Chapter 2 - “I insisted. She resisted. I paid more.”
“Literally?”
I could not help laughing, though it became a cough.
“Figuratively. But she got the point.”
Noah picked up the bowl and held it out.
“You need to stop killing yourself working.”
“Says the workaholic who sleeps 4 hours a night and works on weekends.” I accepted the bowl and looked at him over it. “You have no moral authority here.”
“Touché.”
That smile again. Genuine. Disarming.
“But at least I choose this. You’re doing it because you think you don’t have a choice.”
“It’s because I don’t.”
The honesty came out before I could stop it.
“College doesn’t pay for itself. Life doesn’t pay for itself.”
“I know.” His voice softened. “But you work for me now, and part of my job as your employer is to make sure you don’t die of exhaustion in my office. It would look terrible on my résumé.”
I laughed again, more carefully.
“How considerate.”
I ate the soup in silence while Noah stayed seated on the edge of the bed. It should have been strange, this intimacy created by illness and concern. But it was not. It was comfortable. Dangerously comfortable.
“Better?” he asked when I finished.
“Better.”
I handed the bowl back. Our fingers brushed in the transfer. The electricity was there again, running across my skin and making my heart skip. His eyes locked on mine. For a moment, neither of us moved. His hand remained close to mine, so close I could feel the warmth of his skin.
It would have been easy to close the distance, to intertwine our fingers, to admit that whatever this was had become more than professional.
Noah pulled away first, standing quickly and taking the tray.
“Rest. I’ll check on you later.”
“Noah.”
I did not know what I intended to say. Thank you. You do not need to worry. Please stay.
“Just rest, Angeline.” He stopped at the door and looked back. “That’s an order from your boss.”
Then he was gone, leaving me alone with a heart beating too fast and thoughts that were not appropriate for an employee thinking about her boss.
Christy showed up the next day. Noah must have called her because she arrived with wide eyes and an expression that mixed concern with pure disbelief.
“This house is obscene.”
Those were her first words when Mrs. Dawson led her into the room where I was recovering.
“How do you work here and stay sane?”
“With difficulty.”
My voice was still weak, but after 16 hours of sleep, I felt much better.
“Thanks for coming.”
“Noah Priestley personally called to tell me you were sick. Of course I came.” She sat on the bed and studied my face. “Also, I wanted to see the man who is clearly obsessed with you.”
“He’s not obsessed. He’s just a good boss.”
Even as I said it, the words sounded false.
“Angel.” Christy took my hand. “He called personally. He didn’t send an assistant or secretary. He himself dialed my number and explained your condition with a level of detail that suggests he paid very close attention to you.”
Before I could respond, the door opened.
Noah entered, stopped when he saw Christy, and something interesting crossed his face. Surprise. Discomfort at being interrupted.
“Sorry. I didn’t know you had a visitor.” He looked at me. “How are you feeling?”
“Better, thank you.”
My voice came out softer than I intended.
Christy looked between us, and I could almost see the gears turning in her head.
“Mr. Priestley, can I talk to you for a moment outside?”
Noah looked genuinely surprised, but he nodded.
“Of course.”
They stepped out. Through the half-closed door, I heard Christy’s voice, low but clear.
“You like her.”
“Miss Park—”
“Don’t give me formalities. You like her. It’s obvious in the way you look at her. In the way you called me worried. In the way you’re here instead of in your office working like you always do.” A pause. “You’re a terrible liar for a billionaire.”
Silence followed. My heartbeat pounded painfully against my ribs.
“It’s complicated,” Noah finally said, his voice low and tired. “She works for me, and she deserves more than this.”
“This what? A rich guy who clearly cares about her? Who makes sure she eats right and rests? Who looks at her like she’s the most interesting person he’s ever met?” Christy gave a humorless laugh. “Angel’s been poor her whole life.
What she deserves is someone who truly sees her. And you see her.”
I did not hear his response. The door closed completely.
When Christy came back, her smile was far too satisfied.
“I planted the seed.”
“What seed?”
I asked, but I already knew.
“The seed of doubt. Of questioning. Of what if?” She took my hand again. “Because you 2 are idiots dancing around each other, and someone needed to push.”
I said nothing. I only stared at the closed door and wondered whether Noah was on the other side thinking the same impossible things I was.
Two months passed in a blur of organized schedules, answered emails, and a routine that should have become comfortable but did not. The tension between Noah and me grew each day, silent and inevitable, like a storm forming on the horizon.
Small moments accumulated. Looks that lasted a second too long. Hands that almost touched when passing documents.
Conversations that began professionally and ended dangerously personal. I became an expert at pretending I did not notice.
I pretended my pulse did not quicken when he entered the office. I pretended I did not notice the smell of his cologne when he passed too close.
I pretended I did not count the hours until he came home late at night, just so we could exchange a few words before retreating to our separate corners of the mansion.
The routine was established. Professionalism was established, at least in theory. But the cracks in the wall we had built were becoming impossible to ignore.
“I need you to come with me to Boston,” Noah said one Thursday, entering my office with the controlled energy that meant important business.
“Meeting with potential investors. It’s going to be critical, and I need you to organize the documents. Make sure everything is perfect.”
“When?” I asked, already opening the calendar.
“Tomorrow. We’ll be back Sunday.”
He leaned against the desk in a casual position that made the muscles in his arms tense beneath his shirt.
“I know it’s short notice.”
“No problem. I’ll arrange everything.”
I kept my voice professional, though the thought of traveling with him and spending entire days in his company without the usual barriers of the mansion and routine did something strange to my stomach.
The next day’s flight was my first time on a private jet. I tried not to look impressed when I climbed the stairs and stepped into what looked less like a plane and more like a flying living room. Cream leather seats. Mahogany tables. A full work area with computers and a printer.
“First time?” Noah asked, a knowing smile on his lips as he watched me attempt to act natural.
“Is it that obvious?” I sat in one of the seats and sank into the absurdly comfortable leather. “I usually travel in economy class, squeezed between a crying baby and someone who steals the armrest.”
He laughed and took the seat across from me.
“Welcome to the other side. Babies are strictly prohibited.”
The flight passed too quickly. We worked most of the time, reviewing presentations and numbers, but there were pauses when we talked about nothing important. Favorite songs. Foods we hated. The kind of conversations normal people had, not a boss and his employee.
The hotel in Boston was predictably 5-star. The lobby had more marble than my entire old neighborhood combined. The manager greeted Noah personally, a professional smile fixed on his face, and led us to the top floor.
“Your suites, Mr. Priestley,” he said, opening 2 adjacent doors. “The finest in the hotel, as requested, with connecting balconies.”
My suite was larger than the apartment I shared with Christy. It had a king-size bed, a marble bathroom with a separate tub, a living room with a city view, and everything in it was immaculate, expensive, and intimidating.
I put my things away quickly, then joined Noah in his room to review plans for that night’s business dinner. He was on the phone when I entered, and he gestured for me to sit while he finished the call in fluent Mandarin. It was one more thing I had not known about him, another detail added to a growing list that had become dangerously fascinating.
“Dinner’s at 8,” he said after hanging up, taking off his jacket and tossing it over the armchair. His sleeves were already rolled to his elbows. “The investors are traditional. Conservative. I need to impress them.”
“You always impress.”
The words escaped before I could filter them.
His eyes met mine, and something unspoken passed between us.
“Your confidence is motivating.”
The restaurant was sophisticated and quiet, the kind of place where every fork had a specific purpose and the wine cost more than college tuition. I was there to take discreet notes, observe reactions, and be invisible but useful. The 3 investors were older men in expensive suits, wearing watches that probably cost as much as cars.
The conversation moved through numbers and projections. Noah handled each question with the ease of someone born for rooms like that. I took notes on my tablet, half-hidden at the end of the table.
Everything was going well until one of the investors, a gray-haired man named Richard with an oily smile, decided to include me in the conversation.
“Priestley, besides excellent numbers, you have excellent taste in assistants. Beautiful and efficient, I imagine.”
The atmosphere froze. Or maybe that was only me, my whole body tightening at the disrespectful way he spoke, as if I were an accessory rather than a professional.
Noah’s posture changed subtly. His jaw tightened. His eyes darkened. When he spoke, his voice carried an edge of ice that had not been there before.
“Miss Torres is my executive assistant because she’s the best at what she does. Her professional merits are unmatched. Now, about the 3rd-quarter numbers.”
The shift was firm and left no room for argument. Richard backed off, clearly understanding that he had stepped into dangerous territory. The rest of the dinner proceeded without further inappropriate comments, but the tension stayed beneath the polite surface.
In the elevator back to the rooms, finally alone, I let out the breath I had been holding.
“You didn’t need to defend me. I can handle comments like that.”
Noah stared at me, his expression serious.
“I know you can. But I don’t like it when people talk about you that way.”
“Why?”
The question came out more vulnerable than I had meant it to.
Silence followed, heavy and full of everything neither of us was saying. His eyes stayed on mine, dark and intense under the elevator’s soft light. His breathing changed, became deeper, and I realized we were too close. The space between us had been shrinking without my noticing.
Then the elevator stopped with a gentle jolt. The doors opened onto our floor, and the moment shattered.
“Good night, Angeline,” Noah said, stepping out first. His voice was tense. “Rest. Tomorrow will be long.”
I entered my suite without looking back, closed the door, and leaned against it. My heart was beating unevenly. My hands trembled slightly.
This was getting dangerous. Not just the way he defended me, but the way I felt when he did. Protected. Valued. Seen.
I changed clothes, tried to sleep, and failed.
At 11:30 p.m., I was on the balcony. The cool October air helped clear my confused head. The city glittered below, lights stretching to the horizon.
A knock at the suite door made me jump.
Through the peephole, I saw Noah standing in the hallway, hands in his pockets, hair messy as if he had run his fingers through it repeatedly.
I opened the door.
“Everything okay?”
“I can’t sleep.” He looked at me with a vulnerability I rarely saw. “Do you want to talk?”
It was strange for him to ask for company. Noah Priestley, the man who worked alone into the early hours, who kept distance from everyone, was standing at my door asking to talk.
“The balcony,” I said. “I noticed ours connect.”
We went out into the cold air and sat in the comfortable chairs the hotel had provided. The city pulsed below us, distant and surreal. For a moment, neither of us spoke. We simply existed in the same space without the usual barriers.
“My parents are alive,” Noah said abruptly, breaking the silence, “but they might as well not be. They call on my birthday and Christmas. They send expensive gifts that prove they don’t know me. It’s lonely growing up in a house full of everything except affection.”
I looked at him, surprised by the raw honesty.
“That’s why you work so much. To fill the void.”
“And you?” He turned to me. “Why do you work yourself to death?”
The answer caught in my throat. No one asked that. Everyone assumed it was simple financial necessity.
“My parents died when I was 14. Car accident. I went into the foster system, bounced around some homes until I turned 18. I learned that the only person I can trust is myself. That no one is going to save me, so I have to save myself.”
“Angeline.”
His voice softened.
“I work so much because I’m afraid,” I continued, the words flowing now that they had started. “Afraid of going back to being that girl with nothing. Afraid of depending on someone and them leaving. Afraid of not being enough.”
“You’re more than enough.” Noah leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re extraordinary, and it scares me how much I think about that.”
My heart jumped.
“Noah—”
“You’re the first person in years who sees me as human,” he continued, looking at the city but speaking to me. “Not as an ATM or a useful business contact. You argue with me. Laugh at me. Challenge me. It’s refreshing. Addictive.”
“You’re the first person who helped me without making me feel inferior,” I admitted quietly. “Who offered me opportunity instead of charity. Who treats me as an equal even when we clearly aren’t.”
He turned to me so fast that I startled.
“We are equals. Money doesn’t change that. You’re one of the strongest people I know. Everything you’ve achieved, you did alone. I was just born into the right family.”
We were too close again. I could count the variations in the color of his eyes. I could see the pulse beating in his neck. His breathing was irregular, matching mine. The air between us became thick and impossible to ignore.
He leaned in. Or maybe I did. It no longer mattered.
The distance between us shrank until I felt his breath on my face, until our lips were only inches apart.
Then I pulled back fast and awkwardly, my heart beating so hard it hurt.
“I can’t.”
“Angeline.”
There was pain in his voice.
“I can’t,” I repeated, standing and putting physical distance between us. “I need this job. I can’t risk complicating things. If this goes wrong, if I lose everything again, I can’t.”
Noah sat for a long moment, jaw tight, hands clenched on the chair arms. Then he stood too and nodded slowly.
“I understand.”
But the disappointment in his eyes was clear. Contained hurt. Something else too, something intense enough to make me want to take back the decision, throw caution away, and simply feel.
“We should sleep,” I said. My voice came out hoarse. “Early meeting tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
He started back toward his suite, then stopped.
“For what it’s worth, I would never let you lose anything. But I respect your decision.”
Then he was gone, leaving me alone on the balcony with a broken heart and the certainty that I had made the right choice, even though it felt completely wrong.
The flight home on Sunday was torture. We tried to work, but the atmosphere had changed irrevocably. Every accidental touch when we passed papers felt like a burn. Every shared look lasted too long. We could not return to cold professionalism, but we also could not cross the line I had drawn.
Mrs. Dawson noticed immediately when we returned. Of course she did. The woman had radar for romantic tension.
“How was the trip?” she asked too innocently while I organized the mail that had arrived.
“Productive.”
I kept my eyes on the envelopes.
“The meeting went well.”
“Hm.”
The sound made it clear she believed none of it.
“You 2 seem tense.”
“It’s just work.”
The lie sounded pathetic, even to me.
In the following weeks, the tension only increased. Small accidental touches happened with suspicious frequency.
Hands met when reaching for the same pen. Shoulders brushed when we reviewed documents side by side. Fingers touched when passing coffee in the morning.
And the looks. Across the office during meetings. At dinner when Mrs. Dawson insisted we eat together. In the kitchen before either of us was fully awake.
Mrs. Dawson saw everything and had the decency not to comment. She only smiled and created suspiciously frequent opportunities for us to be alone.
One day in October, Noah entered the office with the energy of someone uncomfortable but trying not to show it.
“I need a date for an event.”
I ignored the unpleasant stab in my chest.
“Do you want me to arrange a date?”
“No.” He put his hands in his pockets, the gesture he made when he was nervous. “I want you to be my date. Professionally. It’s a corporate charity gala Friday night. There will be important contacts, and I need someone with me who understands the business.”
“Oh,” I said, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be. “Of course. Professionally.”
“I’ll have a dress delivered,” he continued, not looking at me. “Appropriate for the event.”
The dress arrived on Thursday. It was black, elegant, and probably cost more than 6 months of rent. I touched the delicate fabric and imagined what it would feel like to wear something like that.
“It’s a work uniform,” Noah said when I protested about the price. The sarcastic smile was back. “You can’t go in jeans.”
I rolled my eyes, but I accepted. What choice did I have?
On Friday, I got ready carefully. The dress fit perfectly, hugging curves I had not known I had. My makeup was subtle but elegant, and my hair was pulled back in a loose bun.
When I came downstairs, Noah was waiting in the hall, beautiful in a black tuxedo. His eyes widened when he saw me. They traveled over me slowly, not disrespectfully, but appreciatively, almost reverently.
“You look stunning.”
Heat climbed up my neck.
“It’s the dress.”
“It’s not.” His voice deepened. “It’s definitely not just the dress.”
The event was held in a huge ballroom decorated with a level of opulence that made me feel as if I had walked into a film. Crystal chandeliers. Tables covered in silk. People wearing enough jewelry to rival some countries’ gross domestic product.
Noah kept his hand on my lower back as we moved through the room and he introduced me to important contacts. The touch was light and professional, but it burned through the fabric of my dress.
We were speaking with a group of executives when she appeared.
Tall. Blonde. Perfectly made up. She wore a red dress that showed miles of sculpted legs. She looked like a model, or perhaps an actress.
“Noah.”
She glided toward him with a familiarity that made my stomach tighten.
“Victoria.” He was polite but distant, his hand still resting on my back. “How are you?”
“Better now.”
She batted her eyelashes exaggeratedly and ignored me completely.
“We need to get together. Have that coffee you promised.”
“I didn’t promise anything.”
I could see the tension in his eyes, but Victoria continued flirting openly, touching his arm, laughing too loudly at jokes that were not funny.
Jealousy rose through me, green and ugly and consuming. It was ridiculous. He was my boss. Not my anything. But seeing that beautiful woman touch him, smile at him, and clearly want more did something brutal to my chest.
“And who’s your date?” Victoria finally asked, looking at me with a cold assessment from head to toe.
“Angeline Torres.” Noah pulled me slightly closer. “My executive assistant. Indispensable.”
Indispensable.
The word should have made me feel valued, professional. But all I heard was assistant. Employee. Not girlfriend. Not romantic interest. Just indispensable assistant.
Victoria smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. She had seen the competition and was marking territory.
“How lucky for you, Noah. Competent assistants are so hard to find.”
The conversation continued for a few minutes, or rather, they talked while I pretended interest. When we finally walked away, I felt her eyes on me, judging and assessing.
“Sorry about Victoria,” Noah murmured, his hand still on my back. “She’s persistent.”
“Ex-girlfriend?”
“Something like that. Nothing serious.” He guided me toward the bar. “Do you want something to drink? Champagne?”
I needed alcohol. Just a little. Just enough to soften the edge of that absurd jealousy.
Noah ordered 2 glasses. We stood beside each other, watching the party, closer than we should have been. I could hear his breathing and feel the warmth of his body near mine.
Everything about him pulled at me like gravity.
“You said indispensable,” I said quietly.
He looked at me, his eyes dark and intense.
“Because you are. Not just at work, Angeline. In everything.”
Before I could respond, someone called Noah for photos. He left reluctantly, and I remained alone with confused thoughts and a heart beating too fast.
Victoria appeared at my side like a snake.
“Is he a good boss?”
“The best.”
I kept my voice neutral.
“Hm.” She took a sip of her drink. “Take good care of him. Noah deserves someone who understands his world.”
The message was clear. I was not from his world. I never would be. I was only a temporary employee in his life.
But when Noah returned and immediately searched for me in the crowd, when his eyes lit up as he found me, and when his hand returned to my back as if it belonged there, I thought maybe Victoria was wrong. Maybe I did not understand his world. But maybe he did not want someone who understood it. Maybe he wanted someone who made him forget that world for a moment.
And maybe I was tired of fighting the inevitable.
The week after the event was unbearable. Not exhausting or stressful in the ordinary way, but heavy, as if the entire mansion were holding its breath and waiting for something to happen. The tension between Noah and me had gone from silent to deafening.
We avoided each other and sought each other out at the same time, engaged in a pathetic dance that must have been obvious to anyone with functioning eyes. I passed the hallway leading to his office more often than necessary, hoping for a casual encounter. He appeared in my office with transparent excuses about documents he could have requested by email.
When we did meet, the conversations were too professional and forced. The looks lasted too long. The silences said more than words. Each interaction left my heart beating unevenly and my mind circling around things I should not have been thinking about.
Mrs. Dawson was officially tired of our nonsense.
I found her in the kitchen on Thursday morning making coffee, and the way she looked at me made it clear that her patience had run out.
“You 2 are idiots,” she said without preamble, placing the cup in front of me with more force than necessary. “He loves you. You love him. The end. What are you waiting for, divine intervention?”
I almost spat out my coffee.
“Mrs. Dawson. I don’t—”
“Don’t lie to me, dear. I’m too old to tolerate it.” She sat across from me, kind but firm. “I’ve worked here for a decade. I know Noah.
May you like
I’ve seen him with other women. I’ve seen relationship attempts that lasted weeks before he completely lost interest. He has never, ever looked at anyone the way he looks at you.”
“It’s complicated,” I mumbled, staring into my cup. “I work for him. I depend on the salary. If it goes wrong—”
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