TINSELS POV....
Gregory's voice comes through the intercom on my desk at 9:03 a.m.
"Monroe. My office. Now."
Not Tinsel. _Monroe_.
My stomach drops. I've been _T. Monroe_ for less than twenty-four hours. The nameplate is still warm from the engraver.I just left his office not long ago, what else does he want.
I stand. My legs shake. I'm still in his hoodie.
I walk across the hall. Twenty-seven floors of air under my feet. His door is open. He had kept my office in the same floor as his.
He's not at his desk. He's standing by the window. Hands in his pockets. Looking down at the city. Like he owns it. He does.
"Close the door," he says. Doesn't turn around.
I closed it. The click is loud.
He turns.
He's still in his black suit but this time, no tie. Top two buttons open. He looks like a high schooler. There's a cut on his cheekbone. Fresh scab. He didn't cover it.
"You're late," he says.
"It's 9:04."
"You were supposed to be here at 9:00."
"You said now. You said it at 9:03 and I just left your office 45 minutes ago."
His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not quite. "Don't argue."
"Then don't be wrong."
His eyes narrow. He walks to his desk. Picks up a folder. Thick. Tabs. Real work. Not filing. Not coffee.
"Monroe Holdings," he says. Throw the folder down on the corner of the desk. "Acquisition fell through. Finson Group couldn't produce a clean title. Sale's being contested. You're the plaintiff."
My heart stops. Thought he said it'll take two weeks.
"What?"
"You heard me." He leans against the desk. Arms crossed. Watching me. Legal filed the petition this morning. With your signature."
The room tilts.
"Now it's a legal fire I'm putting out because I don't like Richard Finson and I don't like men who buy things from girls who can't say no."
Girls. He called me a girl.
"Is this right, I'm twenty-two," I say. My voice comes out thin.
"I know how old you are." He pushes off the desk. Walk around it. Toward me. "I read your file. I read your hospital report. I read the police report from Panther Street. I know exactly how old you were when you watched your house burn." he says "All you need to do is go to court, tell'em all thst happend and your fathers business is yours again."
He stops. Too close.
Not touching. But close enough that I can smell him. Soap. Coffee. Blood, faint, from the cut.
My heart isn't beating. It's…..pitting. Like the ground is giving out under each thud.
He reaches past me.
I flinch. I hate that I flinch.
He grabs the folder off the desk behind me. His arm brushes mine. Suit fabric. Warm. Solid.
He doesn't move back.
He opens the folder. Between us. Like it's a wall. Like it isn't.
"Page one," he says. His voice is lower now. Like the room got smaller. "Summary of assets. Page six. Fraudulent transfer. Page twelve. Your deposition schedule. You'll need to talk."
I can't read. The words swim. Because his face is twelve inches from mine. Because his eyes are on the paper but I can feel him looking at me anyway.
"Monroe," he says.
I look up.
Mistake.
His eyes are gray. Not blue. Not green. Gray like a gunmetal. Like winter. Like the sky before it snows.
And he's close. So close I can see the stubble he didn't shave. So close I can see the scar through his left eyebrow. So close I could count his eyelashes if I wasn't busy forgetting how to breathe.
I want to.
God, I want to.
I want him to close the distance. I want him to not care about the folder. I want him to be twenty-two and stupid and reckless with me. I want his mouth. I want his hands. I want something that isn't careful.
He doesn't move.
He just looks at me.
And I realize he knows. He knows exactly what I'm thinking. Because his eyes drop to my mouth. For one second. One second that lasts a year.
Then they go back to the paper.
"Page twelve," he says again. Voice rougher now. Like it cost him something to say. "Read it. Sign where it's tagged. Legal needs it back by noon.
He steps back.
Just like that.
The air comes back into the room. Cold. Empty.
The folder is in my hands. I don't remember taking it.
He's behind his desk now. Sitting. Opening his laptop. Done with me.
"Is that all?" I ask. My voice doesn't sound like mine.
"Yes." He doesn't look up. "Shut the door on your way out."
I stand there. Holding the folder. Holding the want. Holding the disappointment that tastes like metal in my mouth.
He didn't.
He could have. He was close enough. He looked at my mouth. He knew.
And he stepped back.
Because I'm twenty-two. Because I'm T. Monroe and he's Gregory Hale. Because I'm a fire he's putting out, not one he wants to start.
I walk out. I don't shut the door. Let him get up and do it himself.
I go back to my office. Lock the door. From the inside. Click.
I put the folder on the desk. Don't open it.
I sit in the chair. Put my hands on the wood. Real wood. Mine.
And I press my fingers to my mouth.
It's stupid.
It's stupid because nothing happened.
It's stupid because my heart is still pitting like he kissed me.
It's stupid because I'm disappointed.
Disappointed that Gregory Hale is a decent man.
Disappointed that he didn't take what I was offering.
Disappointed that I was offering.
I pick up the pen. Hale Industries pen. Heavy. Expensive.
I opened the folder. Page twelve.
Deposition Schedule: T. Monroe
I signed it.
The signature is not steady.
Because I wanted him to kiss me.
Because he didn't.
Because that changed something.
Because now I know two things:
1. Gregory Hale wants me. I saw it. One second. Eyes on my mouth.
2. Gregory Hale won't touch me. Not yet. Not like that.
And I don't know which one is worse.
I look at the panic button under my desk.
I don't press it.
Because the emergency isn't out there.
It's in me.