Nick started to answer, but she cut him off.
— “Don’t give me the corporate line. You like her. It’s obvious in the way you look at her.”
In the way you called me in a panic. In the fact that you’re here and not in your office working like usual. — A pause.
— “You’re a terrible liar for a billionaire.” Silence followed. My heart was thumping painfully against my ribs.
— “It’s complicated.” — His voice finally came through, low and tired. — “She works for me, and she deserves better.”
— “Better than what? A wealthy guy who clearly cares? Who makes sure she eats and rests?”
Who looks at her like she’s the most interesting person he’s ever met? — Chris laughed without humor. — “Angela has been poor her whole life.”
She deserves someone who really sees her. And you see her. I didn’t hear his response.
The door closed fully. When Chris came back in, her smile was far too smug. — “I planted a seed.”
— “What seed?” — I asked, though I already knew the answer. — “The seed of doubt, of questions.”
‘What if?’ — She took my hand again. — “Because you two are idiots circling each other, and someone needed to give a push.”
I didn’t say anything. I just stared at the closed door and wondered if Nick was standing on the other side, thinking about the same impossible things I was. Chapter Three.
The Crack in the Wall. Two months flew by in a blur of organized schedules, answered emails, and a routine that should have felt normal but was far from it. The tension between Nick and me grew every day, quiet and inevitable, like a storm forming on the horizon.
The small moments added up. The looks that lasted a second too long. The hands that almost touched when passing documents.
The conversations that started professional and ended dangerously personal. I became an expert at pretending I didn’t notice, that I didn’t feel my pulse quicken when he walked into the room, that I didn’t notice the scent of his cologne when he passed too close, that I didn’t count the hours until he came home late at night just so we could exchange a few words before retreating to our separate corners of the estate. The routine was set.
The professionalism was there, theoretically. Но the cracks in the wall we’d built were becoming impossible to ignore. — “I need you to come with me to Chicago,” Nick announced on a Thursday, walking into my office with that restless energy that meant big business.
— “Meeting with potential investors. It’s going to be critical, and I need you to organize the documents. Make sure everything is perfect.”
— “When?” — I asked, already opening the calendar. — “Tomorrow.”
We’ll be back Sunday. — He leaned against the desk. That casual posture that made the muscles in his arms strain against his shirt. — “I know it’s short notice.” — “Not a problem. I’ll get it handled.”
— I kept my tone professional. Though the thought of traveling with him, of spending whole days in his company without the barriers of the estate and routine, did something strange to my stomach. The flight the next day was my first experience on a private jet.
I tried not to look impressed as I climbed the stairs and entered what looked more like a flying living room than a plane. Cream leather seats, mahogany tables, even a full work area with computers and a printer. — “First time?” — Nick asked, that knowing smile playing on his lips as he watched me try to act natural.
— “Is it that obvious?” — I sat in one of the chairs, sinking into the absurdly comfortable leather. — “Usually I fly coach, squeezed between a crying baby and someone who stole the armrest.”
He laughed, sitting in the chair across from me. — “Welcome to the other side. Babies are strictly prohibited.”
The flight went by too fast. We worked most of the time, reviewing presentations and figures, but there were moments of pause where we just talked about nothing important. The little things.
Favorite songs and food we couldn’t stand. The kind of conversations regular people have, not a boss and his assistant. The hotel in Chicago was predictably five-star.
The lobby had more marble than my entire old neighborhood. The manager met us personally, a professional smile glued to his face as he led us to the top floor. — “Your suites, Mr. Peterson.”
— He opened two adjacent doors. — “The best in the hotel, as you requested, with connecting balconies.” My suite was larger than the apartment I shared with Chris.
A massive bed, a marble bathroom with a soaking tub, and a living area with a view of the city. Everything was flawless, expensive, and intimidating. I quickly unpacked and joined Nick in his room to go over the plans for the business dinner that night.
He was on the phone when I walked in, gesturing for me to sit while he finished a conversation in fluent German. Another thing I didn’t know about him, added to the growing list of fascinating details. — “Dinner is at eight.”
— He hung up, pulling off his jacket and tossing it on a chair. His shirt sleeves were already rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms I’d learned not to look at directly. — “The investors are traditional, conservative types.”
I need to make an impression. — “You always make an impression.” — The words slipped out before I could filter them.
His eyes met mine. Something unspoken passed between us. — “Your confidence is motivating.”
The restaurant was refined and quiet, the kind of place where every fork has a purpose and the wine costs more than a semester of college. I was there to take discreet notes, observe reactions, and be invisible but useful. The three investors were older men in expensive suits with watches that probably cost as much as a car.
The conversation flowed through numbers and projections, Nick navigating the questions with the ease of someone born for it. I recorded the important points on a tablet, half-hidden at the end of the table. Everything was going well until one of the investors, a man named Robert with silver hair and a greasy smile, decided to include me in the conversation.
— “Peterson, besides the great numbers, you have excellent taste in assistants. Pretty and efficient, I assume?” The atmosphere froze.
Or maybe it was just me. My whole body tensed at the disrespectful tone, as if I were a decorative accessory rather than a professional. Nick’s posture changed almost imperceptibly.
His jaw tightened, his eyes darkened, and when he spoke, there was an icy edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. — “Ms. Miller is my executive assistant because she is the best in the business. Her professional merits are second to none.”
Now, about the third-quarter projections. The subject change was firm, leaving no room for argument. Robert backed off, clearly realizing he’d stepped onto dangerous ground.
The rest of the dinner passed without inappropriate comments, but the tension remained just beneath the surface. In the elevator on the way back to our rooms, finally alone, I let out the breath I’d been holding. — “You didn’t have to defend me. I can handle comments like that.”
Nick looked at me intently, his expression serious. — “I know you can, but I don’t like it when people talk about you that way.” — “Why?” — The question came out more vulnerably than I intended.
Silence. Heavy, charged, full of things neither of us was saying. His eyes were on mine, dark and piercing in the soft light of the elevator.
His breathing changed, became deeper, and I realized we were too close. The distance between us had vanished, and I hadn’t even noticed. The elevator stopped with a soft chime.
The doors opened to our floor. The moment shattered like glass. — “Goodnight, Angela.”
— Nick stepped out first, his voice strained. — “Get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.” I went into my suite without looking back, closed the door, and leaned against it.
My heart was beating erratically. My hands were shaking slightly. This was getting dangerous.
Not the way he defended me, but the way I felt when he did. Protected, valued—seen. I changed and tried to sleep, unsuccessfully.
At 11:30, I was out on the balcony. The cool October air helped clear my cluttered head. The city sparkled below, lights stretching to the horizon.
A knock on the suite door made me jump. Through the peephole, I saw Nick standing in the hallway: hands in his pockets, hair messy like he’d been running his fingers through it. I opened the door.
— “Everything okay?”
