Page 2 of Executive Privilege

Finally, he speaks. “So your recommendation is to ignore the client’s stated request and instead tell them their entire identity is outdated and irrelevant.”

“If we truly care about them, yes,” I say, locking eyes with him. “We can give them what they asked for. Or we can give them what they need.”

Another beat of silence. Then:

“Jennifer,” he says without looking away from me, “reschedule the Morrison presentation for next week. Ms. Reynolds will need time to prepare a complete rebrand proposal.”

Wait. What?

I blink. “Sir?”

“You’ve made your case,” he says, closing the folder in front of him with a sharp snap. “Now sell it. One week. Comprehensive strategy. You’ll present to the client—and to the team.”

My pulse jumps. That’s not just pressure. That’s an open stage with all eyes on me—including his.

“One week,” I repeat, the words tasting like both victory and impending doom.

“One week,” he confirms. Then he stands—commanding, elegant, impossibly composed. “I hope your execution is as confident as your criticisms, Ms. Reynolds.”

I want to say something clever. Something sharp and dry. But all I can manage is a nod as the rest of the room begins to stir, people filing out and whispering as they go.

Angie, in her bright orange blazer, gives me an encouraging thumbs up before heading out the door.

I was just handed the biggest opportunity of my career. Or the fastest way to fail spectacularly in front of the most intimidating man I’ve ever met.

“Holy hell,” a voice says from the doorway.

I turn. Frankie, Event Horizon’s receptionist, unofficial morale officer, and gossip central, is leaning against the frame, one brow raised, lips curved into a grin.

“That was either brilliant or career suicide,” she says, stepping into the room with her very high heels and with her usual confident grace. She’s radiant in a fitted emerald dress that makes her look like she walked out of a magazine.

“I’m leaning toward career suicide,” I murmur, stuffing my laptop into my bag.

Frankie chuckles. “Trust me. Nicholas doesn’t hand out career suicide missions. If he just gave you the Morrison rebrand, it’s because he thinks you can pull it off.”

“Or because he wants to watch me implode in slow motion.”

She waves a manicured hand. “That man doesn’t do drama for fun. He does results. And you? You just made him react. I’ve seen him sit through meetings without blinking. But today? He was standing up and engaged, watching you like you were the only person in the room.”

A flutter stirs in me at that. I hate that it’s there. I hate even more that I know exactly what she means.

“I don't think it’s like that,” I say quickly.

Frankie just grins wider. “Sure, totally professional. Just a normal boss watching his new hire like she’s a riddle he can’t wait to solve. Lots of women would love to be looked at like that by him.”

I walk back through the open office, ignoring the sideways glances from coworkers who definitely heard about the meeting before I even made it back to my desk. The air hums with the kind of buzz that only comes from workplace gossip.

My desk is in the strategy cluster, near the window. I drop into my chair and power on my laptop, trying to focus on the task ahead—research, planning, presentation design.

But I feel him.

I glance across the office. His door is open. He’s back behind his desk, jacket still off, shirt sleeves still rolled to his forearms. He’s typing, brow furrowed in concentration.

Then he looks up.

And he sees me.

Just for a second. Just long enough for my breath to catch.