Page 84 of Sexting His Assistant

Meredith notices me noticing, because she is unfortunately competent.

“Miss Hale is already in the conference hall,” she says.

I return my gaze to her.

She looks back as if she has said nothing unusual.

“Good,” I say.

It’s not good. It’ s ridiculous that my pulse changes at the confirmation that she is in the building.

Ridiculous that I’ve stood across from guns, prosecutors, politicians, traitors, men begging for their lives, and not once felt this particular tightening in my chest until a secretary who sends me absurd videos of dogs in boots is somewhere nearby but not yet visible.

I walk to my office first. Because if I go directly to the hall, it will feel too much like eagerness, and I’m not a man who performs eagerness in front of staff.

My office is exactly as it should be.

Desk clear. Files aligned. Coffee prepared but untouched. City bright beyond the windows. For two weeks, I’ve worked from the estate and hated every report that arrived without the sound of Nina arguing with someone outside my door.

I stand in the center of the office and look at the empty space near the glass wall.

She should be there. Annoying me about calls. Mocking my handwriting. Threatening to destroy my calendar if I approve another private dinner after nine.

The drawer at my desk remains locked. The thought of what is inside it comes without invitation. A scrap of delicate fabric. Her scent, probably gone by now.

Not the memory. Never the memory.

I turn away from the desk before I do something foolish and open it.

At nine-thirteen, Meredith appears again. “They’re ready.”

I nod and follow her out.

The conference hall is on the twenty-sixth floor, larger than the boardroom and designed for internal addresses, press rehearsals, shareholder briefings, anything that requires controlled optics and many witnesses. Today, it is full of employees pretending not to be afraid.

They stand in clusters beneath the soft lighting, managers in front, assistants and analysts toward the back, security at every door. The glass behind the stage has been dimmed so the city appears as a muted silver blur. Corporate calm over fear.

The murmuring quiets when I enter.

I take the stage without looking for her.

That is what I tell myself.

I don’t look. I simply see.

Faces turn toward me. Familiar ones. Unfamiliar ones. Finance. Legal. Acquisitions. Operations. Men and women who work for the company my name built cleanly enough to survive scrutiny, if not honestly enough to survive God.

I rest my good hand on the lectern. My injured shoulder protests the stillness.

The room waits.

“Two weeks ago,” I begin, “there was an incident in the private garage beneath this building.”

The word incident moves through the hall like smoke.

I pause.

“Some of you were here that evening. Many of you have heard speculation. I’m addressing it now because uncertainty creates distraction, and distraction makes people careless.”