THE CEO'S SECRET ASSISTANT

CHAPTER 2

SOPHIE

By seven-fifteen, I had fixed a seating disaster, calmed a donor’s wife who thought the floral arrangement looked “too emotionally cold,” and stopped a junior event manager from crying in the bathroom.

So, honestly, the evening was going great.

I stood near the ballroom entrance with my phone in one hand and the updated guest list in the other, trying very hard not to think about the fact that I looked more put together tonight than I had in weeks.

And nobody here was supposed to notice.

Especially not him.

Which meant, of course, that Ethan noticed the moment he walked in.

I felt it before I saw him.

That was the problem with knowing someone too well—your body reacts before your brain can lie about it.

When I looked up, he was already crossing the room in a black tux, moving through people like the space belonged to him. Maybe it did. Ethan always looked like he was built for rooms like this, even when I knew he hated most of them.

He stopped in front of me.

His eyes dropped over me—quick, controlled, not lingering.

Still enough.

My pulse betrayed me anyway.

“You’re staring,” I said.

“I’m looking.”

“That sounds like the same thing with worse intentions.”

“It’s not my fault you’re overdressed for work.”

I glanced down at myself. “This is called professionalism.”

“This is called distracting.”

A smile almost slipped out before I caught it. “You’re being inappropriate.”

“We’re alone.”

I looked around at staff passing by, two board members talking nearby, and a donor’s wife pretending very hard she wasn’t listening.

“Ethan,” I said slowly. “We are absolutely not alone.”

His gaze softened anyway. Just slightly. The version of him only I ever got.

I handed him the updated seating chart.

“Your mother moved you next to the Holloways. Again.”

His expression went flat immediately. “Why?”

“Because she enjoys chaos.”

“That tracks.”

I pointed. “Also, you’re doing opening remarks now.”

He looked up sharply. “I wasn’t told that.”

“You were. You just ignored it.”

“I didn’t ignore it.”

“You did.”

A long pause.

Then a quiet exhale. “Of course she did this.”

I watched him for a second.

Not CEO Ethan.

Not Sinclair heir Ethan.

Just Ethan.

But even then, I could see it happening—the shift. The public version sliding over him like armor.

I hated that version.

Not because it wasn’t him.

Because it was.

Just not all of him.

Before I could say anything else, Victoria Sinclair appeared at his side in silver silk and diamonds that looked like they had their own inheritance plan.

Ethan’s posture changed instantly.

Barely noticeable.

But I noticed.

Always did.

“Darling,” she said lightly, touching his arm.

Then her gaze moved to me.

“Sophie. Thank you for handling the adjustments.”

Polite. Perfect.

Cold in a way only practiced women could manage.

I smiled anyway. “Of course.”

“Camille has arrived,” she added, turning back to Ethan. “I’ve seated her at the main table.”

Something tightened in my chest—but my expression didn’t move.

Ethan’s did. Just barely.

“You didn’t mention that,” he said.

“It was decided this afternoon,” Victoria replied smoothly.

Of course it was.

I looked down at my phone before my face could betray me.

Because I refused to stand there and react to Camille Laurent being added to the evening like she was a carefully placed detail in someone else’s plan.

“I’ll check catering,” I said lightly. “Before someone gets offended by the butter.”

And I walked away.

Fast.

Before I could be stopped.

Because jealousy doesn’t look cinematic in real life.

It doesn’t swell with music or clarity.

It looks like checking your phone while your stomach twists for no reason you want to admit out loud.

And Camille wasn’t even the problem.

That was the worst part.

Ethan had never given me a reason to doubt him.

So the hurt wasn’t there.

It was elsewhere.

In the space where the world could so easily imagine him with someone like her—

and not even question it.

While I stood nearby with his schedule in my hand and years of history in my chest.

“Assistant” was easier to understand than mine.

I hated that thought.

It made me feel small.

And I wasn’t small.

Not for anyone.

By the drinks station, Daniel appeared beside me like he’d been assigned to emotionally intercept me.

He took one look at my face and handed me a glass of champagne.

No questions.

That was his love language.

“Bad?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

“Ah. Pre-bad.”

“Exactly.”

He leaned against the counter, watching the room. “His mother’s doing her usual thing.”

“Yes.”

“And he hates it.”

“Yes.”

“And yet you still look like you want to commit a minor crime.”

I took a sip. “That’s just my resting expression.”

“No. That’s your I am emotionally tired of rich people expression.”

I almost laughed.

Almost.

Then I looked back into the ballroom.

Camille was with Ethan now.

Dark green dress. Calm smile. Perfect posture.

The kind of woman rooms like this understood immediately.

And she was kind.

That made it worse.

If she had been awful, I could have been angry cleanly.

Instead, she was just… suitable.

Daniel followed my gaze. “She’s not competition.”

“I know.”

“That was too fast. Try again.”

“I know.”

He studied me. “You’re not worried about him cheating on you.”

I exhaled slowly.

Because no.

I wasn’t.

That wasn’t the fear.

The fear was simpler.

That I was the only one who understood what I was to him.

And that understanding didn’t mean anything in rooms like this.

ETHAN

By the time I walked into the ballroom, I already wanted it over.

My mother had changed the seating twice, Holloway had called my office three times, and Sophie had been looking at me like I was a problem she was close to solving permanently.

Which, unfairly, was one of my favorite versions of her.

She was near the entrance when I arrived—phone in one hand, guest list in the other, dressed in dark blue and quiet irritation.

I noticed the dress first.

Then her face.

Then the fact that I’d looked too long.

“You’re staring,” she said immediately.

“I’m looking.”

“That’s worse.”

“It’s not my fault you look like you’re about to ruin someone’s evening.”

“This is work attire.”

“This is dangerous.”

A smile almost happened.

Almost.

She handed me the seating chart. I listened to her talk, but I was also listening to everything underneath it.

She wasn’t angry.

Not really.

But she wasn’t fine either.

And I knew her well enough to feel that difference like pressure.

Then my mother arrived.

Camille followed.

Of course.

I kept my expression steady.

Years of practice.

But Sophie changed.

Not visibly.

Just enough that I felt it.

Then she excused herself.

No scene.

No reaction.

Just distance.

And that was worse.

My mother glanced at me. “You rely on her too much.”

“She’s doing her job.”

“She’s your assistant.”

The word landed wrong.

“She’s competent,” I said flatly.

My mother smiled. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

Of course it wasn’t.

Camille joined us moments later—calm, composed, familiar.

She and I had known each other for years.

Nothing between us.

Never had been.

But people always preferred stories over truth.

She looked toward Sophie across the room and said lightly, “Your assistant looks like she wants to set something on fire.”

I followed her gaze.

Sophie was laughing at something Daniel said.

Something tightened in my chest.

Camille noticed.

Didn’t comment.

Smart.

Dinner dragged.

I spoke when required. Listened when expected. Smiled when necessary.

But I kept noticing Sophie in fragments.

Across rooms.

At edges.

Moving through people like she belonged nowhere and everywhere at once.

Later, I found her near the back of the ballroom.

Phone in hand.

Expression carefully neutral.

“Sophie.”

She didn’t turn immediately.

That alone told me enough.

When she finally looked at me, I saw it.

Not anger.

Not sadness.

Something quieter.

Tired.

“Where did you go?” I asked.

“I was working.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

A pause stretched.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

That was a mistake.

Not because she snapped.

Because she didn’t.

She just looked at me like I should already know.

And maybe I should have.

But the room was wrong.

Too many eyes.

Too many ears.

So I let it go.

For now.

Because I’d learned with Sophie:

if I pushed at the wrong time, she didn’t break.

She disappeared inward instead.

And I hated that more than anything.

When she walked away again, I watched her longer than I should have.

Camille appeared beside me a moment later.

“You’re doing it again,” she said.

“What?”

“That look,” she said, nodding slightly toward Sophie. “Like she’s both your answer and your problem.”

I said nothing.

Camille smiled faintly. “Don’t worry. I’m not asking questions.”

“Good.”

“I wouldn’t answer them anyway.”

Then she added, almost casually, “She handles your mother better than most people in this room handle breathing.”

And just like that, she walked away.

I stayed still.

Across the room, Sophie spoke to staff, composed and efficient—everything people thought she was.

They saw professionalism.

Control.

Ease.

They didn’t see the version of her I knew.

The one who stole my hoodies.

The one who memorized my coffee order before I ever asked.

The one who knew exactly when I was pretending I was fine.

And for the first time that night, I had the uncomfortable thought—

whatever shifted in her tonight…

wasn’t going to stay contained for long.