Page 2 of The CEO’s Assistant

And after everything was done, there would be the house on the coast waiting for her, the house Eleanor had found two hours north of Phoenix Ridge that they had bought from a widow who only wanted the house loved. She and Eleanor had only used it rarely, but now, she would fill it with all the time she’d never had before: reading, sleeping, learning at last to cook a proper meal for one. She would be fifty-five and free and finally rested. It was a wise plan. A responsible plan. She had built it carefully, closing every contingency, and Cordelia believed in it as completely as she believed in anything she had ever made, even on nights when it had stopped feeling like a real future at all.

Cordelia rinsed the glass and set it in the drying rank, leaving the folder with the signed NDA on the counter. She switched off the lamps and went to get ready for bed. The hallway was dark except for the bathroom light at the far end filtering out. She brushed her teeth, washed her face, then turned off the light before walking down the hall in the dark to her bedroom. She climbed into her side of the bed—she had not slept anywhere near the middle in eight years—and rolled over, trying to find sleep she knew would elude her.

2

Chapter 2: Wren

The number 14 bus took the long way downtown, as it always did at this hour, stopping for everyone and idling at lights with no cross-traffic. Wren sat in the back and accepted the added time in her commute. After all, she had left for the interview early enough that the long way made no difference. It was a reflex her work had trained into her.

Her grandmother’s bag sat on her lap, brown leather that had gone soft at the corners and brass clasp dark where Millie’s thumb had worked it open and shut for decades. Her grandmother’s closest friend, Lillian, had given the bag to Wren at the wake, and Wren had kept it in a corner, like a shrine to the woman who had raised her. Today, it contained two copies of her resume, a pen, and her keys. She felt the small weight of her belongings shift when the bus braked at a red light.

She had put the suit on because it was the one she wore when she needed to look like she knew what she was doing. She had bought it at twenty-eight, the year she was promoted to senior consultant. It fit her well then. Now, not so much. The shoulders hung loose, and she had taken the belt in a notch from where it used to sit. Her grandmother’s watch wrapped around her wrist on a leather strap, too big for her, though she never resized it. It slid down over her wrist bone, and she pushed it back up without thinking.

She had ridden the number fourteen bus only twice before. Once, to time the route so she would know. And once on a Sunday, with nowhere she had to be, when she had stayed on long past her stop, all the way to the end of the line. Once the bus stopped and she had to deboard, she walked the harbor before riding it back home.

The ride today was supposed to take exactly twenty-three minutes, but she had left so early that she stepped off the bus two blocks from the building with most of an hour still to spare. The cold had a bite of winter still in it. She felt it slap her face as she walked, and more than anything, it surprised her a little that she was feeling anything at all. Her body had been somewhere far off for months. Standing on the sidewalk now, though, it felt close again.

The walk took four minutes, which still left her with most of the hour to spend in the Hale Capital lobby. Wren looked around. It was sparse, but not cold. Sconces on the wall cast low, ambient light, and the receptionist had placed a white orchid on her desk. The woman behind the desk offered Wren water or coffee twice, and she declined both times, settling deeper into the plush chair.

At ten exactly, a young woman walked her to a corner office and gestured for Wren to enter. Wren turned around to thank the woman, but she was already walking back to where she had come from before she could open her mouth. Wren swiveled back, and Cordelia Hale was already on her feet, walking around the desk with her arm outstretched.

“Thank you for coming in today.” She shook Wren’s hand once, a brief grip, before waving toward a chair.

Wren sat and adjusted for comfort by time Cordelia sat in her own chair across the desk. Wren’s eyes flicked toward the manilla folder between them then back up to meet Cordelia’s gaze.

“I’ll be direct,” Cordelia said. “I expect, based on your resume, you’d rather I was. I have two questions, and then I’ll explain what the job actually is.”

“All right.”

Wren had worked for women who opened like that—no warmth wasted, nothing offered beyond what was strictly necessary. She knew the type, and the consistency steadied her.

“Four years ago, you ran the Hartwell engagement.” Cordelia stared at her. “Yet it isn’t anywhere on your resume.”

Wren masked her initial surprise, keeping her face neutral. The Hartwell business wasn’t the kind of thing that usually came up. It was a family-owned company, and the sale was something the family hadn’t agreed on. Wren spent the better part of a year in the middle of it, keeping the owner from torching her own deal. The terms had kept her from putting it anywhere near her official resume, and almost no one knew she had been involved.

“No,” Wren said, finally. “It isn’t.”

“How did it end?”

Wren frowned. “I’m not sure how much I’m allowed to claim on the record, but it closed cleanly. The company sold, and the family still speaks to each other.”

Cordelia was patient and let her finish. She leaned forward. “I’m not asking on the record.”

Wren gave the short version with the details she knew she was legally allowed to share. Cordelia listened, her body still tilted forward on her desk, and she didn’t write anything down. With how intently Cordelia hung on to every word, Wren suspected she wouldn’t need to.

Something was off, though. It was the wrong question for the job. An executive assistant didn’t need a contested sale in her work history, and it wasn’t the sort of experience a hiring manager or CEO would hunt for. Wren set the thought aside, chalking it up to thoroughness.

“Second question,” Cordelia said, with no notes to follow up about the sale. “What are you doing in Phoenix Ridge?”

Wren felt suddenly exposed, as if Cordelia could tell that Wren didn’t really belong, that she didn’t match the city around her and wanted to know why. She decided how much of her story she would share with this stranger.

“My grandmother was dying,” Wren said. “I came for her. Then she died, and I stayed.”

She left it at that. It was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Wren suspected Cordelia could sense there was more, but if she did, she, gratefully, left it alone and didn’t press for more information.

“Here’s the job,” Cordelia said. “On paper, you’re my executive assistant. In practice, though, you’ll see things before anyone else in this building does, and I require your complete discretion.”

So that’s why she asked about Hartwell. Wren kept her face neutral.