Chapter 4 No Calls
Rowan
I said no calls today.
That wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t flexible. It wasn’t open to interpretation.
So when my phone lights up and rings anyway, the irritation hits before the sound finishes vibrating across my desk.
I don’t look at the screen. I already know.
I pick up. “What.”
The voice on the other end is exactly who I expect.
“Rowan,” Waters says, oily and pleased with himself. “Finally. Your girl downstairs’s been stonewalling me all morning.”
My jaw tightens.
I don’t respond. Silence makes men like him talk faster.
“And listen,” he continues, launching right in, “the council’s moving forward with the bill. Hargrove’s backing it now. It’s good for your industry, but we’ll need your support—”
My attention drifts before he hits the second sentence.
Because Violet Pierce is standing at her desk across the lobby.
She shouldn’t be visible from here. The angle is wrong. The glass reflects just enough that I normally see movement, not people. But today—now—I see her.
Perfect posture. Hands steady. Expression neutral.
Too neutral.
Something’s off.
Waters keeps talking. “—new regulations, tax incentives, environmental compliance, nothing you can’t handle, but we need your name attached—”
I mute the phone. The phone pressed against my ear felt like a weight. Waters was relentless, rambling about some ridiculous new bill again.
I could practically hear the frustration in his voice, but honestly, I couldn’t muster any sympathy for him.
My attention drifted away from his rants, settling instead on Violet, who was seated at her desk across the room. She had messed up again, and in my world, fuck-ups didn’t go unnoticed—or unpunished.
Most people would be looking over their shoulders, waiting for my decision on their fate, but not Avery. Avery was different; she had managed to secure a kind of immunity in my presence. But Violet? She should have known better.
As my mind danced between thoughts of reprimands and consequences, I shot a glance at Avery.
The sight of her was both captivating and infuriating. Every other man would kill for a chance with her, and yet, she had a knack for making my life hell. The only time I felt a reprieve from her incessant demands was when she was asleep or... with my dick in her mouth.
Her figure, tall and blonde with an hourglass body, was in stark contrast to Violet. Violet was petite, her long black hair framing a face that held an earnestness I both appreciated and despised in equal measure.
She never flaunted her looks, never wore the flashy outfits that so many around her did. Instead, she clung to her simplicity—proud, yet anxious about her appearance. I admired that about her, even if I’d never utter those words aloud.
Avery Quinneth is what men ask for.
Tall. Long legs. Narrow waist. A body designed to be noticed and admired. She wears what she’s told not to wear. Smiles when she’s praised. Pouts when she’s denied.
She looks good everywhere.
She fits nowhere.
She opens her mouth now. “Who is it?”
I don’t answer.
She watches me instead, trying to read my face, and fails. Everyone does eventually.
I look back through the glass.
Violet’s hair is pulled back, dark and untouched by dye. No highlights. No trend chasing. She wears the same tailored clothes she always does—nothing tight, nothing revealing, nothing that asks to be looked at.
She doesn’t show her legs. She doesn’t show cleavage. She doesn’t try.
She doesn’t change.
I admire that about her.
She will never know.
Waters unmutes himself somehow. “Rowan? You there?”
"Waters, just send it over in an email," I interrupted, feeling the need to end this pointless conversation. I hung up, knowing full well he’d either ignore my request or take his sweet time getting it to me. Lazy bastard.
I press the intercom button on my desk.
“Pierce,” I say.
My voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t sharpen.
That’s worse.
“Come to my office. Now.”
I release the button.
I don’t look away from the glass as Violet lifts her head.
She doesn’t panic. She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t argue.
She gathers her notepad, straightens her shoulders, and starts walking.
Toward me.
Toward the consequence.
I don’t need to decide anything yet.
I need to see how she handles what comes next.
Failure reveals more than success ever does.
Either way, Violet Pierce is about to learn something important.
No one fucks up in my world without paying for it.
Violet Pierce steps into my office without hesitation.
Avery is on her feet instantly.
Too fast. Too eager. Like a dog that thinks standing up earns praise.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
Avery hates Violet. Not because Violet’s done anything to her, but because Avery understands—on some instinctive level—that Violet is everything she isn’t. The difference shows in ways Avery can’t fix with money or mirrors.
Violet is competent.
Avery is decorative.
It’s that simple.
Avery folds her arms across her chest, posture stiff, chin lifted like she’s waiting for permission to speak. Violet doesn’t look at her. She doesn’t look at anyone except me.
She stops exactly where the invisible line is—the one people learn after being in this office long enough. Close enough to be heard. Far enough to remember their place.
She doesn’t sit.
Good.
I didn’t tell her to.
She stands there, hands relaxed at her sides, shoulders squared. Calm. Controlled. Waiting.
I let the silence stretch.
People fill silence when they’re nervous. They talk. They explain. They apologize.
Violet does none of it.
My gaze drops before I can stop it—not to her face, not to anything she’s tried to present.
To the details she hasn’t bothered hiding.
Her blazer is clean but old. The fabric has softened from too many wears, the edges just beginning to fray at the cuffs if you know where to look. Her shoes are polished but tired, the soles worn thin at the heels. Practical. Overused.
Not replaced.
I take note.
Not because it moves me.
Because it’s information.