Page 3 of His to Command

The VP of Marketing—Peterson? Patterson?—launches into an explanation that sounds like excuses wrapped in jargon. I half-listen, circling the table slowly, a deliberate power move that reminds everyone whose room this is. I ask pointed questions, watch people squirm. This is when I feel most alive—in control, unchallenged, absolute.

That's when I see her.

She's sitting near the back, head bent over a notepad, a cascade of dark hair falling from a severe bun. Not looking at me like everyone else, not trying to catch my eye to seem engaged. Just writing, focused, separate from the tension in the room.

I continue speaking, redirecting a question about market segmentation, but my eyes stay fixed on her. Something about the curve of her neck, the way her teeth worry at her full bottom lip as she concentrates. She's dressed in clothes meant to diminish—a boxy blouse buttoned to her throat, a skirt that hints at curves she's trying to hide.

It has the opposite effect. I want to see what she's concealing.

She finally looks up, perhaps sensing my attention, and our eyes lock. Hazel with gold flecks, widening behind practical glasses. Her cheeks flush a deep pink that spreads down her neck, disappearing beneath her buttoned collar, and I find myself wondering how far down that blush extends.

Something shifts in my chest. A tightening. A recognition I've never felt before.

Mine.

The thought is so immediate, so primitive, that it startles me. I've never looked at a woman and thought that before. I've wanted women, taken women, discarded women when I grew bored. But this—this instantaneous claim staking—is new.

I continue leading the meeting on autopilot, my mind now working on two tracks. On one, I'm dismantling the marketing team's strategy, pointing out flaws, demanding solutions. On the other, I'm studying her.

She doesn't speak during the meeting, but her body communicates volumes. The way she shifts in her seat when I look at her too long. The subtle crossing and uncrossing of legs beneath the table. The nervous habit of tucking escaped strands of hair behind her ear. Each movement tells me she feels this too, this unexpected current between us.

I need to know her name.

As the meeting concludes, I position myself near the door. People file past, eyes down, eager to escape. I scan their badges as they pass. Then she approaches, clutching a portfolio to her chest like armor.

Robin Hastings. Marketing Assistant.

"Ms. Hastings." I keep my voice neutral, professional.

She freezes, looking up at me with those remarkable eyes. "Y-yes, Mr. Roth?"

"Good work on the demographics section of the Johnson report. The only part that made sense." It's true—her analysis was clean, thorough, intelligent. But that's not why I'm singling her out.

"Thank you," she says, her voice soft but not weak.

I step aside, forcing her to walk close to me to exit. She smells like vanilla and something uniquely feminine that makes my pulse quicken. My eyes track her body as she passes—the curves she tries to hide evident despite her efforts.

"Have a good day, Robin," I say, deliberately using her first name, watching her reaction.

She hurries away without looking back, but the flush on her neck tells me everything I need to know.

Back in my office, I call in my assistant.

"Find out everything about Robin Hastings in Marketing."

"Sir?"

"Everything. Her file, her performance reviews, her education, her current projects. I want it all within the hour."

He nods, knows better than to ask why. Within forty-five minutes, a folder appears on my desk. I open it immediately.

Robin Hastings. Twenty-five. Bachelor's in Marketing from NYU, graduated with honors. Hired two years ago. Performance reviews consistently above average but not outstanding enough to fast-track her career. Lives alone in a one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn. Unmarried. No workplace relationships noted.

Unremarkable on paper. But I saw something in that conference room—intelligence, yes, but also a hidden fire behind that professional facade. Something that connects directly to a primal part of me I didn't know existed.

I pick up my phone. "Send Robin Hastings from Marketing to my office. Now."

Twenty minutes later, there's a tentative knock at my door.

---