Strictly Professional

Avery

Pushing back from my desk, I started the short walk to Declan's corner suite, feeling like I was crossing a tightrope in four-inch heels. Every step down the corridor pulled me closer to disaster. Had he spotted the bridal tabs left open during our morning briefing, or remembered murmuring Vivian's name against my mouth?

Outside his mahogany door, I paused to steady my breath. Whatever waited inside, I would face it with crisp professionalism—or at least avoid sobbing on his Italian leather.

I pressed the handle and stepped inside, bracing for printouts of my freelance virtual assistant gigs fanned across his desk. Instead, Declan sat calmly behind his monitor, looking infuriatingly sharp while I felt like wilted parsley.

"Miss Sutton." He gestured toward the visitor's chair opposite him. "Sit down, please."

I perched stiffly on the front edge of the cushion. "Did something come up?"

"I was hoping you could tell me." His sharp blue gaze pinned me in place. "Your focus has been slipping lately. Considerably more than normal."

Great. Was he keeping an itemized spreadsheet of my daily attention span?

"This morning, you nearly routed the Singapore merger proposal to our Tokyo branch."

Heat pricked my neck. He hadn't missed it. "I caught that right before—"

"And yesterday, you put a business lunch on my calendar for three in the morning."

"Right, that was..." My excuse died because there wasn't a plausible one on earth. I'd been mapping out an overseas wedding timeline for Sophie when I typed that entry.

"Are things alright with you?" The edge left his voice. "How is your mother holding up?"

His genuine warmth knocked me completely off balance. "She's holding steady. Thank you for checking in, and for sending Arthur over to help that day."

"Avery." He braced his forearms on the desk, leaning in, and my heart gave an erratic kick. "If you need help, just say the word."

I blinked at him. Was Declan Pierce offering emotional support? Maybe my fourth espresso had backfired and I was hallucinating on my keyboard after binging wedding tutorials.

"I..." My throat locked tight. Who exactly was making the offer—my demanding boss, a sympathetic friend, or the guy who'd drunkenly kissed me senseless while whispering another woman's name?

A friend? Sure, right alongside flying pigs and cheap apartments in Hudson.

Almost as if tracking my silent spiral, he continued, "Pierce Industries maintains relief channels for staff facing personal crises. Healthcare subsidies, temporary sabbaticals, emergency stipends."

Right. Corporate HR Declan. Infinitely safer ground than whatever lived inside his penthouse.

"I appreciate that, Mr. Pierce. I'll review those options if—when—things reach that point." I pulled my mouth into a tight smile that felt more like a jaw cramp.

"Waiting until the roof caves in isn't required." One dark brow arched. "Reactive crisis management rarely makes for smart business."

Rich coming from a billionaire who once bought a superyacht simply because its name sounded prestigious, though I wisely kept quiet.

"Thank you for looking out for me, really. Everything is completely manageable." About as manageable as a hurricane sweeping through Kansas.

"Naturally." He settled back into his chair, clearly not buying a word. "Keep in mind my door stays open."

"Will do, sir." I rose quickly, eager to bolt before my panic showed or he spotted the bridal budget sheet minimized on my desktop.

"One more thing, Avery?"

My hand stalled inches from the doorknob. "Yes?"

"Next time you book me a three a.m. lunch, pick someone in an overseas time zone. At least that gives us plausible deniability."

Did Declan Pierce just deliver deadpan humor? Yep, I was definitely asleep at my workstation.

"Duly noted." I slipped out into the hall before he could witness the crimson heat climbing straight to my hairline.

The rest of the week blurred into a chaotic marathon fueled by dark roast and sheer survival instinct. My days revolved around an endless circuit of corporate filings, virtual assistant tickets, and wedding vendor research.

"Avery, talk to me—are you holding up?" Piper's voice crackled over my phone one night while I hunched over my laptop, fingers flying across the keys.

"Depends on your metric," I muttered, toggling from Declan's itinerary to a florist contact sheet. "If drowning in work and pricing bulk ramen noodles to save cash counts, I'm doing great."

"Girl, you need to step back and breathe."

"Breathe?" A dry laugh escaped me. "Is that some kind of new productivity app?"

"Just don't fry yourself, okay? We need you rational."

"Rationality doesn't pay bills," I murmured, flicking my eyes toward the corner clock. Well past midnight yet again.

Somehow I locked into a rhythm—or more accurately, a tightly scheduled nosedive. Every waking minute was rationed out with military discipline, holding together until Thursday afternoon blew my careful system sky-high.

"Miss Sutton!" Declan's sharp baritone barked over the intercom. "Why isn't Mr. Choi in the boardroom?"

My chest seized up. Mr. Choi—the flagship client we'd booked to review terms at... oh, hell.

I lunged for my calendar, dates scrambling together inside my exhausted head. "Uh, I have his meeting down for tomorrow at—"

"Incorrect." Declan's tone dropped well below zero. "He was confirmed for three o'clock today."

A cold jolt of panic shot straight through me. My eyes darted to the monitor clock: 3:15 PM.

"I—I'm terribly sorry," I stammered. "I must have crossed the dates on the master schedule."

"In here. Immediately." The speaker cut dead with a sharp, terminal snap.

Snatching up my tablet, I practically ran down the hall, my heels rapping a frantic countdown across the tile. When I pushed inside, Declan stood facing the glass wall, shoulders rigid beneath his tailored suit.

"Sit." He didn't bother turning around.

I sank into the chair, holding the tablet against my ribs like armor. "Mr. Pierce, please let me—"

"Explain?" He pivoted sharply, features set in cold granite. "Because the Avery Sutton I hired doesn't botch calendars. Mr. Choi's firm represents forty percent of our Asian market share. Have you calculated the fallout one blunder like this could inflict on Pierce Industries?"

My mouth opened, yet nothing came out. Every word was fair; normally my organizational habits bordered on obsessive perfectionism.

"The Avery Sutton I know doesn't book three a.m. lunches or misdirect contracts to the wrong branch." He crossed the carpet to his desk in slow, deliberate strides. "Whoever she was vanished weeks ago."

"Things have just been—"

"Busy? Doing what, precisely?"

The quiet edge underneath that question raised goosebumps along my arms.

"Care to tell me in your own words what's going on?" He planted both palms on the desktop, leaning forward. "Before this escalates well past a blown meeting?"

"Sir, it won't happen a second time, I swear. Personal issues have been—"

"Personal issues?" Lifting a manila folder off his blotter, he tossed it across the wood between us. "Such as working off the clock as a virtual assistant?"

My breath caught hard in my throat.

He flicked the cover open, exposing crisp screenshots of email threads, independent client agreements, and wedding coordination files. "Unless you have another explanation for how these landed on our server?"

"Wait... how did you..."

"IT flagged irregular background traffic on your company workstation." Worse than fury, genuine disappointment shadowed his expression. "Bridal vendor sites. Virtual assistant onboarding modules. Signed contracts with external clients."

In three seconds flat, my career flashed past my eyes—taking my rent, groceries, and my mother's hospital treatments down with it.

"Mr. Pierce, listen to me, please." My voice fractured mid-sentence. "I can account for all of it."

"Go ahead."

"Mom relapsed last month, and the medical bills are burying us. Insurance covers under half, and I ran out of options. Remote gigs brought in cash after hours, and I figured if I stayed careful..."

"Careful enough to fly under our radar?" He finished the thought cleanly. "You breached your exclusivity agreement. Pierce Industries has full grounds to terminate you and sue for damages."

Hot tears stung my eyes. "Please don't. I'll resign from every outside account tonight. Just give me a window to fix this and earn back your trust."

Declan studied me across the silent office, the corporate severity giving way to something calculating and intensely personal. "There might be an arrangement that solves your problem. First, though, you and I need to revisit the other night."

A sudden chill prickled my skin. "Which night?"

"The evening you let yourself into my penthouse."

"Right, that evening. You looked ill, so I phoned your physician and left it to him. End of story."

"My physician ran bloodwork and discovered remnants of a potent illicit compound in my bloodstream." He inclined forward an inch. "Making that call very likely kept me alive, Avery."

Oxygen rushed back into my chest. Gratitude was safe, strictly professional territory.

"Anyone in my shoes would've dialed the number," I mumbled.

"Here's the catch." Straightening up, he rounded the corner of his desk with unhurried precision. "To finalize his toxicology report, my doctor needs an exact timeline of everything prior to his arrival."

I edged my chair backward across the rug. "He already got every relevant detail."

"Every single one?" He settled casually onto the front edge of the mahogany right near my knees, crowding my space. "Because scattered flashes keep coming back to me. Vivid ones."

Heat scalded my cheeks. "Try getting more sleep, drinking plenty of water, and taking a multivitamin."

A low, genuine laugh escaped him. "That's your official clinical advice?"

"Nobody handed me a medical license." My fingers clamped tight around the padded armrests. "Why aren't you asking your doctor those questions?"

"Because I'm asking you. Tell me what went down inside that penthouse."

"Zero! I got you onto the mattress, dialed the doctor, period."

Holding my gaze, he slid a hand into his pocket and drew out something that knocked the air clean from my lungs: my purple hair elastic with the tiny butterfly charm.

"Then care to explain how this wound up tangled in my sheets?"

Frozen in my seat, I could only stare at the little butterfly swinging lazily from his fingertips.