Chapter 4Never His Secret Again

I reached for the cardboard cup of iced cold brew on the corner of my desk to stave off the exhaustion.

Before my fingers could curl around the plastic, a large, warm hand clamped gently over the lid, sliding it out of my reach.

I blinked, looking up into the cool gray eyes of Harrison Mercer.

His brows were pulled together in a faint frown, his gaze scanning my pale cheeks. "You've been pressing a heating pad against your stomach for the last three hours," he said, his tone flat but carrying an undercurrent of steel. "Don't drink iced coffee during your cycle. I don't need my lead designer fainting on the drafting table and giving HR an excuse to say I violate labor laws."

My eyes widened. How on earth did he notice that?

Before I could form a sentence, Harrison turned on his heel and walked into the executive pantry.

A moment later, he emerged carrying a steaming mug of oat milk steeped with cinnamon and honey. He set it down in front of me with a soft thud.

"Drink that. The load simulation can wait until ten tomorrow morning. Pack your bag. You're done for the night."

His tone brooked no debate.

I stared at the rising steam, a sudden, absurd prickle of heat behind my eyelids.

For five years, whenever menstrual cramps left me curled in a ball on the bathroom tile, Garrett would grimace, mutter, “Take some Motrin, Tess,” and take his pillow to the guest bedroom because my restless shifting disturbed his sleep.

Yet here was this supposed corporate tyrant, noticing my silent discomfort from across the room and handing me warm milk.

"Thank you, Mr. Mercer," I whispered.

As the delivery deadline approached, our late nights became routine, and the armor around Harrison began to show hairline fractures of unexpected warmth.

He never made a pass at me, but his care was everywhere. If we worked past midnight, his private town car waited downstairs to drive me to my new apartment in Brooklyn. At grueling dinners with difficult city planners, he would smoothly redirect the conversation whenever someone tried to push another glass of scotch into my hand. And he never, not once, ordered anything with cilantro when ordering our dinner.

A month later, the annual American Institute of Architects Gala arrived.

As a keynote speaker and developer honoree, Harrison was expected to bring a guest. Two days before the event, an executive courier arrived at my desk with a garment bag containing a bespoke midnight-blue silk gown that looked like a slice of the evening sky.

"This isn't just a party," Harrison told me, leaning against my cubicle partition with complete candor. "The board of the Whitney and half the city’s major developers will be in that room. You're my deputy, Tessa. It's time they know your name."

That night, my arm rested lightly inside the crook of Harrison’s tuxedo sleeve as we entered the ballroom at the Plaza.

Camera flashes popped along the velvet rope. High-profile executives and city officials swarmed Harrison to shake his hand, and without missing a beat, he kept me anchored beside him, introducing me with effortless authority:

"This is Tessa Hayes, my lead associate and the vision behind the waterfront master plan."

I stood tall, speaking of cantilevered trusses and civic integration with poise, feeling an intoxicating sensation I had never known in five years: I was seen. I was valued.

Halfway through the reception, a group of European investors pulled Harrison toward the private mezzanine.

I excused myself to the lounge, sitting on a velvet sofa near the terrace doors, sipping champagne to soothe my dry throat.

"Tessa."

The voice was cold, sharp, and entirely unwelcome.

I looked up. Garrett stood towering over me, his tuxedo immaculate, his face drawn in a mask of dark, possessive fury. Beside him, Mandy was nowhere to be seen—probably freshening her lip gloss in the powder room.

"Mr. Cole," I said smoothly, leaning back against the cushions. "Can I help you?"

His mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. "So this is why you packed your bags in the middle of the night. You found yourself a bigger check. You honestly think a man in Harrison Mercer's tax bracket takes a girl like you seriously? You're a temporary plaything, Tessa. An ornament."

He stepped closer, his voice dropping into that familiar, suffocating register:

"Haven't you dragged this tantrum out long enough? I went by that pathetic little shoebox you rented in Crown Heights. The neighborhood is garbage. Move back to the loft tomorrow morning, and I'll pretend this whole pathetic episode never happened."