Xavier's POV
Monday mornings weren't supposed to feel like this.
Not for me.
I'd built a life where control was my foundation, where every detail was accounted for. My calendar mapped to the minute, my desk arranged in symmetry, my inbox trimmed before nine. It was how I kept order, how I kept distance. Professionalism first. Always.
Yet here I was, staring at the same email for the third time, my eyes skating over words that refused to land. Not because they were complicated—contract reviews never were—but because another sentence kept replaying in my mind.
Do you… have feelings for me?
Her voice when she'd asked had been quiet, almost hesitant. And mine—my denial—had been immediate. Too immediate. I'd clipped the word short, swift, brutal. No.
The right answer. The only answer.
So why did it feel like a crack had splintered through my chest every time I remembered it?
I loosened my tie, leaned back in the leather chair, and forced my gaze to the glowing monitor. Numbers, contracts, schedules. That was all I needed. That was all that mattered.
Until I heard it—heels in the hall, the distinct rhythm I'd come to recognize without meaning to. Steady. Confident. Hers.
Damn it.
A knock followed. "Sir," came her voice through the wood, calm and professional, but warm in a way that always managed to cut deeper than it should. "Clara says Mr. Owens is here for his ten o'clock. She asked me to bring him in."
Travis Owens.
Of course.
I exhaled slowly, made sure my tone was cool when I answered. "Send him in."
The door opened, and she stepped inside first. Folder in hand, dark hair brushing one shoulder, posture perfect as always. And behind her—Travis, all charm in a slate-grey suit, easy grin plastered across his face.
"Mr. Rush," he greeted, striding forward with his hand outstretched like he owned the room. "Always a pleasure."
I rose, shook his hand firmly. "Travis. Have a seat."
Khloe circled the desk, setting the folder before me. The faintest trace of her perfume lingered in the air—something light, maddeningly subtle. Travis noticed too; I saw it in the way his smile sharpened, his eyes flicking toward her as she leaned in to point at the first page.
My grip on the pen tightened.
Focus. Business. Not her.
---
The meeting began. Numbers, revisions, delivery schedules. Straightforward, familiar. Except Travis never kept it straightforward. He had a way of talking like everything was casual, like business was a dinner party and every line item a conversation starter.
Khloe responded with her usual composure—nodding, clarifying, jotting neat notes at the margin. Then he slipped in a joke about clients being more unpredictable than the weather.
And she laughed.
Soft at first, but genuine. Unrestrained.
The sound struck me like a blow. My pen stilled mid-stroke.
She'd never laughed like that at something I'd said.
I forced myself back to the numbers, voice even as I questioned a clause. But every time she glanced at Travis, every time her lips curved just slightly at something he said, my chest tightened.
Ridiculous. Irrational. She was free to smile at whoever she wanted. She was free, period.
And yet my jaw stayed locked until the meeting ended.
"Good work as always," Travis said, standing to shake my hand again. "I'll expect the draft by next week."
"You'll have it," I replied, clipped.
He turned, and Khloe walked him out, her pace measured, the curve of her shoulder brushing his as they moved through the doorway. I watched until the door clicked shut, my knuckles pressed white against the pen still in my hand.
---
The emergency came minutes later.
A long-time client, furious over a contract clause, demanding immediate attention. No time to delegate, no margin for error. I grabbed my jacket, already moving.
"You're coming with me," I told her.
Her eyes flicked up—surprise, then immediate composure. She nodded, gathering the relevant files without question. Always ready. Always prepared.
We worked in tandem, our rhythm automatic. I handled the negotiations, measured and steady. She clarified terms, cut through the confusion with calm precision. The client's fury softened by degrees until, by the end, their tone was almost conciliatory.
It was a win. Clean. Efficient.
But instead of satisfaction, what lingered in me was the memory of how she leaned forward when she spoke, how her voice carried quiet authority, how a strand of hair had slipped loose and brushed her cheek.
---
The ride back was silent.
She sat beside me in the back seat, gaze turned to the window, her reflection faint in the glass. Neon signs and pedestrians flicked past, but my eyes kept finding her profile—the line of her jaw, the subtle press of her lips, unreadable.
I wanted to ask what she was thinking. Whether she'd laughed for Travis because she wanted to, or because it was easier than not. Whether she even realized the way she shifted the air in a room just by existing.
But I kept my gaze fixed ahead, my hands folded tightly in my lap. Words locked behind clenched teeth.
---
Back at the office, I tried drowning myself in work. Pages of numbers blurred into each other, contracts refused to hold shape. My mind drifted against my will, caught in the loop of her laugh—bright, free, unguarded in a way she never was with me.
The hours slipped by. The sun lowered, shadows stretching long across the office floor. And then—movement outside the window caught my attention.
She was in the courtyard. Phone pressed to her ear, head tilted back slightly as she laughed at something.
That laugh.
It wasn't polite. It wasn't measured. It was unrestrained. Alive.
It twisted something deep inside me.
My palms pressed flat against the desk, knuckles white against the polished wood. My reflection in the glass was harsh, unsmiling, but my eyes stayed locked on her.
"She's just my assistant," I whispered, the words jagged in the stillness.
But the hollow echo in my chest told me I didn't believe it anymore.