The Secret of Secretary

23. Jack : A Line Redrawn

Later that afternoon

The conference room smelled faintly of dry-erase markers and burnt coffee. The strategist team had already filled half the board with scribbles—charts, campaign arcs, overlapping circles labeled Target Persona B2 and Projected Quarter ROI.

Jack sat at one end, laptop open, fingers ready over the keys. Elisa stood at the other, coat still draped on the chair, posture immaculate despite the long hours. A low winter sun filtered through the blinds, cutting pale stripes across the polished table.

“Alright,” Elisa said, voice calm but carrying. “We’ll begin with Halden’s automotive expansion campaign. We’re keeping the urban elegance angle, but shifting the demographic targeting to the thirty-plus segment. They want aspirational without alienation.”

Maria, from the strategist pod, nodded briskly. “So less influencer focus, more narrative branding?”

“Exactly,” Elisa replied. “We emphasize lifestyle—comfort, prestige, control. They’re not buying cars; they’re buying validation. Jack—”

He looked up immediately. “Yes, Ms. Rendelle?”

“Note that. And schedule the focus-group outline draft for Wednesday, not Friday. I want the data read before we pitch.”

“Understood.”

She moved on with her usual precision, correcting slides mid-sentence, circling keywords with a red marker, dissecting taglines as though they were fragile instruments. Her tone never rose, but the entire team leaned forward whenever she spoke. It wasn’t authority—it was gravity.

When Astrid joked about adding humor to the campaign tagline, Elisa didn’t even look up. “Humor dies fast in luxury markets,” she said mildly. “So does trust.”

Laughter rippled anyway.

Jack typed everything word-for-word, the keys keeping pace with her rhythm. He caught the small moments—the slight arch of her brow when someone nailed a point, the quiet satisfaction that softened her shoulders when a slide finally aligned with her vision.

He never said much in meetings. But he watched.

And today, as she handled every question, every debate, every flash of chaos with unshakable calm, he found himself thinking—not for the first time—that working for her wasn’t just surviving her expectations. It was learning how to hold yourself in a room that wanted to pull you apart.

When the meeting ended, people filtered out with grateful murmurs and stacks of notes. Elisa lingered behind, reviewing the revised campaign deck on her tablet. Jack hovered near the projector, coiling the cable, careful not to interrupt.

“Good work,” she said without glancing up.

He blinked, caught off guard. “Thank you.”

Then she was gone—heels clicking, tablet tucked under her arm, sunlight catching in the edge of her platinum hair like ice under glass.

Jack went to refill his coffee mug when he heard her voice.

He froze halfway through the doorway. Elisa stood by the window, her phone pressed to her ear, tone clipped.

“Yes, I’m aware,” she said. “But next time, please send the files directly via email. Passing them through my secretary isn’t necessary.”

A pause. Then, sharper: “Because it’s inefficient—and transparent.”

Her free hand rested against the counter, fingers tapping once, a tell he’d learned meant annoyed.

“…No, I don’t think ‘dropping by’ to hand him paperwork counts as a meeting,” she continued, voice low but edged. “Especially when you’ve already admitted the files were finalized last night.”

Another pause—this one longer. Her shoulders straightened. “Then I suggest you tell Mr. Halden’s staff to act professionally. If I hear another word about who looks interesting in meetings with ambassadors. I will bring it up with Mr. Halden himself. He's not representing himself as an accessory. Are we clear?”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to taste.

Jack’s breath hitched. He wasn’t supposed to be hearing this. But the words sank in before he could retreat—who looks interesting. Ambassadors. Accesory. I’ll bring it up with Mr. Halden.

Elisa ended the call, thumb hovering over the screen for a moment before she set the phone down. Her reflection in the microwave glass looked colder than usual—tired, too. When she exhaled, it came out quieter than he’d ever heard.

Jack ducked back into the hallway before she could notice, his pulse loud in his ears.

Back at his desk, he tried to focus on typing minutes from the strategist meeting, but the image wouldn’t leave—Elisa in the break room, phone tight in her grip, voice slicing through the conversation with controlled anger.

She had defended him again.

It wasn’t the first time. But hearing her—hearing her sound like that—did something strange to his chest. Gratitude, maybe. Or something warmer, heavier, that he didn’t have a name for.

Still, he said nothing when she passed by his desk a few minutes later. She didn’t mention the call, and neither did he. Only a subtle nod—business as usual.

But when Astrid returned from lunch talking about tonight’s celebration, Elisa’s reply was cool as ever: “I’m busy”

Everyone nodded, as if it were obvious. Of course Ms. Rendelle wouldn’t go to a pub. Of course she had better things to do.

Jack smiled faintly, pretending to focus on his spreadsheet.

Except…he wanted her there.

He didn’t know why—he wasn’t even sure she’d enjoy it—but the thought of her absent from the noise and laughter suddenly felt wrong. Maybe it was selfish. Maybe he just wanted her to see that her effort hadn’t gone unnoticed—that the person she kept defending did notice, even if he didn’t know how to say it.

He glanced toward her office, the glass catching the reflection of her bent head as she reviewed another proposal.

Maybe she didn’t need another thank-you. Maybe she didn’t want one.

But still…he wished she’d come.

The Stag’s Head was already alive with noise when Jack pushed open the door.

It wasn’t fancy—just a squat brick pub on the corner of Seventh with fogged windows and neon signs flickering like tired sentinels—but inside it pulsed with warmth. Wooden tables scarred from decades of elbows, yellowed lamps that made everyone’s skin look sun-kissed, and the smell of beer, old wood, and fried potatoes.

Jack hesitated on the threshold, tugging at the cuffs of his shirt. He wasn’t late, but the moment Astrid spotted him, she shot upright like a firework.

“There he is! The man of the hour!”

Half the pub turned. A cheer went up. Someone banged a pint glass on the table.

Jack barely had time to blink before a flute of beer was shoved into his hand.

Astrid—still wearing her office blazer over jeans, balloons tied to her wrist—hopped up onto a chair. “Attention, colleagues, co-conspirators, and fellow survivors!” she announced, voice slicing through the noise. “We are here tonight to celebrate a phenomenon so rare it deserves its own headline—Jack Frost has officially survived Elisa Rendelle’s probation period!”

The entire table roared. Glasses clinked. Tom and Maria howled with laughter. Clara thumped the table like a drum.

“To Jack!” Astrid crowed, raising her glass. “Our ice prince turned calendar wizard. May his inbox never overflow, and may his patience remain bottomless!”

“Bottomless!” Tom echoed, already halfway through his beer.

Jack’s ears burned. He gave a small, helpless smile and lifted his glass. “Thank you, Astrid. And thank you… everyone.”

“Speech!” Hannah shouted.

“No speeches,” Jack said quickly. “I’m not good at—”

“Then drink!” Astrid declared, cutting him off with regal authority.

He did. The beer was too sweet, cheap, but the bubbles fizzed pleasantly through his nerves.

It didn’t take long before chaos took over in the best way.

Clara dragged him into a karaoke duet—something from the early 2000s that half the table couldn’t even remember.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Jack protested as she shoved a microphone into his hand. “Absolutely not.”

“Come on, Jacky,” Clara said, batting her lashes. “You can’t say no to a woman who formatted your presentation slides for two months straight.”

He groaned. “You’re blackmailing me with PowerPoint?”

“Emotional leverage,” she said sweetly. “Same thing.”

The opening chords started before he could escape. By the second verse, everyone was cheering. And though Jack sang quietly at first, by the chorus his voice found rhythm—smooth, deep, unpolished but steady.

When they finished, the table erupted.

“Holy hell,” Tom said, gaping. “You can sing too? What can’t you do?”

“Enjoy karaoke apparently,” Jack muttered, sitting back down.

Astrid threw an arm around him. “That’s it. He’s perfect. Elisa doesn’t deserve him.”

“She’ll kill you for saying that,” Maria said, laughing.

“She’ll try,” Astrid shot back.

Jack rolled his eyes, hiding his grin in the rim of his glass.

Then came the darts. Tom and the other interns challenged him first. “Model boy versus Creatives. Winner gets bragging rights—and loser buys fries!”

“I don’t even like fries,” Jack said.

“Exactly,” Tom smirked. “Motivation.”

Jack threw first. Bullseye. Then another. The crowd groaned as Tom dramatically clutched his heart.

“Cheater,” he accused.

“Skill,” Jack said simply.

“Lies,” Astrid countered, laughing as she took pictures.

They played two more rounds. By the third, Hannah was filming on her phone, shouting fake commentary like a sports anchor. “And Mr Stonehaven lines up for the final shot—look at that concentration! That’s years of repressed emotion right there!”

The dart landed, perfect center.

The pub went wild.

“Unbelievable!” Tom groaned. “Who even are you?”

Jack just smirked, shrugging modestly. “Secretary.”

“Yeah,” Astrid said, shaking her head. “With assassin accuracy.”

Later, when the food arrived—piled fries, sliders, and half a tray of wings—Jack noticed Clara hadn’t touched hers. She was still answering emails, head buried in her phone.

He nudged the plate toward her. “Eat something.”

She blinked up, surprised. “You sound like my mom.”

“Occupational hazard,” Jack said dryly. “We’re trained to prevent starvation in the workplace.”

She laughed. “You’re the only secretary who actually reminds me to eat. Elisa’s lucky.”

He shook his head. “No. I’m lucky she hasn’t fired me yet.”

Astrid overheard and raised her glass. “That’s because you’re the only one who doesn’t flinch when she walks in.”

Jack huffed a soft laugh. “I still flinch. I just do it internally.”

That earned him another round of laughter.

Then came the modeling jokes.

“Alright, Jack,” Tom said, leaning forward with a napkin and pen. “If I draw you as a superhero, what’s your power—being photogenic?”

He doodled quickly, turning the napkin around to reveal a stick figure in a suit labeled Supermodel Frost: Defender of Deadlines.

Jack groaned. “You’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me, you’re not HR,” Tom said.

“Good thing I am!” Astrid shouted from across the table, laughing. “And I approve this comic.”

Clara squinted at the drawing. “No cape?”

“I think the hair’s dramatic enough,” Hannah said, sipping her drink. “Honestly, it’s criminally cinematic.”

Jack rubbed his temples. “I regret ever coming here.”

“You love it,” Astrid said.

He didn’t argue. Maybe because she was right.

The night stretched warm and messy. Laughter blurred into the clink of glasses; snippets of old pop songs bled from the karaoke stage. Jack’s tie was loosened, his jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

For the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking about schedules or signatures. Just voices around him—people who saw him as part of something, even if it was temporary and chaotic.

When the talk drifted to weekend plans, someone mentioned Elisa again.

“Shame she didn’t come,” Astrid said, resting her chin in her hand. “She’d probably sit in the corner with a whiskey and glare at anyone who sang off-key.”

“Or critique the playlist,” Maria added. “‘Karaoke, really?’”

Tom chuckled. “She’d have the whole place organized by tempo.”

Jack smiled faintly. “She said she was busy.”

Astrid arched a brow. “Busy doing what? Alphabetizing her emails?”

“Maybe she just doesn’t like pubs,” Hannah said. “Can’t picture her surrounded by balloons and beer but it will be miracle if she came here.”

Jack’s thumb brushed the edge of his phone, silent in his pocket.

“She works too much,” he said quietly.

Astrid leaned closer, voice teasing but kind. “You could always make her take a break, Frosty.”

He laughed under his breath. “Yeah, that’ll go well.”

“Come on,” she said. “If anyone can convince her, it’s you.”

He didn’t answer. Just pulled his phone out, screen lighting up against the dim bar glow.

He typed:

If you change your mind, we’re at the Stag’s Head. Address below. Drinks are on Astrid, apparently.

His thumb hovered. Then—send.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket before he could change his mind.

Astrid noticed the flicker of movement. “Did you just—?”

“Nothing,” he said.

She smirked knowingly. “Uh-huh. Nothing.”

He ignored her, focusing on the way the bubbles rose in his glass. The noise of the pub pressed around him—warm, human, alive.

He didn’t expect Elisa to come. She’d said she wouldn’t.

But for some reason, just sending the message made something in his chest feel lighter.

Like he’d redrawn a line—subtly, quietly—closer than before.