Page 32 of Mister St. James

“No. Reschedule that meeting.” He doesn’t even look up from his computer screen.

I put the stack of folders down on the corner of his desk and lean over toward him until he looks at me and ask, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just a heavy week.”

I don’t buy it. I’ve been studying this man almost obsessively since I got here and I know when he is lying.

“You know I’m not an idiot, right?” I say, sliding the folders back into my arms before walking out of the office.

By noon, I’ve caught the pattern, every time I get close, he puts up a wall. Every interaction is a little colder, a little more automated. I spiral.

Maybe he’s mad at me for something. Maybe I overstepped at the dinner with Marcus. Maybe the project is falling apart, and I’m just collateral damage. Maybe he just doesn’t care.

I tell myself I don’t care either. I almost believe it.

Friday morning, I come in early because I haven’t slept right since the last night I spent beside him. I open my calendar and see three appointments I didn’t set.

7:00 am: Security Consult / External

1:00 pm: PDI Internal Review – Restricted

4:30 pm: Final Interview, candidate: Samantha Z

I don’t recognize the last name. I check our shared inbox, and there’s nothing about a new hire or interview. I search the company database; there’s no “Samantha Z” in HR or Operations, or in the Zurich office. My scalp prickles.

I’m paranoid, but what if he’s planning something without me? What if I’m about to be benched, ghosted? Replaced.

I try the personnel log. Last update, 1:07 am, by Aiden St. James.

I go through the travel logs. Two car service bookings from the last 24 hours, both to the east side, both round-trip, both flagged as “private.” I did not arrange these.

I open the shared drive and see a new project folder: 0415828A1. No label, no contents, and when I try to access it, I get “access denied.”

I press my two fingers to the edge of my desk, the way I do when I can’t decide if I should push the button or just wait for the next alarm to go off. I feel the pulse in the tips of my fingers, the phantom memory of his hands wrapping my wrists in silk, the pressure of his lips against the skin he now won’t even look at.

I stare until my screensaver kicks in.

I tell myself it’s none of my business. I tell myself I’m being crazy. But the confusion and the self-doubt just keep growing, louder than the endless, pointless office noise.

I don’t text ahead, because I’m not giving him a chance to dodge me. The ride deposits me outside the glass tower, and I punch in the code at the lobby like muscle memory. When I finally get off the elevator on the top, penthouse floor, I don’t even pause at his door, just knock twice, loud enough to carry.

He answers in rolled sleeves and a mess of hair. No tie. Dress shirt open at the throat. His hair is tousled, the same way it looks after I’ve ran my fingers through it thoroughly. The thought of someone else doing that to him makes my stomach churn so I push it down.

He seems surprised, but only for a second. “Cat,” he says, no inflection. Not Catalina, not Ms. Vaquer.

I keep my arms loose at my sides. My voice is so even it almost sounds synthetic. “You didn’t answer my message.”

On the kitchen island, his laptop glows, surrounded by a minefield of paper and a half-empty rocks glass. He walks over and closes the laptop with one hand, then wipes at his face, like he’s trying to erase all evidence of himself. “Sorry. Things have been…intense.”

The fuck does that mean?

I drop my bag on the counter, every movement calculated to broadcast this is normal, I’m fine, you can’t get to me. “Cut the shit. Are you going to tell me what’s actually going on?”

He leans back against the fridge, arms folded. I track the tic in his jaw, the way his shoulders roll forward like he’s bracing for impact.

“It’s not personal,” he says, but I can already feel the knife between my ribs.

“Are you firing me?” I ask. The question comes out sharp. “Because if so, at least do it in writing, Aiden.”