Page 39 of For the Plot
Fifteen minutes later, the meeting is wrapping. People stand. Stretch. Grab their laptops and start filtering out.
“Skye,” I say before I can think better of it. “Stay for a second.”
Her brows lift slightly. There’s no irritation in it. No surprise either. Just that unreadable calm I’m learning means she’s already five steps ahead of me.
“Sure.”
She waits until the room clears before shifting her chair slightly toward me. We’re alone now—except for the tension curling thick and quiet around us. It stretches between us like a trip wire, one we’ve both gotten far too comfortable stepping over.
I should thank her for keeping her cool. For shutting Leo down without making a scene. I should tell her I saw what she did and that it didn’t go unnoticed.
Instead, I say, “He was out of line.”
She doesn’t play dumb. Doesn’t pretend not to know who I mean.
“Leo’s not a bad guy,” she says carefully. “He just… likes to sound like the smartest one in the room. Especially when he’s not.”
“He implied you were a glorified admin,” I say, jaw tight. “And you laughed it off.”
“Because if I didn’t, it would’ve made it worse.” She shrugs. “If I shut him down too hard, I’d be the overcompensating assistant. If I let it slide completely, I lose credibility. So I laughed. Then corrected him with facts. That’s how women survive in rooms like this.”
My gut twists. “I don’t want you to have to survive here,” I confess. “I want you to lead.”
She stills slightly, her eyes on mine. And it hits me how much power she carries in silence.
“I’m not looking to be rescued, Reece,” she says softly. “I’m just trying to do my job.”
“I know.”
Another beat. The air sharpens again.
“You handled it well,” I say. “But next time he speaks to you like that, you shut it down. Publicly. You have my permission.”
“Thanks.” Her tone is even, but there’s something behind her eyes now. Something I can’t name yet. “But I don’t need permission to know my own worth.”
That makes me smile.
I drag in a breath to slow the thudding in my chest. “You’re not intimidated by anyone in this building,” I murmur, more to myself than her.
She smiles. “Should I be?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I am.” The words are out before I can stop them.
Her breath catches. Her eyes search mine, serious now. “Are you?”
I don’t know what I meant. That she should be afraid of what she’s waking up in me. That I’m afraid of how fast I’m slipping. Of how she’s already inside every breath, every beat, every fucking decision I make.
I don’t answer.
Instead, I rise and walk purposely around the table until I’m standing beside her chair. She doesn’t lean back. Doesn’t shrink. She tips her chin up, steady and unflinching, waiting.
I reach down and press my thumb against the edge of the tablet resting on her lap. Her fingers release it and I take it from her and set it on the table. Our hands brush, just a graze, but the contact is electric.
“You need to stop doing that,” I say quietly.
