The Consequence He Must Claim

“Nice work with the press,” he’d said to her as they sipped their champagne, adding the warning, “It will get worse.”

“I know.” His father was moving into politics and every level of media, from serious journalists to paparazzi, was turning over rocks, eager for something to crawl out. But with one verbal pat on the back from her exalted boss, Sorcha mentally dug in, determined to keep earning his approval.

For a moment they’d shared a comfortable silence. The sun had painted muted patches of light on the oriental carpet, shining through the coated glass of the windows. His phone had chimed on his desk and he’d had his guard down enough that he didn’t disguise the twist of dismay that contorted his mouth before he controlled it.

Only his family had his direct number, but he didn’t rise or ask her to fetch it.

Oh, right. Diega Fuentes, his soon-to-be fiancée, also had the number.

Cesar topped up their sparkling glasses, ignoring the call.

Leaning forward on the sofa, Sorcha set down her glass, taking advantage of Cesar’s attention on his placement of the bottle back into its ice bucket to memorize his profile, so sharp and proud. His big shoulders shrugged briefly as he settled back into his chair. He lifted his feet onto the coffee table and crossed his ankles, releasing a contented sigh.

This was their private ritual, this brief celebration of closing out a project. In a moment his mind would turn to the stages of all the other projects they were juggling and she would set her phone to record his musings. She might rise to fetch a notebook or search out a file or drawing as they began prioritizing their next series of tasks.

But not yet. Right now, this was their downtime.

And she had some business of her own to address.

“You have something to say,” he noted, watchful beneath those lazily drooped eyelids, making her feel self-conscious. When had he learned to read her?

She swallowed. This was the moment she’d been waiting for and it was harder than she’d expected. Her throat tightened and the words came up with a little rasp, dragging a barb. “I have to put in my notice.”

“Did you mishear me? I said you did well with the press.”

She smiled, but it didn’t stick. I’m serious, she telegraphed.

He lifted disdainful brows. “You promised me five years.”

“I did,” she admitted.

“Something to do with your family?”

“No.” His question surprised her. Apart from the incident with her niece, she hadn’t realized he’d noticed how important her family was to her, especially given how indifferent he seemed toward his own. “No, it’s...” She hadn’t figured out how to approach this without coming off as insulting him, his family, his attitude toward marriage and his intended. “You know how sometimes you ask me to tell a white lie to a woman you’re dating, to say you’ve left the building when they drop by unannounced? Or to take the fall if you forget to call? That kind of thing?”

“I didn’t put that in your job description. You did.” He took a healthy swallow of sparkling wine, expression shuttered, all his attention on her.

He certainly took advantage of her willingness to send flowers, pay bills, cosset and reassure the revolving door of women he dated.

“I did,” she agreed. “Because I took a job working as PA to a bachelor and that’s a sort of job hazard. Working for a married man is different.” She looked at her hands to remind herself to keep them still because it made her a little sick to think of him married to that ice queen Diega Fuentes. “You either become friends with his wife, in which case you can’t lie to her for any reason, even if your boss asks you to, or she sees you as an extension of his job—that thing that takes him away from her. And she makes it hard for you to do your work effectively.”

“You think Diega will make your job hard for you? Because I would never ask you to lie to her.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Asking the question, especially in that low, quietly challenging tone, was a gamble. It was the same high-stakes candor she’d used to land this job and tried not to overuse. But this was important.

With trepidation, she lifted her gaze and had to steel herself against stammering out an apology. He was giving her the death glare, the one that made muscled construction workers armed with nail guns take a step back in caution.

“Keep talking, Sorcha, and the termination will come from this side of the table.”

“Either way I’m leaving, so I have nothing to lose in speaking my mind, do I?” She picked up her drink and drew deeply on the bubbly liquid that evaporated in her mouth, but she didn’t say anything more, not wanting things to end badly after such a good three years.