The Billionaire's Secretary:His Biggest Regret

Clara’s POV "Clara, the caterers need a decision on the champagne timing, and I need it five minutes ago.” Priya grabs my arm the second I step off the escalator into The Marlowe’s ballroom, her clipboard already thrust toward my face. “Five minutes before the toast, not after.” I don’t even glance at the clipboard. “If his father starts talking before people have a glass in their hand, we’ll get a room full of applause and nobody drinking to it.” “You could run this entire company by yourself, you know that?” Priya scribbles the note down, shaking her head. “Six years, and you still know every detail before anyone asks you.” “That’s the job.” I smooth down the front of my dress, scanning the room out of habit. “Where’s the seating chart? Did the Hale table get moved again?” “Twice, actually,” Priya flips a page on her clipboard, exasperated. “Vanessa’s people wanted it moved back, then moved up again. I stopped keeping track.” “Table three works. Leave it there before someone moves it a fourth time.” I hand the clipboard back to her. “You’re the only person who can say no to the Hale family and make it stick.” Priya grins. “They should just give you the corner office already.” “I like the one I have,” I laugh, though it comes out thinner than I mean it to. “Table three, by the stage. Damian asked for it personally this morning.” Priya lowers her clipboard, studying my face for a second too long. “Are you okay? You look tired.” “I’m fine. Long week.” I forced a smile and start toward the stage, because if I stop moving, I might actually have to think about how tired I am, and there isn’t room for that tonight. I spot Damian near the front, adjusting his cufflink while his father talks at him, nodding at all the right moments without actually listening to a word. Six years of watching him do that, and I still know exactly which expression means he’s bored and which one means he’s about to say something he’ll regret. He catches my eye and tips his chin toward himself. I know the signal. I’ve known it for years. “You’re looking for this.” I hold up his notecard when I reached him, already knowing what he needs before he opens his mouth. “You always have it.” He takes the card, his fingers brushing mine for half a second longer than necessary. “I don’t know what I’d do without you tonight, Clara.” “Probably read the wrong paragraph and offend the shareholders.” I keep my voice light, teasing, safe. “Your father added a line this morning. Don’t skip it.” “Noted.” He glances toward the podium, where his father is already waving him up. “Wish me luck.” “You don’t need luck. You need to stop improvising.” I step back toward the edge of the stage, my usual spot, half in shadow where nobody looks for me. The room quiets as he steps up to the microphone, and I clap along with everyone else because that’s my job too, clapping for him from three feet away and never any closer. “Thank you all for coming to celebrate forty years of Cole Industries,” Damian says, and the crowd applauds right on cue. “I have another announcement tonight,” he continues, and something shifts in his voice, something I’ve never heard before. My stomach drops before my brain catches up to why. “One I’ve been waiting for the right moment to share.” He looks out at the crowd, and I watch him find someone specific near the front row. “Vanessa, would you join me up here?” Vanessa Hale steps out of the crowd in a dress the color of a bruise, and takes his hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I’m engaged,” Damian says, and the room erupts, and my hands keep moving because if they stop, someone might notice I’ve stopped breathing. “To this incredible woman, who I’m lucky enough to be marrying by the end of the year.” He smiles at her, the real smile, the one I'd always assumed was just for me because I never once saw him give it to anyone else. I keep clapping. I keep my face arranged into something pleasant, something professional, something that gives absolutely nothing away, while champagne corks pop around me and a room full of investors gets exactly the fairy tale they came for. “Clara,” Damian finds me twenty minutes later near the bar, flushed with congratulations, a glass of champagne in his hand he hasn’t touched. “You disappeared on me.” “I didn’t disappear, I’ve been managing the dessert service.” My voice comes out steadier than I expected. “Congratulations. I should’ve said it right away.” “You’re the first person whose opinion actually—” He stops mid-sentence, glancing over his shoulder as his father calls his name from across the room. “We’ll talk later, okay?” “Sure.” I watch him get pulled back into the crowd of people who matter, and something in my chest cracks so quietly that nobody hears it but me. “There you are.” Priya finds me a few minutes later, lowering her voice. “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to be sick.” “I’m fine.” I grab a glass of water off a passing tray, my hand not quite steady. “It’s just loud in here.” “Clara.” Priya’s eyes were narrow, sharp and knowing. “This is me. You don’t have to pretend.” “I really am fine, Priya. Can you check on the dessert table? I think they’re short on the chocolate ones.” I don’t wait for her answer. I turn and walk toward the coat closet at the back of the hall, moving fast enough that nobody stops me on the way. The closet is narrow, lined with furs and overcoats that smell like perfume and cigars. I slip inside and shut the door behind me, and for the first time all night, I let my face fall apart in the dark where no one can see it. I don’t cry. I don’t have time to cry, not with fifteen minutes until the dessert service and Damian’s father wanting a final headcount for the after-party. But I stand there with my back against a rack of coats, and I let myself feel exactly how much this hurts, just for a second, just where it’s safe. Six years. Six years of remembering how he takes his coffee, of staying late so he doesn’t have to eat dinner alone, of turning down two better offers because I couldn’t picture my days without him in them. Six years of telling myself that being needed was close enough to being wanted. It was never going to be enough. I know that now, standing in the dark with a room full of strangers celebrating a wedding, I never let myself imagine wasn’t coming. I dig through my clutch for a pen and find one, then grab a cocktail napkin off a tray someone left on the shelf by the door. I press it flat against the wall and start writing before I can talk myself out of it. Mr. Cole, Effective two weeks from today, I am submitting my resignation from my position as your executive secretary. My hand shakes so badly the letters come out crooked, but I keep going anyway. It has been an honor to serve as your executive secretary. I wish you and Ms. Hale every happiness. That last line costs me more than I expected it to. I fold the napkin in half and shove it into my clutch before anyone can walk in and ask why I’m hiding in a coat closet with mascara threatening to run down my face. “Clara?” Priya’s voice comes through the door, tentative, knocking twice. “The chocolate desserts are out. Also, people are asking where you went.” “Coming.” I wipe under my eyes with one careful finger, check my reflection in a compact mirror, and paste on the same pleasant smile I’ve been wearing all night. “I’m coming right now.” I step back out into the ballroom, back into the noise and the lights and the champagne toasts, and I find my place at the edge of the stage exactly where I’m supposed to be. Damian catches my eye across the room once, mid-conversation with a shareholder, and something in his expression flickers, just for a second, like he’s trying to read something in my face I’m working very hard to hide. I look away first. I have a napkin in my clutch with a resignation letter written on it in shaking handwriting, and by morning, I intend to make it real. “You sure you’re all right?” Priya falls into step beside me, still watching me with that same sharp concern. “You’ve got that look. The one you get when you’re holding something together with tape.” “I’m holding the dessert service together, that’s all.” I grab a stack of napkins, just to keep my hands busy. “Go check on the band.” “Fine. This conversation isn’t over.” Priya points two fingers at her own eyes, then at mine, before disappearing into the crowd. I watch her go, then glance back toward the stage, where Damian is still deep in conversation with a row of shareholders, Vanessa’s hand resting on his arm like she’s already rehearsed exactly how to stand beside him. He looks happy. Or something close enough to happy that nobody else in the room would ever question it. Whatever happens after tonight, I tell myself, standing very still in a room full of people who barely know I exist, at least it will finally, finally be my decision.