"Ms. Henson is... waiting to head out."
He made a point of emphasizing those last two words.
I picked up the Montblanc pen from my desk and uncapped it.
The nib hovered over the signature line. It didn't come down.
"Mr. Gilbert, you've been with the company for almost five months now, haven't you?"
My voice was steady. Unreadable.
"One week shy of five months."
His answer came quick and easy.
I said nothing more. I signed.
"Thank you, Chairman Dickerson."
He took the folder I handed back, flipped through to confirm the signature, then closed it.
And in that split second as he turned to leave, I saw it clearly—his lips moved, fast and silent.
No sound. But the shape was unmistakable. Three syllables:
Old bastard.
He didn't even bother closing the door behind him.
I stayed in my chair. Didn't move.
The pen cap clicked back into place with a soft snap.
Sunlight streamed through the window, falling across one corner of my desk. Almost too bright.
I pressed the intercom for my secretary.
"Chairman Dickerson?"
"Close the door."
"Yes, sir."
A soft click, and the office fell silent again.
My eyes drifted to the minimized surveillance email icon. My finger brushed the mouse once, then stilled.
I didn't open it.
Ten minutes later, the front desk called.
"Chairman Dickerson, Ms. Henson and Mr. Gilbert just left together. They took... your Porsche."
"Noted."
I hung up.
Rising from my chair, I walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Below, the black Porsche Panamera glided out of the underground garage, merged into traffic, and vanished at the edge of my vision.
The glass reflected my silhouette—tailored suit, expressionless face.
A few minutes later, I opened the car's dashcam app.
The image was crisp. The audio, crystal clear.
Dean had his left hand on the wheel. His right rested on Mary's stockinged thigh.
His fingers traced lazy patterns there, the motion practiced. Familiar.
Mary had one hand draped over his arm, her face tilted up toward him, eyes curved with laughter, cheeks flushed pink.
The modest cream blazer she'd worn at the office was gone—tossed in the backseat.
All that remained was a silk blouse, the top two buttons undone.
Not a trace of the composed executive she played at work.
"You said he looked at it carefully?"
Mary's voice came through, soft and coy, with an undercurrent of tension she couldn't quite hide.
"Flipped through several pages. Even paused on mine."
Dean chuckled, his fingers trailing higher along her thigh.
"What's wrong—scared?"
"Just... surprised, that's all."
Mary hesitated, then leaned closer into him.
"He never used to look twice at anything I brought him. Always just signed."
"Worried he noticed something?" Dean shot her a sidelong glance, lips curling. "Relax. That old fool's got nothing in his head but business and money. Spends all day scheming how to make his next million. Never occurs to him his own house is already on fire—and the horns on his head are glowing bright green."
Mary swatted his arm, the touch playful, barely a tap. "That mouth of yours."
"My mouth?"
Dean laughed outright, his hand sliding higher, fingertips slipping beneath the hem of her skirt.
"I can say worse. Want to hear? Last night, someone was whispering in my ear—"
"Shut up!"
Mary clamped her hand over his mouth, her face burning redder now, but her eyes—her eyes shimmered, dark and inviting.
The light turned red. The car stopped.
Dean caught her wrist, drew it to his lips, and pressed a kiss to her palm.
Then he turned and kissed her.
