Page 2 of His to Command

He's still speaking, still addressing the room about market strategies and accountability, but his eyes never leave mine. It's as if he's having two conversations—one with the department and one, silent but deafening, with me.

My hands grow damp. I cross my legs beneath the table, then uncross them, acutely aware of every movement, every breath. The pencil in my grip threatens to snap. Why is he looking atme? Have I done something wrong? Is there something on my face? Does he somehow know I worked on those numbers?

When he finally breaks the stare to respond to a question, I feel like I've surfaced from underwater, gulping air. My heart pounds so loudly I'm certain everyone can hear it. I glance around, but no one seems to notice anything amiss. They're all focused on Hudson, on their notes, on not becoming the target of his obvious displeasure.

The meeting continues for forty more excruciating minutes. Twice more, his eyes find mine across the room, lingering longer than professional courtesy would dictate. Each time, that same almost-smile plays at his lips. Each time, my body betrays me with a flush, a quickened pulse, a tightening low in my belly that I refuse to acknowledge.

When it finally ends, people scatter like buckshot, eager to escape the tension of the room. I gather my things slowly, deliberately, waiting for the crowd to thin before I attempt to leave. My legs feel unsteady, as if I've run a marathon rather than sat in a chair for an hour.

"Ms. Hastings."

My name in his mouth is a command. I freeze, my portfolio clutched to my chest like armor.

Hudson Roth stands by the door, one hand in his pocket, the other holding it open. Waiting. For me.

"Y-yes, Mr. Roth?" My voice emerges higher than usual, a stranger's voice.

"Good work on the demographics section of the Johnson report. The only part that made sense." He says it flatly, matter-of-factly, as if he hasn't just singled me out from twenty other people in the marketing department.

"Thank you," I manage, wondering how he knows which part I worked on, wondering why he knows my name.

He nods once, sharp and definitive, then steps aside to let me pass through the door. I have to move close to him, close enough to catch the scent of expensive cologne and something underneath it, something darkly, undeniably male. As I squeeze past, being careful not to brush against him, I feel his eyes on me again—on my face, then lower, taking in the curves I've tried so hard to conceal.

"Have a good day, Robin," he says as I step into the hallway, my name in his mouth now a caress instead of a command.

I hurry back to my desk, heart racing, skin tingling. What just happened? Why did Hudson Roth, billionaire CEO who doesn't even know the names of his VPs, just call me by my first name? Why did he look at me that way?

And why, despite all my careful planning and professional boundaries, did I like it?

two

. . .

Hudson

I'm bored.Board meetings, quarterly reports, acquisition strategies—the same tedious cycle. I built this empire from nothing, turned it into a billion-dollar monolith, and now I'm trapped in its clockwork. Nothing surprises me anymore. Nothing challenges me. I make decisions that ruin or elevate lives before my morning coffee, and I feel nothing but the dull satisfaction of efficiency. Then I walk into the marketing department meeting, and everything changes in a single glance.

The day starts like any other. My penthouse suite offers a view of New York City that most people only see in movies—a sprawl of concrete and ambition spread out beneath me. I own a significant chunk of it. From my bedroom window, I can see three buildings with my name emblazoned on them in steel letters. Hudson Roth. A name that opens doors, closes deals, makes lesser men quake.

My morning routine is precisely timed. Workout: 5:00 to 6:00. Shower: 6:00 to 6:15. Breakfast and news briefing: 6:15to 7:00. Car arrives at 7:10. I'm in my office by 7:30, reviewing the day's agenda while my assistant—a forgettable man whose efficiency is his only memorable trait—briefs me on any overnight developments.

This morning, there's a marketing report on my desk. The Johnson campaign. Numbers well below projections, despite a substantial investment. I scan the pages, noting the careful analysis, the projections, the recommendations. A waste of paper. The problem is obvious—the campaign lacks focus, tries to appeal to too broad an audience. Basic marketing principles being ignored by people I pay too much money.

"Schedule a meeting with Marketing. Today." I don't look up as I give the order.

"Sir, your schedule is?—"

"Clear it."

He hesitates only a moment before nodding. "Yes, Mr. Roth."

By nine, I'm striding toward the elevator that will take me down to the marketing floor. I rarely venture from the executive levels. My presence causes disruption—people straightening, voices lowering, the entire atmosphere shifting to accommodate my status. It's tedious but occasionally necessary. Sometimes fear is the most effective motivator.

The elevator doors slide open silently, and I step onto the marketing floor. Glass partitions, open workspaces, the buzz of activity that falters as heads turn, registering my presence. I don't acknowledge any of them as I head directly to the conference room where the meeting has been arranged.

I pause at the threshold, observing before entering. Twenty or so employees arranged around a glass table, clutching their devices and papers like talismans against corporate wrath. I scan their faces—some familiar, most not. It doesn't matter. They're interchangeable parts in my machine.

I enter, and the room freezes. "The Johnson campaign," I say without preamble. "Someone explain to me why we're twenty percent below projections."

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