Chapter 3 3

"Enter."

Claire pushed the door open. The office smelled of leather and cedar and the particular ozone scent of expensive electronics. Ellsworth sat behind his desk, a wall of glass and steel between them, his attention fixed on a tablet that showed columns of numbers she recognized as the Morgan Holdings pre-merger analysis.

She crossed to his desk with the coffee she'd collected from the break room-black, two sugars, exactly how he took it. She set the cup down six inches from his right hand, turned, and began to retreat.

His hand closed around her wrist.

The grip was iron. His fingers overlapped, pressing against the bone, and she felt her own pulse hammering against his palm. He didn't look up from his tablet. He simply applied pressure, pulling her backward until she was bent at the waist across the desk, her face level with his, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark irises.

"Sleep well?" he asked. His breath was warm. Mint and something darker.

"Thank you for your concern, Mr. Mosley." Her voice was flat. Professional. The voice she used for conference calls with Singapore at three in the morning. "I slept adequately. Your nine o'clock-"

"Your neck," he interrupted.

His free hand rose. His thumb found the place where her concealer was thickest, where the bruise from his mouth sat purple and tender beneath the makeup. He pressed. Hard.

Claire's vision sparked white at the edges. She didn't make a sound. Her teeth sank into the inside of her cheek, and she tasted blood, and she held his gaze with eyes that gave away nothing.

Ellsworth's thumb circled. The pressure shifted from pain to something else, something that made her stomach clench with memory. He was watching her face with an intensity that felt like dissection. Like he was trying to peel back the layers and find the machinery underneath.

"Interesting," he murmured.

He released her wrist so suddenly she almost stumbled. He picked up the Morgan file and threw it at her chest. She caught it against her body, her arms folding around the heavy binder.

"Thirty minutes," he said. "I want the consolidated financials, the liability assessment, and the projected EBITDA for the next eight quarters. If it's not perfect, you'll be cleaning out your desk by lunch."

Claire turned and walked out. Her knees didn't buckle until she was behind her desk, out of his sight.

She sat down. The chair was standard ergonomic, nothing special, but the pressure against her hips, against the places that were still healing, made her vision gray out. She gripped the edge of her desk and waited for the world to return to focus. Her forehead was damp. Her blouse stuck to her spine.

She opened her laptop. Her fingers found the keys. She began to type.

Through the slats of the blinds behind her, Ellsworth Mosley watched her shoulders shake. He watched her pause, her hand moving to her abdomen, pressing hard before returning to the keyboard. He watched her spine straighten by force of will alone.

He picked up his phone and dialed her extension.

"Yes, Mr. Mosley?" Her voice was steady. He couldn't see her face.

"My itinerary for next week. Bring it in."

"Of course, sir."

She appeared in his doorway ninety seconds later. Her color was worse-grayish, translucent-but her hands held the papers without tremor. She crossed to his desk and extended the folder.

Ellsworth leaned back in his chair. He crossed his arms over his chest. He didn't take the file.

Claire held it out. Her arm began to shake. First the fingers, then the wrist, then the whole limb, a fine tremor that traveled up to her shoulder. She didn't lower it. She didn't speak. She simply stood there, offering him something he didn't want, while the seconds ticked past and her body betrayed her piece by piece.

He let her hang for thirty seconds. Forty-five.

Then he reached out and plucked the folder from her fingers. His touch was brief. Impersonal.

"You're learning," he said. "In Mosley Holdings, we take what we're paid for. We give value for money." His eyes held hers. "Never forget your position, Claire."

"I never do, sir."

The words hit him wrong. He couldn't say why. He felt them like a hook beneath his ribs, pulling at something he didn't want to examine.

"Get out," he said.

She left. The door closed softly behind her.

Ellsworth stared at the space where she'd stood. His hand found the lighter in his pocket and turned it over and over, the metal warming against his palm.