Page 7 of His to Command

I blink in surprise. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything." The word hangs between us, heavy with implication. "But let's start with why you hide."

"Hide?" My voice catches.

"Your intelligence. Your body. Your potential." He leans forward, elbows on the desk. "You dress to be invisible, yet you're the most noticeable woman in any room."

Heat flushes my cheeks. "I dress professionally, Mr. Roth."

"Hudson," he corrects. "And professional doesn't mean shapeless. You have curves, Robin. Why conceal them?"

My mouth opens, closes. How do I explain that curves like mine have always attracted the wrong kind of attention? That I learned early that being noticed for my body meant not being taken seriously for my mind?

"I'm more comfortable this way," I finally say.

"Are you?" His voice drops lower. "Or are you just afraid of what happens when people see you? Really see you?"

Something in his tone makes my skin prickle with awareness. Like he already sees through every layer I've wrapped around myself.

"Mr. Roth—Hudson—I'm not sure what this has to do with my job."

"Everything." He stands abruptly, circling the desk until he's standing over me. I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "I don't waste resources, Robin. I saw your work. Your mind. But I also saw you. And now I want to know what else you've been hiding."

He reaches down, and this time he does touch me—one finger tracing the line of my jaw, tilting my face up. The contact sends electricity racing across my skin. I should pull away. I should stand up, walk out, report this to HR.

Instead, I sit frozen, my breath shallow, as his thumb brushes the corner of my mouth.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, almost to himself.

Then, as suddenly as he approached, he steps back. The professional mask slides back into place, but his eyes remain heated, intent.

"Your first assignment is on your tablet. I need it completed by noon."

Just like that, I'm dismissed. I rise on unsteady legs and retreat to my desk, heart hammering against my ribs.

The morning passes in a blur of actual work—scheduling meetings, reviewing contracts, fielding calls. Hudson remainsin his office, emerging only for a scheduled meeting, barely glancing my way as he passes. I begin to wonder if I imagined the intensity of our earlier encounter.

Until I catch him watching me through the glass walls of his office. Not once, but repeatedly throughout the day. Every time I look up, his eyes are on me—assessing, calculating, possessing.

At lunch, he buzzes my desk. "Join me."

It's not a question. I enter his office to find food laid out on a conference table—not take-out containers but proper china, silverware, cloth napkins.

"Sit," he says, indicating the chair beside his, not across the table.

I comply, hyperaware of his proximity as he serves me—salmon, asparagus, some kind of grain I don't recognize. Our fingers brush when he hands me a water glass, and I nearly drop it.

"Tell me about the Johnson campaign," he says, cutting into his food with precise movements. "What would you have done differently?"

It's such a normal, professional question that I relax slightly, launching into my analysis of where the marketing strategy went wrong. He listens intently, asking pointed questions that push me to elaborate, to defend my positions. It's exhilarating, being taken seriously, having my ideas engaged with rather than dismissed.

"You're smarter than you let people know," he observes when I finish. "Why?"

I shrug, uncomfortable with the direction. "Being underestimated has its advantages."

"Not with me." His voice hardens. "I expect you to show me everything you are. No holding back."

The words carry a double meaning that makes my stomach flip.

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