Chapter 9: The Crumbling Walls
“I’m sure he did,” Jordan said, his voice dropping into the dangerous register he used in hostile negotiations.
“Marcus Ashford has always had an eye for valuable acquisitions.”
“I’m not an acquisition,” Martina said quietly.
Steel underneath the silk.
“I’m a woman who accepted a dinner invitation from a man who sees me as more than a highly efficient assistant.”
The words hit Jordan like a physical blow.
He set his coffee down carefully, afraid he might crush the mug.
“Is that what you think? That I see you as nothing more than an assistant?”
“What else would I think, Mr. Blackwell?”
She tilted her head. For the first time since Saturday night, he saw real emotion flash across her face.
“For five years, I’ve managed your life. I’ve worked eighty-hour weeks when deals were closing. I’ve missed holidays because you needed someone to proof presentations.”
“I’ve listened to you talk about your fears about your father’s dementia at 2:00 in the morning when you couldn’t sleep. I’ve held your secrets, covered your mistakes, and made you look brilliant even when you were exhausted and human and breaking.”
She paused, her chest rising and falling with controlled breaths.
“And in five years, you’ve never once asked me about my life. My dreams. My hopes. Whether I wanted more than being the woman who knows your coffee order.”
Her voice was steady, but Jordan could hear the years of buried hurt underneath.
“Marcus asked me all of those questions within the first twenty minutes of meeting me.”
“So, yes, Mr. Blackwell. Forgive me for thinking you see me as nothing more than an exceptionally good assistant.”
Jordan felt like the floor had disappeared beneath him.
She was right.
God help him, she was completely right.
“Martina—”
The elevator chimed.
