de. And then that phone call, Sandra's voice, smooth and unbothered, as if warning a woman off her brother was the kind of thing she did between dinner and dessert. Mac Harlow. S

ver her face, brief and assessing. "You came," he said. "You told me not to be late." "I did." Something in his expression settled. "Come up." * * * His office was on the fourteenth floor. Wide windows, a desk that was actually being used, stacks of files that suggested he worked rather than performed working. He gestured to the chair across from him and she sat. He did not sit immediately. He stood at the window for a moment, his back to her, and she had the distinct impression he was deciding something. Then he turned and sat down and looked at her directly. "Tell me about yourself," he said. "Not the CV. You." Cloe looked at him. "That's a vague question." "It's meant to be." She considered it. Most people, when they said tell me about yourself, wanted a rehearsed answer. A highlight reel. She had one ready. But something about the way he was watching her, steady and genuinely waiting, made the rehearsed version feel dishonest. "I'm a single mother," she said. "My son is nine. He has a medical condition that requires ongoing treatment. I need a job with a stable income and proper health coverage and I'm good enough at what I do that this is a fair exchange, not a favour." Silence. "What are you good at?" he asked. "Organisation. Problem-solving. Staying calm when things go wrong." She paused. "Things go wrong a lot in my life. I have a lot of practice." He was quiet for a moment. Then he picked up her folder, which was sitting on his desk, her cracked phone screen face down beside it, and she realised he had brought both up from the lobby without her noticing. He read through her documents. She waited. She was good at waiting. "Your last employer," he said without looking up, "closed your position four months ago. But you left six months before that." "Yes." "Why?" "Personal reasons." He looked up. "That's not an answer." "It's the answer I'm giving." He held her gaze for a long moment. She did not look away. She had looked away from too many things for too long and she was done with it. Something shifted in his expression. Respect, maybe. Or the beginning of it. "The role is executive administrative coordinator," he said. "My schedule, my correspondence, my office. You'd be in close proximity to me every working day." He set the folder down. "I need to know you can handle pressure without fracturing." "I raised a sick child alone for nine years while my husband was overse