Page 11 of He Falls First

I type out my response to Hendrix: “I’ll be there when I can.”

My finger hovers over the ‘Send’ button, every fiber of my being screaming to tack on an ‘I’m sorry.’ But no. Not today, guilt. Today I stand my ground. I hit ‘Send’ and drop the phone. A tiny victory against my own pushover tendencies.

I throw the car into drive with a newfound resolve. It’s time to stop dancing to the tune of demanding men. Starting now.

Chapter 4

Hendrix

The glass-walled conference room of Nexus Tech Solutions offers a panoramic view of downtown Sacramento, but the sprawling cityscape might as well be a blank wall for all I care. The men around me are nothing more than buzzing flies, their corporate jargon and stock projections just white noise to my ears.

Damn it, why did I ask Elizabeth about her personal life? “Are you single?” I’d asked her that yesterday, like some fool in a bar looking for a good time. It’s not like me to pry into matters that have no bearing on the bottom line.

Her relationship status is none of my business. I shift in my seat as I try to shake off the memory of her startled blue eyes when I blurted out the question. Elizabeth—Liz, Lizzy… I should call her Ms. Summers. Professional, distant. Her work ethic is impressive; she’s handling everything tossed her way with this quiet confidence that’s rare in this world. She’s a smooth cog in my well-oiled machine, yet here I am, gears grinding to a halt every time she crosses my mind.

“The view, Hendrix?” Matt’s voice yanks me back to the meeting.

“Absolutely,” I reply by reflex, not bothering to look at whatever he’s gesturing toward.

“Is it not, Hendrix?” Harold Cromwell, white-haired and spry despite his age, is peering at me expectantly, his bushy eyebrows arched as if he’s asked me the secret to eternal youth.

Hold on. I have no idea what’s going on in this conversation, and I should probably catch up.

“Sorry, what was the question again?” I rub the bridge of my nose, feigning fatigue, though I’m fully energized—just annoyingly distracted.

“About the view, man. Mr. Cromwell was asking if you ever get tired of it.” Matt’s trying to casually steer me back to the conversation, but I know him. He’s probably stressed as hell about the fact that I’m not paying attention.

“Of course not,” I murmur, finally turning to glance out the window. But then, I see Elizabeth circling the room, distributing a stack of papers, her hair falling just so over the delicate slope of her neck. I realize too late that “the view” they’re talking about might have a double meaning, and a surge of irritation flares up within me.

“Stunning,” I say, and I hope they think I mean the city skyline. My gaze follows Elizabeth as she moves across the room, all grace and athleticism wrapped up in a tailored blazer. There’s a familiarity in her already, like everything else about settling in here is new, but with her, I’m just coming home.

“Right, let’s proceed with the agenda,” I say, clearing my throat.

Cromwell’s aged eyes dart toward Elizabeth as she quietly sets down another stack of documents. The old goat’s gaze lingers a millisecond too long on her figure—very much not the skyline—and I can feel my teeth grind.

“Quite a responsibility, grooming the next generation,” Cromwell muses, his voice dripping with that old-world condescension. “You have to lead by example, Hendrix. Family values, you know.”

“Of course,” I mutter, forcing the corners of my mouth up into what I hope resembles a smile.

Elizabeth keeps moving on the outskirts of the high-rise conference room, effortlessly efficient but oblivious to the eyes tracking her every step. It’s like watching wolves eyeing a deer. I clench my fists under the table, reminding myself she’s off-limits, even to me—my assistant, my responsibility.

“Elizabeth,” I bark suddenly, sharper than intended, “you need to go check if my 2 o’clock appointment has confirmed.” I need her out of this room, away from Cromwell’s leering and the others’ gazes.

“Sure, Mr. Hendrix.” Her voice never wavers, but her eyes flicker to mine, a flash of hurt before she turns. Is she upset? Confused?

“We must ensure everything’s on track,” I tell her sternly, making her pick up the pace as she scuttles out.

“Keeping a tight ship, I see.” Cromwell chuckles smugly.

As the door closes behind Elizabeth, I allow myself to relax, just a fraction, as the conversation moves forward without her in the room. But the image of her walking out, composed yet vulnerable, stays with me, a nagging reminder that sometimes the right decisions can still twist your guts into knots.

“Temper, temper, Mr. Monroe,” Cromwell teases with a patronizing tone that really pricks at my patience. “I’ve heard tales of your famous fire. Don’t tell me they’re true.”

The other men around the table chuckle along with him while my fingers twitch, itching for something to shatter—preferably Cromwell’s sanctimonious grin.

“No temper here, Harold,” Matt interjects in a smooth tone. “Hendrix is just passionate about the work we do.” His eyes dart towards me. “But speaking of passion, weren’t you asking earlier if Hendrix had any plans to settle down, start a family?”

“Ah, yes,” Cromwell nods.

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