Page 46 of Executive Privilege

My chest tightens. This is about yesterday. About our conversation in the parking garage and his decision to retreat behind professional boundaries. Except instead of maintaining those boundaries, he's apparently having some kind of breakdown in his office.

"I should probably—"

"Sadie." Frankie's voice stops me. "I don't know what happened between you two, but be careful. I've never seen Nicholas like this."

I nod and head toward his office, my plan suddenly feeling inadequate for whatever crisis is happening behind that door.

I knock on his door and open it. When he looks up, the sight of him makes my breath catch. Frankie was right—he looks like he hasn't slept. There's something hollow in his dark eyes that makes my chest ache.

"I brought you a coffee." I say, keeping my voice light.

"Sadie." His voice is carefully controlled, but I can hear the strain underneath. "I thought I made it clear that we should keep our interactions professional."

"Relax, it's just coffee." I place it on his desk and step back, holding my hands up in mock-serender.

"Frankie said you missed the Morrison call, and since I handled half the content creation, I thought—"

"I'm handling Morrison myself."

"Nicholas, you look terrible. When's the last time you slept?"

"My sleep schedule isn't your concern."

I close the door behind me. "Maybe not, but your ability to function as my boss is. If you're having some kind of crisis—"

"I'm not having a crisis." But his voice cracks slightly on the words, and I can see him fighting to maintain composure.

"Then what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I'm simply reassessing some recent decisions and their impact on efficiency."

The corporate speak is so forced it's almost painful. I sit down in the chair across from him.

"Nicholas, look at me."

He does, reluctantly, and I can see the exhaustion and confusion warring in his expression.

"Talk to me. Not as your employee, not as someone you've been sleeping with, but as someone who cares about you. What's going on?"

For a moment, I think he might actually answer. His carefully controlled facade wavers, and I catch a glimpse of something raw and desperate underneath.

Then his phone rings.

"Nicholas Blackwood," he answers, his professional mask sliding back into place. "No, that timeline isn't acceptable... I'll handle it personally."

As he talks, I study his face, noting the tension around his eyes, the way his free hand keeps clenching and unclenching. Whatever's happening on this call, it's not good.

"Understood," he says finally. "I'll be there within the hour."

He hangs up and immediately starts gathering papers from his desk with movements that are just slightly too controlled, like he's fighting to keep his hands steady.

"Crisis?" I ask.

"Client emergency. One of our major accounts is threatening to terminate their contract unless we can resolve a campaign issue immediately."

"Which client?"

"Hartwell Industries."