille asked as the elevator began to descend. “It is Friday night, after all. Any special plans?”
Holland bit her lower lip. Camille didn’t know when to quit. “I’m not doing this with you,” she said, her voice firmer than intended.
“Why not? What’s so wrong with wanting to get to know better? Nothing could go...”
“One more word, and I’m looking for a new secretary,” Holland snapped.
Camille froze, processing the threat. She knew it wasn’t entirely idle, but also not meant to harm. She offered a small nod and let the rest of her words fall away.
The elevator was quiet.
Camille’s gaze drifted, unconsciously, toward Holland, who stood stiffly a step ahead. Her eyes lingered, taking in the precise angles of her frame, the strength in her posture, the way her presence seemed to fill the space effortlessly. Holland was striking, commanding, and something about her seemed warm yet distant, like sunlight filtered through glass.
Without realizing it, Camille leaned in slightly, drawn to the faint, expensive scent that lingered in the elevator. Warm, subtle, unmistakably her.
The elevator doors opened with a soft ding. Camille stepped past her, steadying herself, cheeks warming against her will. “Have a wonderful evening,” she said lightly, offering the words as she quickened her escape.
Holland watched her go, the faintest flicker of something unspoken stirring in her chest. Her mind raced, questions pressing against her thoughts: Why did it matter so much that Camille had spoken so freely? Why had she reacted in ways that were, in theory, completely unnecessary?
She leaned against the elevator wall for a moment, letting the subtle movement of descent pass unnoticed, replaying Camille’s words, her laughter, the way her gaze had held hers. The small, impossible act of camaraderie had left a trace she couldn’t ignore.
By the time she reached the lobby, Holland had pushed herself forward, mentally preparing for the drive home. Her bag was heavier than it should have been, or perhaps that weight was not in her belongings at all. Her thoughts clung to the girl who had dared to cross lines, who had teased, challenged, and quietly unsettled her sense of authority.
Stepping out into the night, she inhaled deeply, letting the city air fill her lungs. The hum of traffic, the distant laughter of street-goers, and the faint glow of neon signs blended into a rhythm that she had begun to recognize as calming. Holland sipped the last of her water from the bottle she always carried, letting it wash over the lingering tension, though it did little to smooth the quiet, persistent curiosity left behind.
Driving through the streets, her heels occasionally brushing against the pedal as she adjusted her seat, Holland’s thoughts lingered on Camille—the words, the boldness, the laughter. It was infuriating, frustrating, and yet, undeniably magnetic. Holland had prided herself on control, on predictability, on keeping others at measured distances. Camille had upended all of that with a few moments of conversation, a laugh, and a gaze that seemed too direct to be casual.
Holland shook her head as the city lights blurred past her windows, the patterns of yellow and white fading into the darkness. She told herself that it was nothing, a fleeting irritation, a professional irritation masked as curiosity. But the feeling lingered, persistent and quietly insistent, whispering that perhaps some boundaries were meant to be tested, even for someone like her.
For once, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to resist.