Page 9 of The Marriage Clause

Before she reaches the door, my mouth is already forming the words that have been sitting like a stone in my gut since last week.

"Miss Taylor."

She stops and turns back, eyes wide, fingers tightening around the edge of her notepad. "Yes?"

I stand, straightening my jacket like I’m going into a board presentation rather than detonating someone’s life.

"We need to discuss your position."

Her throat moves as she swallows. "My position?"

"Yes. Close the door, please."

Her hand trembles on the handle for a fraction of a second, but she does as I ask and then sits in the chair opposite my desk, smoothing her skirt over her knees. She looks like she’s trying to make herself smaller without actually shrinking.

I sit back down, steeple my fingers, and keep my expression unreadable.

"The Hawkeyes organization is undergoing restructuring," I begin. "We’ve reviewed all staff roles in light of existing administrative support. Your position was created by Mr. Carlton and duplicates many of the functions already covered by my existing team."

Her eyes meeting mine feel like getting hit in the chest with a spotlight.

"You’re letting me go," she says.

It’s not really a question. I’ve made my feelings known to her since I took over the team, but something has kept me from letting her go earlier. I tell myself it’s because I had more important items on my plate than an assistant with a salary that’s barely a drop in the bucket, and because the work she performs for me is above adequate. I appreciate an assistant who learns and adapts quickly.

I nod once, deciding that ripping off the band-aid is the best course of action before I table this issue again, and she stays on another six months. "Your role is redundant. HR has prepared a severance package. Two weeks paid plus a letter of recommendation."

"Redundant." She repeats the word like she’s trying to translate it into a language she understands. Her fingers curl tightly around the notepad in her lap. Her knuckles turn white.

"Was my performance unsatisfactory?" she asks.

This is where most employees either get angry, cry, or shut down. She does none of the above.

"No. Your performance was fine."

"Did I do something wrong?" Her eyes are searching my face.

"No," I say again. "This is a structural decision."

I can see it in her eyes. A dozen emotions trying to break through all at once. Panic, confusion... probably even hurt.

She swallows hard.

"I’ve been coming in early," she says. "Staying late. I reorganized all the Carlton files to match your system. I’ve been trying to anticipate what you need before you ask." Her voice steadies. "If there’s something I can improve, I can adjust. I can take on more responsibility. Longer hours. Whatever is necessary."

"Miss Taylor—"

"I get your coffee wrong sometimes, I know that." She rushes on, cheeks flushing. "You don’t drink it the way Phil did, and I’m still learning your preferences. But I can—"

"This is not about coffee," I cut in.

She flinches.

I don't like being the one who caused it. Then I see it. The thing I don’t want to see and can’t unsee now that it’s there.

She’s terrified.

Not just inconvenienced. Not just disappointed. Terrified.