Page 5 of His to Command

"Wear your hair down tomorrow. That bun gives me a headache."

Her mouth opens slightly in shock, then closes. Without another word, she slips out the door, closing it softly behind her.

I lean back in my chair, a smile playing at my lips. For the first time in years, I feel something other than boredom or irritation. Something hot and restless and hungry.

This is just the beginning. Robin Hastings doesn't know it yet, but she's already mine. It's only a matter of time before she realizes it too.

three

. . .

Robin

I arriveat work with my stomach in knots. My phone pinged at 5 AM with detailed instructions from Hudson's assistant—the one I'm replacing—about where to go, what to bring, how to dress. The last instruction burns in my memory: Hair down. Not a suggestion. An order. I left my hair loose around my shoulders, feeling naked without my usual tight bun. Every step toward the executive elevator feels like walking to my own execution.

The executive floor is a different world. The carpet swallows sound. The lighting is soft but expensive, casting everyone in a flattering glow. Even the air feels different—filtered, rarefied, like it costs money to breathe it.

"Ms. Hastings." A tall man in an impeccable suit approaches. "I'm Gregory Reynolds, Mr. Roth's departing executive assistant. I'll be training you today."

I force a smile. "Thank you. I'm still not sure why I was selected for this position."

Gregory's expression doesn't change. "Mr. Roth's decisions aren't questioned. This way, please."

He leads me past a security checkpoint where my employee badge is replaced with a sleek black one that reads "Executive Office." The corridor beyond feels endless, walled in glass and chrome. We pass conference rooms named after constellations, executive offices larger than my entire apartment, until finally arriving at double doors with no nameplate. They don't need one. Everyone knows whose space this is.

Gregory scans his badge and the doors whisper open.

"This is the executive suite," he explains, leading me into a reception area that's bigger than the entire marketing department. "You'll work here." He indicates a sleek desk positioned like a sentinel before another set of doors. "Those lead to Mr. Roth's private office. No one enters without his express permission."

My workspace is immaculate—glass desk, ergonomic chair that probably costs more than my monthly rent, three monitors, and a tablet. It feels exposed, sitting here where everyone who visits Hudson must pass by me first.

"Your credentials have been updated in the system," Gregory continues, gesturing to the computer. "You'll handle Mr. Roth's calendar, correspondence, travel arrangements, and any personal matters he delegates to you."

I swallow hard. "Personal matters?"

Gregory's eyes flicker. "Mr. Roth values discretion above all. Whatever you see or hear in this office stays in this office."

He spends the next hour walking me through systems, protocols, security clearances. My head spins with information—Hudson's preferences, the hierarchy of who gets access to him and when, which calls to put through immediately and which to screen.

"He takes his coffee black, one sugar, at precisely 9:30 and 2:00. Lunch is delivered from whichever restaurant he specifies that morning. He does not like to be disturbed between 7:00 and 8:30 AM unless it's on this list of priority clients." Gregory hands me a leather-bound binder. "This contains everything else you need to know."

I flip through pages of meticulous notes. Hudson's favorite restaurants. Hudson's tailors. Hudson's exact specifications for everything from water temperature to how reports should be formatted.

"This is..." I search for a word that won't betray my panic.

"Comprehensive," Gregory supplies. "Mr. Roth expects perfection."

At 7:28, Gregory checks his watch. "He'll be here in two minutes. Remember, you don't speak unless spoken to. You don't offer opinions unless asked. You anticipate his needs before he realizes he has them." He heads for the door. "Good luck, Ms. Hastings."

And then I'm alone, perched at my new desk, waiting for the man who's turned my safe, invisible existence upside down.

At precisely 7:30, the outer doors open.

Hudson Roth strides in like he's entering a battlefield, eyes already assessing, cataloging, calculating. He wears a charcoal suit that looks painted onto his broad shoulders, a crisp white shirt, a tie the exact color of dried blood. His presence sucks the oxygen from the room.

Those steel eyes land on me, and I feel pinned like a butterfly to cork.

"Ms. Hastings." He stops before my desk, looming over me. "I see you followed instructions."

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