Every day for the next week, I go into the office intending to tell Logan about the baby.

And every day for the next week, I chicken out.

I’ll tell him first thing in the morning, I promise myself, when I bring him his coffee. But every morning, the scent of the rich cappuccino triggers my gag reflex, and I end up running out of his office, just grateful I didn’t hurl all over his thousand-dollar shoes.

After I’ve put it off for the entire week, I kick myself into high gear. Today, Friday. I have to do it today. I don’t want another weekend to go by.

Except when I get to Logan’s office that morning — loaded up on dramamine and carefully holding his coffee cup far away from my nose — he slams his laptop closed and nearly shoves it off his desk.

“What’s wrong?” I set the cup down gently and then take two big steps backwards. Both because of the smell and because of the look on his face right now.

“Nothing,” he grumbles, even though it’s clear it’s most definitely something.

“Do you want to, I don’t know, talk about it?”

He looks up at me, his eyebrows slightly raised. He isn’t smiling, but he has the look of stoic amusement about him again, if such a thing is even possible. “Not particularly.”

“Well, I was just offering.”

“It’s nothing, really.”

“Fine. Then, maybe, if you have a minute...”

“It’s just SynthGem.”

“The people you’re meeting with this afternoon?”

“Yes. I just found out they met with Tiffany & Co. earlier this week.”

“Ooooh, Tiffany!”

Clearly, this is not the appropriate response, because Logan glares at me. “That means they’re considering other partners right now.”

“Right. And that’s ... not good?”

“No, it’s most definitely not good. I don’t particularly like synthetic diamonds, but if they get Tiffany on board, their cache is going to shoot way up. That means today’s meeting has to go spectacularly.” He looks me up and down, taking in my bare legs, my grey skirt, my white button down. “Undo a few of those buttons before we go in. And maybe let your hair down.”

I frown and reach instinctively for my braid, twisting the tip of it around my fingers. The heat from his gaze is warming my skin, but I don’t need a reminder that I’m only being invited to this meeting because I happen to be blonde and perky. “My hair will be staying as it is, thank you.”

I expect him to argue with me, but he only flashes me that same enigmatic quarter-smile again. “Fine.” He picks up the coffee I’d left on his desk and takes a sip. “Your coffee skills are improving.”

My lips twist in irritation. “Yeah, well, it’s just coffee.” I don’t know why I suddenly feel so irritated with him.

It seems like he can tell, because he sets the cup down with a sigh. “Blake, I’m trying to pay you a compliment. I’m saying that I notice and appreciate your efforts around here.”

“Oh. Well, thank you.” My tone is grudging, but I have to admit, it’s reassuring to hear.

Of course, that’s not going to stop him from firing me when he finds out what I have to tell him.

“Was there anything else?” he asks.

I take a deep breath. I could do it right now. Just tell him and get it over with.

But his eyes flick to the screen of his laptop, which he’s opened up again already. A frown comes over his face. He’s distracted now, and unhappy. Probably not the best time to tell him. Probably I should just put it off for another day or another year or whatever.

“I’ll be at my desk if you need me for anything,” I say, and slip out of his office.

I don’t see Logan until just before the meeting with SynthGem. I’m almost hoping that he’ll forget he even asked me to attend, but no such luck. My inbox pings with a message from him, telling me to meet him by the elevators.

We ride down the three floors together, to the large conference room on the twenty-seventh floor. I haven’t been down here since my first day, when I met with Georgia in the HR department, and that day I was hardly in the right frame of mind to absorb anything about the place. So now I spin my head around as we walk. There are offices with deep mahogany doors lining the hallway, and the floor bustles with people moving about from office to office and the sound of phones ringing and photocopiers whirring. The executive floor, where Logan and I work, is so quiet. I almost forgot that there were about a million other people who work for Cartwright Diamonds.

Okay, maybe not a million. “How many people actually work here?” I ask Logan as we walk.

“In this building? About twelve hundred. Fifteen floors. We rent out of the rest of the office space to other small businesses. We have another few hundred people working out on the west coast. Then we also have satellite offices — a couple in Canada, one in Bangladesh, three across Africa. Probably another five hundred or so people work across the outposts.”

“Wow. That’s a lot.”

“That’s not even counting our subsidiary companies. All totaled, we employ over twenty thousand people. We’ve grown significantly in the last five years. Since I took over from my father, I’ve put a lot of effort into expanding the business.”

“Did he retire?”

“Died.”

“Oh, shit.” I clap my hand over my mouth. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. It was almost ten years ago now — heart attack. Here we are.” Logan pushes open the door to a massive conference room. There’s a huge table in the center, with leather chairs surrounding it, enough space for at least two dozen people.

Most of the leather chairs are already filled. A homogenous group of jowl-necked, beady-eyed, pasty old white men. All eyes turn to face Logan and I, and I suddenly feel uncomfortable and very glad that I trusted my gut and wore a perfectly professional outfit. Still, the men in the room are all eyeing me now, and I feel hot and slightly ill. I slip into the closest chair, pulling it up to the table quickly before anyone gets any further opportunity to eyeball my legs.

There’s a chuckle from the room, and I look up to find Logan standing at my arm, smiling. One glance around the room, and I realize I’ve sat in the only free chair, the one right at the head of the table. The one clearly meant for Logan.

“Oh God. Sorry,” I whisper, starting to stand up. Logan’s hand on my arm stops me.

“Don’t worry about it.” He grabs one of the slightly less fancy guest chairs that are lined around the far end of the room and drags it over to the table. It doesn’t even have wheels, so it scrapes loudly against the shiny wooden floor, but no one dares to say a word about it to Logan. I shift my fancy leather chair over so he can pull his up to the head of the table.

“Gentlemen, this is Blake, my new assistant. She’ll be taking notes for us today.”

I look down at my hands in horror. My empty hands. I didn’t even think to bring a notepad. Oh my God, I’m such a dope. Can I blame this on pregnancy brain? My face is completely hot now, but I force myself to stand on shaky legs.

“One moment, please.” My voice sounds high-pitched. I flee the conference room and beeline to the office across the hallway. An Indian man with round spectacles and a navy suit blinks up at me.

“Paper,” I screech. “And a pen. Please. Now. Aaaargh.” That last part is more of a gurgle of humiliation than actual words.

He wordlessly turns and yanks a small stack of paper off the tray of the printer behind him, then gestures to the mug on his desk that says ‘I Work Numbers, Not Miracles’, which holds an array of pens and highlighters. I pluck one out and then grab another four to be safe.

With the paper and pens safely in hand, I hurry back to the conference room. I’m hoping they’ll have already started the meeting, but instead I find them sitting in relative quiet. Logan speaks in a low voice to the man sitting on his left-hand side, but otherwise, the room is silent. Everyone looks up when I walk in.

I wave the paper around. “All set.”

“Excellent.” Logan smiles, somehow still suave and totally in control. “Let’s begin then, shall we?”

Thankfully, from that point on, the meeting goes smoothly. I get a little distracted here and there, watching Logan present and taking in the way the rest of the room seems to bend towards him, like flowers to the sun. There’s something magnetic about him, something that even men are compelled by. Is it any wonder I fell into bed with him? Half the men in here have probably thought about it at some point. The thought makes me snort, which I quickly turn into a cough.

I take as many detailed notes as I can, though it’s hard without knowing anyone’s name. I write ‘Bald Guy’ and ‘Blue Tie’ and “Mister Polkadot’ and “Mouthbreather” and just pray that Logan doesn’t ask me to scan and email these notes directly to him later. I’ll get the correct names and type up everything properly as soon as we’re done here.

Before I know it, the meeting is over. Logan is reaching past me to shake hands with Mouthbreather and Mister Polkadot, and they’re smiling enthusiastically, despite the fact that he just negotiated them down by twenty percent and convinced them not to take any further meetings with Tiffany. That’s the power of Logan Cartwright — he can fuck you over, and you still find yourself smiling about it.

Logan stays talking with Mister Polkadot, while most of the other suits file out of the room. I hang around nearby, not sure if I’m expected to wait for him to finish here, or if I should head back upstairs to my desk so that I can start cleaning up my notes. I spend a couple of minutes hovering awkwardly near the boardroom door, trying to catch Logan’s eye so that I can tell him I’m going upstairs.

While I’m hovering, Mouthbreather approaches. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

The mouth-breathing, it turns out, goes hand-in-hand with some hair-curling halitosis. I smile politely while trying not to inhale. “Yes, just a few weeks now.”

“I’ll hand it to Logan,” he says, shaking his head with a chuckle. “He always manages to find the prettiest little assistants.”

“Yes, well…” I don’t finish my sentence, because what exactly am I supposed to say? Thank you? Your objectification is most appreciated?

He leans in closer, and I grimace. His greying hair is brushed into an unappealing combover, and up close, I can see a dusting of dandruff covering the no doubt expensive wool of his suit jacket. “I must wonder, though, if you’re as … generous … as some of his previous assistants.”

My eyes widen as his narrow. What a lech. I look around nervously, hoping Logan will come striding out of the boardroom, but he’s still deep in conversation with Mister Polkadot.

“I have no idea what you’re referring to,” I say. My voice is clipped but still polite. “But I should be getting back to my desk. Nice meeting you.”

Before I can duck out of his range, he puts his hand up, resting it against the wall beside my head and effectively blocking my escape.

“So soon?” he rasps.

Now I’m really starting to panic. I know he likely won’t really do anything, not here in the open like this. But I’m still in an uncomfortable position — I can’t exactly tell off one of Cartwright Diamonds’ clients, especially not after they just agreed to a big deal.

I hesitate for another few seconds, weighing the distance between here and the elevator, debating ducking back into the boardroom just to get away from him. In that time, Mouthbreather apparently decides to take things a step further. He reaches up and strokes one bent finger against my cheek.

“Don’t touch me,” I grit, turning my head.

“Oh, play nice,” he murmurs.

“What’s going on here?” Logan’s voice booms from behind me. Both Mouthbreather and I spin around in surprise. A moment of panic rushes through me when I see the mask of fury on his face. At least until I realize it isn’t me he’s angry with.

“Hello Logan. Just having a chat with your new assistant. Is it just me, or do they get prettier and prettier?”

Before I can even process what’s happening, Logan is striding forward, his fist closing around Mouthbreather’s neck, shoving him up against the wall. “You do not speak to or about my staff like that. Do we understand each other?”

His voice is cold as ice, and if it wasn’t for the slight redness in his face, you’d think he was still in that boardroom, calmly debating tariffs and shipping fees. My heart pounds.

Mouthbreather twists, but Logan’s grip is firm. “Let go of me,” he pants.

“I asked you a question. Do we understand each other? I won’t ask you a third time.” Again, he’s as calm and cool as the leftover ice in his scotch glass.

“Yes, yes, hell. Now let me go.”

This time, Logan releases his hold on Mouthbreather. The man rubs his neck, where a bright red hand print is already blooming. Logan turns to face me, the first time he has since he came out of the boardroom.

“Are you all right?” His voice has softened, just a fraction. It’s such a small shift that I’m probably the only one who notices.

“Yes. Thank you. I’m sorry.” I’m clutching my pages of notes in my hand, and I realize I’ve completely crumpled them.

“Blake, you don’t have to apologize for a thing,” Logan says firmly.

“Oh yes, she does.” Mouthbreather is back now, rubbing his neck where Logan had twisted his shirt collar. “I’m an important client here. I don’t expect to be spoken to like that by your assistants. Or by you, for that matter.”

The rage, which had started to dissipate from Logan’s face, settles back into place. His brow furrows into a tight knot of lines and creases. The color rises up the back of his neck, into his hairline and then forward through his face. His hands clench at his sides, but when Mouthbreather casts another lecherous glance over at me, Logan loses it completely.

His fist flies out before I even realize what’s happening. I can’t say that I’ve ever heard the sound of nose cartilage breaking before, but I know as soon as I hear that awful crunching that that’s exactly what just happened. Mouthbreather’s hands fly to his face, but not before I see an ooze of blood start from his right nostril.

Logan shakes off his fist and mutters a curse under his breath. I’m the only one close enough to hear it, especially over the much louder sounds coming from Mouthbreather. His breath sounds wet and raspy, and he’s shouting a litany of expletives that would make a biker gang blush.

The commotion draws people from their offices — the accountant I’d stolen the pens and paper from earlier, a woman in a pink suit who pushes her glasses up her nose as if to get a better view. And — shit — Georgia. I smile wanly at her as she peers over at us.

Then she’s jostled out of the way by an older gentleman who comes hobbling out of the office behind her.

Logan stiffens. “Ed. What are you doing here?”

The older man frowns, his fluffy grey eyebrows coming to a concerned point. “I was meeting with Christine. What’s going on here?”

“Just showing these folks out.” Logan’s mouth is a grim line. I’ve never seen him this upset before, but it seems to have more to do with Ed’s presence than the fact that he just punched a client in the face.

The man named Ed looks disbelievingly at Logan, but he doesn’t say anything else. Logan nods once at Mouthbreather and his crew, and they begin marching towards the elevators, muttering angrily amongst themselves.

Once they’re gone, Logan seems to regain some of his usual composure. “Georgia, you’ll want to take a statement from Blake. Ed, why don’t you join me upstairs in my office?”

Ed hesitates a minute, but then nods. “Sure, Logan.”

Georgia motions for me to follow her into her office, and I go with her. I don’t dare risk a look back at Logan, not in front of all these people. But I can feel his eyes on me the entire time, until the door of the HR department finally swings closed behind us.