Chapter 2 Above My Desk
Violet
Everyone feels it when Rowan Ashcroft arrives. The air doesn’t change, not literally, but the building tightens around him anyway, like the walls straighten their posture.
The elevator doors slide open, and Rowan steps out like he’s stepping onto a battlefield he already won.
Six-foot-something. Broad shoulders. Tailored charcoal suit that fits him like it was stitched onto his skin. No smile. No wasted movement. His eyes sweep the lobby once, efficient, assessing, cold.
He doesn’t look at Avery. He doesn’t look at the security guard. He looks at me.
Not warmly. Not kindly. Like I’m a component in a system that better function.
I stand anyway.
Rowan walks toward the desk. Avery practically vibrates with the need to be noticed and fails spectacularly. She follows a half-step behind him, like she’s trying to attach herself to his shadow.
Rowan stops at the desk. “Schedule,” he says.
No good morning. No hello. No human words.
I slide the folder toward him, perfectly aligned, tabbed, printed, and clean. “Your nine a.m. is confirmed. Legal moved to eleven. Theo’s press prep is at ten-thirty and he requested your presence for five minutes.”
Rowan opens the folder without looking at my hands. “I didn’t approve five minutes.”
“He requested,” I repeat. “You can refuse.”
Rowan’s gaze flicks up. Quick. Sharp. “He doesn’t request.”
There’s something in that sentence that feels like a warning shot.
I don’t blink. “Then consider it a notice.”
A tiny pause. Not surprise—interest. Like I’ve said something mildly entertaining. Then it’s gone.
I reach down and lift the coffee tray from behind the desk. One cup. Black. Two ice cubes. A very specific brand of beans he insists on. I place it on the edge of the desk without ceremony. Next to it, a muffin in a small paper bag—blueberry, warmed for exactly twelve seconds so it’s not hot enough to burn him, just warm enough to not be offensive.
Rowan’s hand closes around the coffee. He doesn’t say thank you.
He never does.
Avery leans forward, smiling too wide. “I told them you like it black today,” she announces, like she did anything.
Rowan doesn’t even glance at her. He sips the coffee, eyes still on the schedule, and says, “Move the twelve-thirty.”
I answer instantly. “To one.”
Rowan’s eyes lift again—just briefly—because I didn’t ask where. I already know where it can go without breaking the rest of the day.
He nods once. It’s not approval. It’s acknowledgment. Like a machine recognizing another machine.
Behind him, Avery’s smile wobbles.
Rowan shuts the folder. “No calls.”
“I’ll filter,” I say.
He turns to leave. Stops one more time, just long enough for the air to sharpen around us.
“Pierce,” he says, using my last name like a command.
“Yes, Mr. Ashcroft.”
His eyes cut over me. Not my chest. Not my legs. Not like the men who think receptionists exist for decoration.
He looks at my face. My posture. The tension I’m holding so tightly I might snap in half.
“You’re late,” he says.
I stare back at him. “I’m not.”
Rowan doesn’t argue. He doesn’t apologize. He just holds my gaze like he’s testing the strength of it.
Then he turns and walks away.
The elevator swallows him. The doors close like nothing happened.
But something did.
Because Rowan Ashcroft noticed time.
He noticed me.
And I don’t know which is worse—the fact that he did, or the fact that a small part of me wants him to do it again.
The phone rings.
I answer on the first ring, because I don’t get to fall apart in this lobby. Not with rehab bills waiting to crush me. Not with my brother still missing. Not with Rowan Ashcroft walking the halls like a storm wearing a suit.
“Ashcroft Industries,” I say, voice steady, smile sharp. “How may I direct your call?”
The voice on the other end says something that makes my blood run cold.
And for the first time since I took this job—
I hesitate.