The next morning hit like a slap of cold water.
Amelia walked into King's Corporation, coffee in hand, trying to shake off the memory of last night — the view, his words, his voice when he said you make me think in ways I shouldn't.
She'd replayed it too many times already.
She wasn't that girl — the kind who got tangled in dangerous emotions. Not again. Not with him.
But the moment she stepped into the lobby, she could feel it — something was different.
The air buzzed with whispers.
Employees huddled near elevators, phones lighting up with the same notification.
> Internal Memo: Immediate HR Evaluation for All Executive Assistants.
Amelia frowned. "What the hell…"
Mark appeared beside her, looking equally baffled. "Did you see this? HR at nine sharp."
"Yeah," she muttered, scanning the screen. "What's this even about?"
He gave her a knowing look. "Rumor mill says it came from the top."
Her stomach dropped. "Christopher?"
Mark lowered his voice. "Apparently, someone complained about 'inappropriate proximity' between executives and staff."
Her pulse jumped. "You're joking."
"Wish I was. HR's in chaos right now."
---
By the time Amelia reached her desk, her inbox was flooded — calendar invites, updates, and one message that made her freeze.
> From: Christopher King
Subject: In my office. Now.
She exhaled slowly, slipped off her coat, and walked toward the glass doors. Every eye in the hallway followed her like a rumor waiting to spread.
When she stepped inside, he was there — sleeves rolled up again, pacing in front of the window.
The same skyline that had witnessed his confession last night now glowed with morning light.
"Sit," he said without looking at her.
She obeyed.
He turned finally, his expression unreadable but his tone measured. "You received the memo?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good." He crossed his arms. "This is a standard compliance procedure. Nothing personal."
She raised an eyebrow. "Nothing personal? You do realize how this looks?"
His jaw flexed. "Appearances don't concern me."
"Well, they should," she snapped before she could stop herself. "Because now everyone in this building thinks something's going on."
His eyes flicked up sharply, catching hers — and for a second, she saw it again. That flicker of something human. Something restrained.
"There isn't anything going on," he said quietly.
"Then why the memo?" she asked.
A pause. Too long.
"Because," he said finally, "I needed distance."
That stung more than she expected.
"Distance," she echoed, her voice steady even as her chest tightened. "You could've just… asked for space like a normal person."
"I don't do normal," he replied flatly.
"No kidding," she muttered under her breath.
He ignored that, walked around the desk, and stood close — not touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him.
"Miss Jones," he said softly, his tone back to that dangerous calm, "you're here to work. Nothing more. Don't let people's assumptions change that."
Her eyes snapped up to his. "Then stop giving them reasons to assume."
Silence.
The air between them could've burned glass.
Then, just like that, he stepped back. Mask back on. "HR will call you shortly. That'll be all."
She stood, smoothing her skirt, every inch of her body screaming to stay calm.
But before leaving, she turned to him and said quietly, "For someone who doesn't care about appearances, you spend a lot of energy hiding."
His gaze lifted, sharp as a blade.
She didn't flinch.
Then she left.
---
By lunchtime, the whispers were deafening.
Clara Bennett was in her element — leaning against the reception desk, pretending to check her phone while feeding gossip like gasoline.
"Oh, didn't you hear?" she said sweetly to a colleague. "The CEO's assistant got him to break his own HR protocols. Must be quite talented."
Amelia walked by just in time to hear it.
She didn't stop. Didn't respond. Just smiled faintly — that quiet, infuriating kind of calm that made people like Clara nervous.
Because Amelia Jones had survived worse than gossip.
And she wasn't about to let a snake in heels destroy her focus.
---
That evening, she sat in her apartment, laptop open, typing out reports.
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.
She hesitated — then answered.
"Miss Jones," came that low, unmistakable voice. "You forgot to send the investor follow-up."
She bit back a sigh. "It's scheduled for tomorrow morning."
"I said tonight."
Of course he did.
"Fine. You'll have it in thirty minutes."
He was silent for a moment, then said quietly, "Goodnight, Amelia."
She froze. He'd never said her name like that before — without the armor of 'Miss Jones.' Just Amelia.
Before she could respond, the line went dead.
---