CHAPTER FOUR
946 Words
Cassian Bell’s POV
New York City – Bell Enterprises HQ
It’s not that I hate people. I just have no patience for inefficiency, for emotional outbursts in a place designed for precision. Business is war, and in war, distractions get you killed. Or worse—replaced.
I watched the company grow from boardroom dreams into a beast. Bell Enterprises didn’t get here by hand-holding and hugs. It rose on execution. Ruthlessness. Control.
So when my assistant called in “emotionally distressed” because of an argument with her boyfriend, for the second time this quarter, I didn’t hesitate. I typed out her reassignment myself. HR would sugarcoat it. I wouldn’t.
She’ll either learn or leave.
My eyes scanned the names on the internal transfer list. Most of them were forgettable. One, however, stood out—not because of her resume, but because of the complaints surrounding her department. Or rather, the complaints that stopped once she arrived.
Calla Rowan.
Transferred from Delroy’s team.
I’ve known Delroy for years. Smart, persuasive, and a complete bastard if given the freedom. He was supposed to push people to excellence. Instead, he was pushing them to the door. I should’ve pulled the plug months ago, but part of me wanted to see who could survive under him.
Calla did. Barely. But she didn’t just survive. She handled analytics reports that usually took three people. She completed investor briefs in half the usual time. Quietly. No noise. No drama.
And then there was the footage.
Yes, I watch the office cams sometimes. Not because I don’t trust them, but because I know better than to trust anyone.
Last Friday, I saw her. Alone, hunched over a computer, her screen lighting up a face that looked… defeated. But not broken. Her fingers didn’t stop typing. She flinched at Delroy’s voice, but didn’t let him see. That kind of self-restraint…It’s rare.
I leaned back in my chair and studied her file again.
Age: 26
Previous experience: Retail, one short-lived marketing gig, then temp work.
Education: Bachelor’s in Psychology.
Marital status: Single.
Emergency contact: None listed.
No ties. No visible liabilities. Just silence—and talent.
“Mr. Bell?” My interim assistant poked her head through the door, nervous. Always nervous.
I didn’t look up. “Yes?”
“Calla Rowan just reported in. She’s waiting outside your office for instructions.”
Good.
“Send her in.”
Seconds later, I heard the soft knock. Then the door creaked open, and she walked in—different in person than in the security footage. Taller. Sharper. Like she’d scrubbed the weakness off before entering my world.
She wore a simple blouse tucked into a pencil skirt, but it wasn’t about the clothes. It was her posture. She stood like someone who’d been hurt and hardened.
I didn’t rise.
“Miss Rowan,” I said coolly. “Welcome.”
Her gaze met mine for half a second before lowering. Smart girl.
“Thank you, Mr. Bell. I appreciate the opportunity.”
I gestured toward the chair in front of my desk. “Sit.”
She obeyed. No nervous leg bouncing. No lip biting. But I saw the tension in her shoulders.
“I’ll be brief,” I continued. “You’ve been reassigned because you’re the only one from Delroy’s department who understands both numbers and discretion. I don’t tolerate delays. I don’t repeat myself. And I certainly don’t babysit.”
“Yes, sir.”
I watched her carefully. Most people squirm under that kind of tone. She didn’t. But her fingers twitched—just once.
“I don’t expect you to like me,” I added, standing to pace toward the window. “But I expect you to deliver.”
“Understood.”
Still even. No tremble. No sass. Just clarity.
“And in return,” I said, turning back to face her, “I’ll make sure no one speaks to you the way Delroy did. Not in this office. Not in this lifetime.”
That got her attention. Her head snapped up. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but then she stopped. Instead, she gave the smallest nod I’d ever seen.
“Thank you.”
It was soft. But genuine.
I didn’t know why that mattered.
I turned toward my desk and slid a folder across the glass surface. “This is your first assignment. A new investor is coming in from the West Coast. We need a briefing document, an executive summary, and possible acquisition targets by Friday. You’ll work out of the adjoining office.”
She stood, accepting the folder. “I’ll start now.”
I watched her leave. No hesitation. No glance back.
And for the first time in a while, I didn’t return to my laptop immediately. Instead, I walked to the bar cabinet in my office, poured myself a glass of aged bourbon, and stared out over the New York skyline.
What the hell was that?
It wasn’t an attraction. I don’t get involved with staff.
It wasn’t admiration. I don’t admire people I haven’t tested yet.
But something about her—her silence, her scars, her restraint—it stirred something I thought I’d long buried under business deals and betrayal.
A knock came again. My interim assistant. Her face was pale.
“Mr. Bell, there’s something you should see.”
She handed me a thin manila envelope.
Inside was a photo. A grainy one. Taken outside the building yesterday.
It was Calla. Standing across the street. Talking to someone I recognized.
My half-brother.
The one I haven’t spoken to in five years.
And just like that, everything I thought I knew about her shifted.
- Writer
