Chapter — Monday at the Office
Khloe's POV
Monday mornings were supposed to feel crisp. Fresh. A new slate.
That was how I'd always imagined them, at least. A chance to reset, to shake off whatever lingered from the week before.
But this Monday? It was a careful performance, one where I clung to routine as if it were a rope keeping me from unraveling.
I woke earlier than usual, tugged on my favorite blouse, smoothed down my skirt, and spent a little longer than I should have lining my eyes. Not because I was trying to impress anyone—at least, that's what I told myself—but because I needed the armor. The polish. The illusion that everything inside me wasn't still replaying a single, clipped word on repeat.
No.
That was all he'd said. One syllable, swift and final. And yet it carried the weight of a door slamming shut.
I should have been grateful. A clear answer was better than a messy one. He didn't feel the way I thought he might, the way I stupidly let myself believe he could. End of story. Case closed.
So why did my chest ache every time I remembered the sharpness in his tone, the way his jaw had tightened like he was guarding something?
I shook it off, pulled my bag over my shoulder, and headed into the office.
The hum of the elevators, the soft click of heels on marble, the low murmur of early calls—it was the same Monday morning soundtrack as always. I breathed it in, grateful for the familiar rhythm, letting it soothe the storm inside me.
When I reached my desk, Clara was already there, hair swept into her usual bun, her lipstick fresh and her nails tapping lightly against the desk as she scrolled through her monitor.
"Morning," she said brightly, glancing up. Then, with a mischievous lift of her brow, she added, "Busy day ahead. Travis Owens is coming in for his follow-up at ten. Here."
She slid a folder across my desk, the corner catching the light as it skidded to a stop in front of me.
I nodded, tucking it neatly onto my stack of work. "Got it."
Clara didn't miss the way I squared the edges of the papers, aligning them just so. Her smile deepened. "Don't look so serious, Khloe. It's just a follow-up, not a tribunal."
Her tone was teasing, but it carried something else too—a kind of pointed awareness that made warmth crawl up the back of my neck.
I managed a small smile, though my voice stayed even. "Preparation makes things easier."
"Mm." She leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly as if she were studying me. "Or maybe it's not the meeting that has you tense."
I pretended not to hear the implication, busying myself with arranging pens and jotting a few reminders in my planner. Clara was sharp. Too sharp sometimes. And I wasn't about to hand her more to speculate about.
---
The hour slipped by quicker than I expected. At nine fifty-nine on the dot, I smoothed down my skirt, lifted the folder, and walked toward Xavier's office.
The hallway was quiet except for the steady tap of my heels. I wondered, briefly, if he'd hear it and know it was me. A ridiculous thought, but one I couldn't quite banish.
I knocked softly, keeping my voice steady. "Sir, Clara says Mr. Owens is here for his ten o'clock. She asked me to bring him in."
The silence stretched a beat longer than necessary before his reply came. "Send him in."
I opened the door, stepping in first. My posture was straight, my expression neutral, but the air in the room shifted the moment I crossed the threshold.
Xavier sat behind his desk, crisp in a charcoal suit, his tie immaculate. His gaze flicked to me, sharp and unreadable. For half a second, it felt like the air thickened between us, but I quickly lowered the folder onto his desk with deliberate precision.
Behind me, Travis Owens strolled in.
He wore a slate-grey suit that probably cost as much as one of my paychecks, his grin wide and easy. He carried himself like he belonged everywhere he went, and for some reason, that confidence struck me as both enviable and exhausting.
"Mr. Rush," he greeted, extending his hand across the desk. "Always a pleasure."
Xavier rose smoothly, shaking it with firm restraint. "Travis. Have a seat."
As Travis sat, I circled the desk, leaning in to point out the key documents in the folder. The faintest brush of air from Xavier's cologne—clean, restrained, unmistakably him—clung to the space between us. It steadied me and unsteadied me at once.
But then I felt it—Travis's gaze. His eyes lingered a second too long as I straightened, like he was cataloguing details he had no right to notice.
I ignored it, moving to my chair and opening my notepad. Professional. Focused. That was who I had to be.
---
The meeting began.
It should have been routine. The numbers were familiar, the revisions expected. But Travis had a way of speaking like business was just a backdrop for charm. He cracked jokes between points, slipped in casual remarks, softened hard lines with laughter.
I kept my tone polite, jotting neat notes in the margin, clarifying a point when necessary. I wasn't going to encourage him—but I wasn't going to ice him out either. That wasn't my role.
Then came the joke—something about clients being less predictable than the weather. It wasn't particularly clever, but my lips curved before I could stop them. A quiet laugh slipped out.
It wasn't for him. Not really. It was a release, a small way to ease the heaviness pressing on my chest all morning.
But the moment the sound left me, I felt the change.
Xavier's pen stilled mid-stroke. His jaw tightened just slightly, his shoulders pulling straighter. He didn't look up, but the silence between us grew sharper, edged.
Guilt prickled low in my stomach, irrational but undeniable.
I forced my attention back to the page, tightening my grip on the pen, keeping my smile polite but minimal.
When the meeting finally wrapped, relief washed through me. Travis stood, shaking Xavier's hand with the same broad smile, then turned to me with a glance that lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary.
"Always a pleasure working with you both," he said.
I nodded, walking him out of the office, my movements measured, my face composed. But I could feel Xavier's gaze on my back the entire way. Heavy. Unrelenting.
Even after the door closed behind us, it lingered like a shadow.
---
The reprieve didn't last long.
Barely minutes later, Clara appeared at my desk, her voice brisk. "Emergency with the Lambert account. They want Rush on the line in person. Now."
Before I could even stand, Xavier was already moving out of his office, jacket in hand, his expression carved from stone.
"You're coming with me," he said, his tone leaving no room for question.
For a split second, surprise flared—then instinct took over. I grabbed the Lambert file, pen, and notepad in one swift motion. Always ready. Always prepared.
We left in near silence, the tension between us coiled tight. The drive across town was swift, the city blurring past in streaks of glass and steel. I sat beside him in the back seat, the leather cool against my palms, my reflection faint in the window.
I didn't look at him, but I felt him—an anchor of presence beside me, every breath and shift a reminder of the line we'd drawn and the space that never quite felt like space at all.
At the client's office, the air was thick with tension. Mr. Lambert was furious, his voice raised, his gestures sharp.
But Xavier handled him with the same unshakable calm he brought to every storm. Measured words. Precision in tone. Never bending, never breaking.
I slipped in where I was needed, clarifying clauses, pointing to details in the file, redirecting anger into facts. Step by step, the temperature in the room dropped, the edge in Lambert's voice softened, and by the end, his handshake was firm instead of hostile.
It was a victory. Clean. Efficient.
But instead of pride, what I felt most was the weight of Xavier's presence beside me—the way his sleeve brushed mine when we leaned over the same document, the subtle catch in his breath when I spoke firmly enough to quiet Lambert's bluster.
It was too much and not enough all at once.
---
The ride back was quieter than the ride there.
I kept my gaze on the window, watching the neon signs flicker to life as afternoon slid toward evening. The city pulsed outside, alive and busy, but inside the car the silence stretched heavy.
I could feel his gaze flick toward me once, maybe twice, though I didn't turn to catch it.
If I did, I wasn't sure what I'd see.
And worse—I wasn't sure what I'd give away.
---
Back at the office, I buried myself in the routine again. Emails. Drafts. Notes. Anything to keep from dwelling on the memory of his nearness, on the way silence with him said more than words ever could.
The hours slipped by. The sun lowered, painting the windows gold, shadows stretching long across the courtyard.
I stepped outside to take a call, grateful for the crisp air. The client on the other end cracked a joke—something silly, harmless—and I laughed.
Not the polite laugh I used in meetings. Not the measured one I offered when I wanted to smooth things over. But a real laugh. Genuine.
It felt good. Light. Free.
And yet, even as the sound lingered in my chest, I felt it—that sense of being watched.
I glanced toward the office windows, just for a moment, and though I couldn't see clearly through the reflection, I swore I felt his eyes on me.
My laugh faltered, softening into something smaller, quieter.
Because even when he wasn't speaking, even when he was locked behind glass and distance, Xavier Rush had a way of making me feel like the line between us was far more fragile than either of us wanted to admit.