TWO MONTHS
989 Words
ETHAN
Two months in, and Elise still hasn’t slipped.
That alone is irritating.
I watch him move through the day —calls handled before they reach my desk, meetings adjusted before they clash, documents waiting where I expect them to be.
" This shouldn’t still be impressive, I think. "
Yet it is.
I test him without meaning to. A last-minute request. A vague instruction.
He doesn’t trip.
He’s learned my habits too. Coffee before I realize I want it. Files opened to the right page. Silence when I need it. Answers when I don’t ask.
" You’re paying him to do this, " I remind myself.
" So why does it feel like more? "
I catch myself watching him sometimes.
" He’s too young for this, " I think.
Then, immediately:
" No. He’s just good."
That’s the problem.
" What happens if he ever leaves? "
“Elise,” I say, not looking up from the file in front of me. “Clear tomorrow evening.”
He’s at his desk outside, already moving. “For?”
“A gathering,” I reply. “Unofficial. No speeches. No deals.”
“So… social.”
“Barely,” I say. “It’s rich people convincing themselves they’re interesting.”
I hear the faintest sound—almost a laugh.
“Who’s attending?” he asks, already pulling up his tablet.
“People who like to be seen,” I say. “And Julian Cross.”
That gets a reaction.
“The Julian Cross?” Elise asks. “Media, acquisitions, owns half of Manhattan if the rumours are true?”
“That’s the one,” I confirm. “And he enjoys running his mouth.”
Elise nods, filing it away. “Any specific expectations?”
“Yes,” I say, finally meeting his eyes. “Stay close. Keep me informed. And if Cross says something stupid—”
“I’ll make sure you’re conveniently elsewhere,” Elise finishes.
" Good instinct," I think.
“That,” I say aloud, “or make sure I hear every word.”
“Understood,” he says.
I lean back slightly. “This isn’t work in the traditional sense.”
“I know.”
“It’s performative.”
“I’m aware.”
“And unnecessary.”
Elise meets my gaze calmly. “Then why go?”
I smirk despite myself. “Because if you don’t show up, people talk. And if they talk, they speculate.”
“And you don’t like speculation.”
“I don’t like boredom masquerading as curiosity,” I correct.
He gives a small nod. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
As he turns back to his desk, I add, “Dress code is… flexible.”
He glances back. “Flexible how?”
“Expensive,” I say.
The room is louder than the last time.
I don’t bother pretending to enjoy myself. Elise stays close, just off my shoulder, feeding me names .
“Cross is here,” he murmurs. “Near the bar. Already watching.”
Julian approaches with the same easy confidence he always carries, glass in hand, smile just a little too knowing.
“Ethan Hale,” he says. “And Elise. Still inseparable, I see.”
Elise inclines his head politely. “Mr. Cross.”
Julian’s gaze lingers on him longer than necessary. “You clean up well. I noticed that the first time.”
“Careful,” I say mildly.
Julian laughs. “Relax. I’m admiring your taste.”
“He’s my assistant,” I reply evenly.
“Mm,” Julian hums. “That what we’re calling it?”
Elise leans in then, voice low and measured. “If you have business with Mr. Hale, I can schedule it. Otherwise, you’re blocking his time.”
Julian’s eyes flick to him surprised now.
I don’t hide my reaction this time. “You heard him.”
Julian lifts his hands in surrender. “Still sharp. Still pretty. You really do pick them well, Ethan.”
“They’re not things,” I say. “And they’re not yours to comment on.”
Julian smiles wider. “Touchy.”
“Observant,” I correct.
Julian drains his glass. “Enjoy your evening. Both of you.”
He walks away, glancing back once.
“You alright?” he asks quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re clenching your jaw.”
I look at him. “You notice everything.”
“It’s my job.”
Then I straighten. “We’re leaving.”
“You handled him well,” I say.
“So did you.”
I open the car door. “Get in.”
The office feels larger at night. The city presses against the glass, a wash of light and movement that never quite reaches inside.
I pour a drink. Whisky, neat.
Elise stands a few feet away, hands loosely clasped, jacket draped over one arm. Without the daytime rhythm, he looks different. Or maybe I’m just seeing him without the distraction of work.
"Twenty-three," I think again, and dismiss it just as quickly.
“Drink,” I say, holding out a glass.
He accepts it with a nod, fingers brushing the rim briefly before settling. He doesn’t rush.
I lean back against the desk, letting the distance close without moving closer. The city reflects faintly in the window behind him, outlining his silhouette in light.
“You’ve adjusted quickly,” I say. “Most people don’t.”
He takes a sip. “Most people aren’t paying attention.”
I watch the way his jaw tightens slightly when he swallows.
“You’re very controlled,” I say.
“So are you.”
I finish my drink and set the glass down carefully.
“You should go,” I say, though I don’t move.
He nods, just as still. “Of course.”
For a moment, neither of us does anything.
Then he turns, unhurried, and walks toward the door.
- Writer
