Page 7 of He Falls First

He strides ahead of me, and I’m scrambling in his wake, my sensible flats squeaking against the polished marble. Every squeak reminds me of his reaction to my voice yesterday, but I try not to dwell on that, being the new me who doesn’t dwell on self-doubt and all.

“Have a seat,” he says without looking back, and it’s less of an invitation than a command. I obey, sinking into a chair that’s more modern art than furniture, all chrome and leather that contours to my body with a surprising tenderness.

I steal a moment to look around. His office is an expansive landscape of glass and steel—cold, like him. The room is no longer bright and playful, like it used to be when this was Gabrielle’s office. Sunlight pours through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting sharp shadows across an enormous mahogany desk that looks like it could double as a Viking dining table. The walls are adorned with abstract paintings, bold strokes of dark color clashing in chaotic harmony. A bookshelf crammed with thick tomes stands guard by the door, titles so pretentious they’d make a philosopher weep.

It’s a space that whispers money and screams power, each carefully placed object reinforcing the fact that Hendrix Monroe is not a man you trifle with.

My gaze lands on a miniature zen garden sitting on the corner of his desk, complete with tiny rake and pristine white sand. It’s oddly at odds with his brusque persona—maybe his attempt at calming the soul? Either way, I bite back a snort. There’s something comically endearing about imagining the giant Hendrix meticulously raking those minuscule grains between board meetings and hostile takeovers.

Silence stretches between us until he pivots on his heel to face me, green eyes appraising.

“You’re not like the others,” he observes, as if I’m a specimen under his microscope. And maybe I am—Elizabeth Summers, today’s exhibit in the Museum of Unfortunate Career Choices.

“Because I didn’t run screaming for the hills?” I ask, my foot tapping a nervous rhythm against the floor. I put a hand over my knee to stop it, because the new me doesn’t show fear. Or something.

“Something like that.” He leans back against his desk, arms folded, hints of tattoos on his forearms peeking out like forbidden secrets beneath crisp shirt cuffs. “You came here to work, not to shrink away in fear. That’s admirable.”

“Admirable or stupid, jury’s still out,” I murmur, mostly to myself. But a flicker of amusement crosses his features. It’s so fleeting, I might’ve imagined it. Probably did. Self-preservation making a desperate attempt to make him less intimidating.

“Tell me, Elizabeth…” he starts, then pauses, tilting his head like my name is a new flavor he’s tasting for the first time. “It appears that you’re one of few people who wasn’t afraid to come across me at work this week. Why is that?”

I swallow, not sure what he expects me to say. He’s asking me why I showed up to work? Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?

“Um, because I have a job to do, sir,” I say. “I couldn’t leave you without an executive assistant on your first week here.”

“What about the stories you’ve heard about me? They didn’t make you afraid to come see me?”

His piercing gaze makes me feel so exposed, I have no choice but to simply tell him the truth.

“I don’t listen to those stories,” I tell him. “Every time I hear that people have a bad impression of someone, it turns out there’s a side of them that others don’t understand.” I shrug. “I figured I’d find that side of you.”

Did the indomitable Hendrix just... blush? Not possible, I decide. He’s scowling, so I probably just angered him to the point of reddening in the face, and I don’t even know why.

“Not that I’m trying to get you to show me any particular part- um, or side of you,” I stammer, trying to fix whatever’s got him so riled up. “You know, I always try to see the good in people. I think everyone has something redeemable about them, even if it’s buried deep. And I’m pretty good at… digging deep.”

The words hang awkwardly between us. Why do I sound like I’m trying to pile on the double entendre? A flush burns up my neck and I stammer, backpedaling furiously. “I mean- well, I don’t mean…”

“Digging deep, huh?” His voice is laced with amusement, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he circles his desk to sit down. It’s disarming, seeing him lighten up a little. At least, I think he’s lightening up.

“Professionally! Digging deep in a professional sense. Of course.” The room suddenly feels ten degrees hotter, and I’d give anything for a gust of arctic chill from Mr. Freeze over there.

“Of course,” he echoes.

“Anyway…” I start, eager to steer away from the slip-up. But he cuts me off.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Hendrix says, his voice blunt. He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled, eyes piercing. “For the next six weeks, I’ll have to masquerade as Mr. Rogers, but make no mistake—I am not a friendly person.”

His declaration hangs between us like a challenge, and I fight the urge to laugh—not because it’s funny, but because it’s so absurdly honest. The man sitting before me is a walking contradiction, a tempest cloaked in a tailored suit, tattoos peeking from beneath his cuffs.

“Small talk, distractions—they’re not in my vocabulary,” he adds, and his eyes lock onto mine, waiting for me to break, to show fear. But I don’t. I can’t afford to.

“Understood, Mr. Monroe,” I reply, folding my hands atop my knees to hide their slight tremor. The air in the office seems to vibrate with tension.

“Are you passionate about what we do here?” he says.

“About technology solutions?”

I smile, and Hendrix frowns a little, like he thinks he’s asked a stupid question.

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