Page 17 of The Voicemail

He says it like he’s rejecting a pitch deck, not like he’s taking over my life.

“Excuse me?” I ask, sinking onto one of the stools in front of the island.

“You’re not going to work today,” he repeats. “I already called out for you.”

“You—” I sputter, unable to find a word big enough for how enraged I am. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“You had a long night,” he says calmly. “And your personal security was at risk. I explained to Mr. Bellamy about the break-in and that you needed to take a personal day. He agreed it would be best.”

“You called my boss?” I nearly roar. “Who gave you the right to do that?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t seem remotely apologetic. “I thought you’d want the rest.”

I shake my head. “All I want is to get back to my normal life. It wasn’t your decision.”

His jaw tightens slightly. The first crack in all that polished control.

“My apologies, Elena. I was trying to do something kind. I won’t make that mistake again. Regardless, you’ve been called out of work, so it’s probably not a bad idea to take a personal day. After you’ve rested, I can take you back to your apartment…”

“Thank God,” I sigh.

“…so you can pack your things.”

“What?” I snap, barely hearing the tail end of his statement. “What the hell do you mean, pack my things? This was a one-time, one-night deal, was it not?”

He exhales, slow and measured. “Unfortunately—” he begins, but I cut him off.

“This isn’t a business meeting,” I remind him. “And I’m not one of your employees. Talk to me like a real person. What the actual hell is going on?”

He nods and sets his coffee down. “After running a security analysis on your attacker, it seems you’re in more danger than we initially thought. We’re moving you to a more secure location this afternoon.”

“The fuck you are.”

“Elena.” He sighs wearily. “This isn’t up for debate.”

“Too bad,” I shoot back. “Because I’m going to debate it. Again, I ask, who the hell do you think you are?”

“I know this is inconvenient⁠—”

“It isn’t inconvenient, it’s absolute insanity.”

His mouth tightens again. I hate that I notice his mouth. I hate even more that he looks this good in daylight. Last night, I was too overwhelmed to notice much about him. Now I see that he’s incredibly handsome. He’s older than me, but it’s hard to tell by how much. Tall and lean, though apparently strong, if the fight last night was any indication.

I’m thinking way too much about his looks. His dark eyes on me don’t help. If anything, they’re kicking up the butterflies in my stomach. This is the last thing I need.

“I need to go to work,” I say, more forcefully this time. “I have a job. I have responsibilities.”

“You were attacked last night,” he argues.

“I was almost attacked,” I shoot back, desperate to win this argument.

His eyes sharpen. “Don’t do that,” he says firmly. “Don’t minimize what happened.”

His tone surprises me, and I realize I’m doing the very thing I’ve hated everyone else for doing. For months, they’ve minimized it for me. Strangely, I don’t know what to do with a man who refuses to let me do it to myself.

“That doesn’t mean I can just disappear from my life,” I say, quieter.

“You’re not disappearing,” he says gently. “You’re taking one personal day. It was a late night. It’s the least they can do.”