Sign Here, Mrs. Hart

Chapter 3

Xavier’s POV

The lady across from me in the dim light of the bar was polished to perfection, her dress cut to show off curves in all the right places enough to turn any man’s head. She’d spent the last ten minutes talking about her charity galas and everything she did for the good of the planet, but that was about all there was to her.

I sat with my cap pulled low and my shades on, making sure no one could place my face. I didn’t care about her charity work or how she spent her summers, but I did notice she’d checked her reflection in her darkened phone screen four times since sitting down.

“So, Mr.—” she started, leaning forward with a smile that was a little too wide, fishing for my name.

“It’s just ‘Sir’ for you,” I cut in. She clearly didn’t know her place, and it grated on me. “Marcus mentioned you were looking for something long-term. A partnership of sorts?”

“A contract,” I corrected, my voice flat, not bothering to meet her eyes behind the glasses. “A business arrangement with a clear expiration date and a generous exit package. No romance. No shared vacations, unless the board is watching. And certainly no ‘us.’ Just business.”

She giggled—a high, grating sound. “Oh, you’re so intense. I love a man who knows what he wants.” That alone was bad enough, but then she clicked her tongue and bit her lower lip.

That settled it. I couldn’t sit through another minute. I stood, masking my distaste as best I could. “You’re not what I’m looking for,” I said, adjusting my cap. “This meeting is over.”

“Wait, what? But Marcus said—”

I didn’t stay to hear the rest. I turned toward the cashier, paid, and headed for the exit, eager to leave the bar and this failed search behind me. But before I reached the door, a commotion near the center of the lounge caught my eye. A group of loud, drunken men had a waitress surrounded.

They were getting aggressive, their voices rising above the music as they harassed her. I slowed my pace, watching from behind my shades. I had little patience for women and their games, but I had even less for men who put their hands on women who hadn’t asked for it.

One of them—a bloated man in an expensive suit—reached out and grabbed her.

Before I could move, a sound stopped me cold. A slap.

It cracked through the sudden silence at the surrounding tables. The man staggered back, clutching his cheek in shock, while the waitress stood her ground, trembling with rage. “Don’t you ever touch me again,” she warned, finger jabbing toward his slack-jawed face, “or it won’t end with just a slap.”

There was something deeply satisfying about watching her stand her ground. Then she turned, and a pair of emerald-green eyes stopped me cold. I knew those eyes. I knew that face. She’d worked for me three years ago.

Her blonde hair was pulled into the same messy bun she’d never quite been able to tame. Even in a waitress uniform, she looked almost exactly as I remembered—except for the shadows under her eyes.

“This plan is a disaster for the local ecosystem, Mr. Hart. I think you should revisit it,” she’d told me once, bold and fearless despite the fact that I was her boss and could have fired her on the spot. She’d said it in front of my entire team, making me look uncertain in front of my own subordinates—a blow to my pride I hadn’t forgiven. So I fired her, right there, as a lesson to everyone watching.

It turned out to be a costly mistake. The exact problem she’d warned me about came to pass, and it cost millions to fix. I remembered her last name—Vance—but never learned her first.

She’d been the best intern the architecture department ever had, according to her supervisor. Dedicated. Brilliant. And the only woman who’d ever looked at me with pure, unfiltered disgust instead of lust or fear.

Watching her now, standing up to those men, I knew she was exactly what I needed. She wouldn’t fall for me—she already hated me. She wouldn’t chase a title, either; she valued her work too much for that. And most importantly, she was the only person who’d ever been right when I was wrong, even if I’d have rather died than admit it at the time.

The bar held its breath. The man she’d slapped lunged for her, hand raised to strike back, but she was faster. She caught his wrist mid-air, gripping it hard enough to show she wasn’t afraid.

“Don’t you dare,” she hissed, shoving his hand away. But his friends closed in around her, and the odds shifted fast.

I couldn’t just watch. I moved through the crowd and put myself between her and the men, my size enough to make them pause. They shouted over the music, trying to push back, but I said nothing. I pulled out my phone and held it up, aimed at them, as if I’d been filming the whole time. “What do you think the police will say when they see this footage of you harassing a woman?” I asked, voice low. “I’m sure your boards of directors would love to see how you spend your Friday nights.”

They froze, glancing between each other, the phone, and me. Panic flickered through the anger in their eyes. Without another word, they stalked out, throwing me a last hostile look on their way. I lowered my phone, keeping my cap low and my shades firmly in place. I didn’t want her to catch even a glimpse of my face.

“Thank you,” she said, slightly breathless. “I had it handled, but—thank you, for stepping in.”

I scoffed. Typical. I left without a word. One thing was clear: she was struggling financially. Talented as she was, she had no business waitressing in a place like this. She was thinner, too, than the last time I’d seen her.

“Pull everything you can find on a Miss Vance—former intern, architecture department. Full financial profile. I need it by morning,” I texted my secretary, Sarah.