Technically, I was here to catalog dead people’s mail, not to have a panic attack in front of a carved mahogany door.
“Breathe, Chloe,” I muttered, flattening my palm over the visitor badge clipped to my thrift-store blazer. The Hale Family Foundation’s logo—tasteful H in a circle, old money font—stared back like it knew I did not belong.
Behind the door, voices hummed: low, decisive, expensive. Somewhere in there was Matthew Hale, heir to the Hale fortune, de facto head of the foundation, and my new boss for the next six weeks.
Six weeks to pay my rent. Six weeks to pretend I had my life together.
The receptionist had told me, with the bright competence of someone who’d never had an overdraft fee, “Mr. Hale just needs you to sign a few documents and then he’ll show you the archives, Ms. West. You can go right in.”
Right in, like I walked into billionaire offices every day.
I curled my fingers around the handle, ignored the faint tremor, and pushed.
The office was larger than my apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city in winter sunlight, all steel and glass and the faint shimmer of the river. A long table by the window was covered in neat stacks of folders and an ominously tall tower of cardboard archive boxes.
And at the far end, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened just enough to look human, was Matthew Hale.
He was leaning over a file, dark hair falling slightly out of place, pen tapping an impatient rhythm. I’d seen his photo online—a polished headshot smiling out of annual reports—but the real thing short-circuited my brain for a second. He was…warmer somehow. Less perfect. There was a faint shadow of stubble, a tiredness at the edges of his eyes that didn’t show up in glossy photos.
He looked up when the door clicked. The impatient rhythm stopped.
“You’re not Gary,” he said.
“Uh, no,” I answered brilliantly. “I’m definitely not Gary.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “Promising start.” He straightened, capping his pen. “You must be Chloe West.”
The way he said my name—steady, like it mattered if he got it right—made something twist low in my chest.
“That’s me,” I said. “Temporary archive goblin.”
His brows rose. “Is that the official title HR is using now? I’ll have to review our policies.”
I hadn’t planned to make him smile less than a minute into meeting him, but there it was. It softened his whole face, taking him off the magazine cover and dropping him firmly into the realm of guy. A very rich, very intimidating guy, but still.
He came around the desk, hand extended. Up close, I could see faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the kind you got from squinting into the sun or laughing. His tie was navy, a barely visible pattern woven through it, like he’d tried to be interesting but his wardrobe wouldn’t let him.
“Matthew,” he said. “Thank you for coming in on such short notice.”
I wiped my palm discretely on my skirt and shook his hand. His grip was warm, firm. He didn’t squeeze too hard, didn’t do that alpha handshake thing a lot of men loved. He just…held.
“Happy to,” I lied. “Your archives sounded…fun.”
He huffed out another half-laugh. “That’s one word for them. May I see your ID and contract?”
