Chapter 2 The Offer
George gave a short sigh, his expression shifting into the same apologetic look she remembered.
“Afraid not,” he said. “Hold on a second.”
He picked up the phone, pressed a button, and waited. Amelia glanced down at her badge from the Bellamy, at the sleek line of her black jumpsuit, at the bright orange lanyard on the counter that somehow felt more intrusive than anything else she was wearing.
After a brief exchange, George hung up and bent to rummage beneath the desk. “Alright, you’re cleared.” He set a badge on the counter. “Temporary visitor pass. This’ll get you where you need to go — at least for today.”
The neon-orange lanyard was impossible to miss.
“Subtle,” she murmured, slipping it over her head.
George grinned. “Hey, don’t knock the safety protocol. It makes me look important.”
She smiled. “You don’t need a lanyard for that.”
He leaned his elbow on the counter, squinting at her. “So, what have you been up to? I think I saw your name in a couple of publications — something about a charity project?”
“The children’s art program,” she said, adjusting the badge so it lay flat against her jumpsuit. “We’ve been working on a gala for months now. It’s tomorrow night.”
George’s expression brightened with recognition. “Yeah, that’s the one they mentioned on the morning news. Sounds like it’s going to be a big deal. You’re really making a difference with that.”
“That’s the hope,” Amelia replied, her tone warm but modest.
“Always knew you were one of the good ones,” George said with a grin.
They chatted for another moment before she headed toward the elevators, the click of her very high heels echoing softly through the marble lobby.
Carl’s glass-walled corner office on the thirty-first floor was empty when she arrived. She stepped inside, shrugging out of her nude coat and draping it over the back of a visitor’s chair.
She crossed her legs as she sat, the fabric of her black fitted jumpsuit smoothing over her thighs. The tapered legs hugged down to her ankles, where neat bows tied them off — a small, delicate detail that made the whole look feel intentionally feminine.
Her heels — very high, glossy, red-soled — caught the light each time she shifted. She flipped through a design magazine on his coffee table, but her mind drifted. To the gala. To tomorrow night. To the increasingly thin thread of patience she had left for her marriage.
The door opened abruptly.
Carl strode in mid-sentence, Bluetooth still in his ear. “Tell them if they want the top-floor signage, they pay for—” He broke off, pulling the device from his ear as his eyes landed on her.
He stopped.
His gaze dragged from her shoes… up the long, clean line of her legs… the cinched waist of her jumpsuit… the long fitted sleeves… and finally to her face.
“What,” he said slowly, “do you have on?”
Amelia blinked once. “Good morning to you too.”
“That is not what you had on this morning.”
“No,” she agreed, voice even. “It’s not.”
His expression twisted between disgust and disbelief. “You look like you’re going to some kind of club.”
She couldn’t help it; the corner of her mouth tugged up. “If this is what you think women wear to clubs, you’ve been out of the loop for a very long time.”
He glared. “Amelia.”
“In all seriousness, Carl,” she said, rising to her feet with an easy grace, “this is a long-sleeve jumpsuit. Nothing’s showing. It’s fitted, not obscene.”
His gaze flicked down again, clearly unconvinced. He opened his mouth as if to continue the argument, checked the time instead, and snapped his mouth shut.
“We don’t have time for this,” he muttered. “Come on. Bryson’s office.”
He grabbed a file from his desk and headed toward the hallway. She draped the coat over one arm — and followed.
The elevator ride up was silent.
Carl stared straight ahead, jaw tense. She had no intention of pouring more fuel onto whatever fire was already burning in him this morning. She picked her battles, and right here, right now, this wasn’t one of them.
The doors slid open onto Bryson’s floor just as the elevator across the lobby chimed.
Nadia stepped out.
Her heels clicked sharply against the marble, her posture straight, features composed. She carried a manila envelope tucked under one arm — the kind HR used for terminations and formal notices — and in her right hand, a crisp white envelope she held separately, her fingers tight on the edge.
Her gaze passed over them — Amelia first, then Carl.
No greeting.
No pause.
Just a brief, unreadable flicker in her eyes before she moved on, headed directly for Bryson’s office with steady, practiced strides.
“Somebody’s in a mood,” Carl murmured, his mouth curving faintly.
Before Amelia could respond, Bryson appeared in the doorway.
He stood there, phone to his ear, broad shoulders filling the frame. His suit was dark and perfectly cut, the crisp white of his shirt open at the throat. His expression was focused, the kind of quiet concentration that came from carrying entire portfolios on his back.
His gaze lifted at the sound of their elevator doors opening.
For the smallest fraction of a second, his eyes landed on her.
Not the badge. Not Carl. Her.
The fitted black jumpsuit.
The nude coat.
The sharp line of her posture and the length of her legs elevated by those very high heels.
Something in him went still.
Then Nadia reached him, holding out the white envelope.
“Hang on,” he said into the phone. He took the envelope from her, slipped a finger under the flap, and opened it.
“I’ll call you back,” he added, hanging up.
He scanned the page inside, his expression flattening into a calm, controlled line. “She quit.”
“Today?” Amelia asked before she could stop herself.
“This minute.” His voice was steady, but there was a quiet weight behind it, the sound of a man who’d known this was coming.
Nadia didn’t speak. She simply turned and walked away — no scene, no added words, just the soft, precise rhythm of her heels retreating across the marble until she reached the elevators and disappeared inside.
Carl pushed off the wall where he’d been standing, strolling toward Bryson at a casual pace. “Well, that leaves you with a gap to fill.”
“Not for long,” Bryson said, already folding the letter once and slipping it back into the envelope.
Carl’s mouth curved. “Sometimes the best solution is right in front of you.”
Bryson’s brow lifted a fraction, but he didn’t answer.
“That’s good,” Carl went on, closing the distance until he was beside Amelia. He tapped her shoulder lightly, almost like he was presenting a product. “Because I’ve got the perfect temporary replacement.”
Her stomach dipped.
“My wife,” Carl said. “She’s got plenty of time on her hands.”
It was then — with Nadia gone, Carl talking, and Amelia standing there with that bright orange badge hanging against elegant black fabric — that Bryson really looked at her.
This time he didn’t cut it short.
His gaze moved, unhurried but contained:
The long sleeves tracing the lines of her arms.
The way the jumpsuit nipped in at her waist, then flowed over the curve of her hips.
The bow tied neatly at her ankle.
The very high heels that made her already-long legs look endless.
He knew a thing or two about designers. Enough to know that those shoes were unapologetic. And that she wore them like she wasn’t asking anyone’s permission.
Her nude coat draped over her arm like a soft, expensive shadow. Chosen to shape beneath rather than screaming it.
Then he caught her scent.
Not heavy, not sugary.
Citrusy sweet, with a hint of floral. Clean and warm and unmistakably feminine. It drifted in the small space between them — bright, fresh, like something you remembered long after the person walked away.
His chest tightened once before he forced the reaction down. The feeling wasn’t new to him. Just… sharper than it had any right to be today.
He kept his expression neutral. On the surface, at least.
“I—” Amelia began.
“It’s not a big deal, babe,” Carl cut in, waving a hand, dismissing both the moment and her protest. “Couple weeks, tops. Keep him on schedule, answer a few calls. Easy.”
Bryson shifted his weight, leaning a hip against his desk, arms folding loosely. His gaze didn’t leave her. “I’m not sure your wife wants to be volunteered.”
Carl laughed too loudly. “She’ll be fine. Right, babe?”
Amelia pressed her lips together, meeting Bryson’s eyes for a long, steady beat.
There it was again — that pull.
He had always carried himself like a man who knew exactly how much space he occupied. But up close like this, it was impossible to ignore: the sharp cut of his jaw, the faint stubble, the way his suit sat across a chest that wasn’t just built by expensive tailoring. And his cologne — warm, masculine, restrained — mixed with the faint citrus-sweet of her own perfume, settling into something that made her pulse jump in ways she had no intention of examining.
“Eight a.m.,” Bryson said finally, voice calm but edged with something that didn’t feel purely professional.
“Sharp,” she replied.
It wasn’t agreement tossed on Carl’s behalf. It was a choice. Her choice.
Carl clapped his hands together, satisfied. “Great! She’ll be here bright and early. You’ll be fine a day without her, right?”
Before anyone could answer, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, handed Bryson the folder he was carrying and sighed. “It’s the Hong Kong tower deal. The investor wants to renegotiate the top-floor lease terms before we sign.”
He started walking toward the hallway, already lifting the phone to his ear. “Yeah, I’m here. Talk to me.”
He disappeared around the corner, his voice fading as he turned onto another corridor.
The silence he left behind settled thick and low.
Bryson shifted first, pushing off the edge of his desk then tossing the folder onto it then straightening.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked, tone quieter now that Carl was gone.
She raised a brow. “Which part? Showing up at eight a.m., or working for the infamous Bryson Hearst?”
One corner of his mouth tugged upward — not quite a smile, but close. “Both.”
She held his gaze. “Guess we’ll find out which one’s harder.”
He studied her for a moment. Close like this, it was even harder to ignore the strength beneath her poise. She looked like she belonged anywhere she decided to stand — even here, in his space, dragged in by Carl’s ego and that awful orange visitor badge.
“You really don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” he said. “Regardless of what Carl just announced.”
A flicker of something warm pressed at her ribs. Respect. Consideration. The kind of courtesy she rarely got at home.
She tilted her head. “Carl says you’re intense.”
Bryson’s brows rose slightly. “That sounds like him.”
“He made it sound like working for you is some kind of boot camp.” Her tone was light, but there was interest threaded through. “No handholding. No mistakes. No second chances.”
He didn’t bother denying it. “I expect people to do their jobs.”
“I figured,” she said. “The thing is… I actually know how to work.”
His gaze sharpened a fraction, as if cataloging that, filing it under things most people probably didn’t see when they looked at her.
“Eight a.m.,” he said again, but this time it sounded less like a test and more like an agreement.
Her lips curved. “Sharp.”
He didn’t look away.
“You might last longer than he thinks,” he murmured.
Amelia lifted her chin just enough to make it a promise instead of a possibility. “Maybe longer than you think.”
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then the elevator chimed behind her, and she stepped back, breaking the line between them. The scent of his cologne faded with the distance, but the low hum of something new — or maybe something that had always been there — lingered.
She adjusted the ridiculous orange visitor badge, placed her coat back on, and turned toward the elevator.
He watched her go.
He shouldn’t have.
But he did.
And tomorrow at eight a.m. sharp, Bryson Hearst knew his office was going to feel very different.
