The CEO Above My Desk Chapter 129

***Rowan***

The elevator opens on nineteen.

Private access.

No hallway traffic. No noise. No one lingering where they shouldn’t be.

Just a quiet, controlled landing that leads directly into the penthouse.

Exactly how I left it. Exactly how I need it.

I step out first. Always.

My eyes scan the space automatically—corners, entry points, lines of sight. Nothing out of place. Nothing disturbed. Clean.

Good.

“Welcome,” I say, glancing back at Violet.

She steps out slower.

Taking it in.

The penthouse opens immediately into the main living space—wide, open, intentional. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the far wall, giving a full view of the city below. Lights flicker in the distance, cars moving like controlled chaos far beneath us.

Up here—

Everything is quiet.

The floors are dark hardwood, polished but not reflective. The furniture is minimal, expensive without being excessive. A large sectional sits centered in the room, deep charcoal, clean lines. A glass coffee table. A mounted television on the wall that looks untouched.

It’s not decorated.

Not really.

It’s functional.

There are small signs someone’s been here recently.

The air smells clean. Neutral. The kind of scent you get when professionals have come through and reset everything—linen, citrus, something faintly antiseptic.

Stocked.

Reset.

Ready.

Devin doesn’t wait.

“Yeah,” he mutters, already loosening his tie as he walks straight to the couch. “I’m taking this.”

He drops onto it like a man who hasn’t slept in days, one arm thrown over his eyes.

“Wake me if something’s on fire.”

Theo huffs a quiet laugh, already moving.

“Come on,” he mutters to Camille, hooking his arm around her waist and steering her down the short hallway.

“That room still yours?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says. “Unless Rowan decided to redecorate and erase my existence.”

“I thought about it,” I reply flatly.

Theo smirks. “Yeah, yeah.”

They disappear into the second bedroom without another word.

The door shuts.

And just like that—

It’s quiet again.

Just me.

And her.

I glance at Violet.

She’s still standing near the entrance, taking everything in like she’s trying to place herself inside it.

Inside my space.

“Come on,” I say, already turning. “I’ll show you around.”

She follows.

Close.

But not touching.

I start with the kitchen.

It sits just off the main living area, separated by a large island—black stone, clean edges, bar seating on one side. Everything is modern. Stainless steel appliances. Built-in. Hidden where they should be.

Minimal clutter.

Exactly how I prefer it.

“They restocked it this morning,” I say, opening the fridge briefly.

It’s full.

Fresh produce. Bottled water. Meal prep containers. Wine.

Everything placed neatly.

Everything intentional.

The cabinets are the same.

Dry goods. Coffee. Essentials.

Nothing excessive.

Nothing missing.

“You won’t need to go out,” I add.

Her eyes flick to mine.

That same realization she had downstairs.

Good.

We move back into the living room, then toward the loft.

The office sits above the main space, accessible by a short set of stairs. Open concept. No walls.

No hiding.

A large desk dominates the center—dark wood, sharp lines, multiple monitors already set up and active. Everything synced. Everything ready.

Files are stacked neatly.

Not messy.

Organized.

“This is where I work when I’m here,” I say.

She steps up beside me, looking out over the living room from the loft.

A vantage point.

Control.

Of course it is.

We don’t linger.

I guide her down the hall next.

“Theo’s room,” I say, nodding toward the closed door.

Then further down—

“My room.”

I push the door open.

It’s darker in here.

Not dim.

Controlled.

The same floor-to-ceiling windows stretch along one wall, but the curtains are partially drawn, muting the city lights into something softer. The bed sits centered, large, low frame, dark linens, clean and untouched.

Everything is precise.

Everything is in place.

No clutter.

No distractions.

A dresser. A chair. A single abstract painting on the wall.

That’s it.

It’s not warm.

Not inviting.

It’s mine.

I glance at her.

Watching her take that in.

Then I move to the bathroom.

The door opens into a space that mirrors the rest of the penthouse—clean, modern, sharp.

Double vanity. Marble counters. A glass walk-in shower. A deep soaking tub positioned near the window, overlooking the city.

Towels are folded neatly.

Fresh.

Unused.

I turn back toward her.

She’s standing in the doorway now.

Still.

Quiet.

Taking it all in.

“This is where we’ll stay,” I tell her.

Simple.

Final.

My eyes move over her slowly.

Not subtle.

Never subtle.

“You’ll be safe here.”

And I mean it.

Because this—

This space—

This is something I control.

She doesn’t move right away.

Just stands there in the doorway, looking at everything like she’s trying to decide where she fits in it.

Then slowly... She walks past me.

And sits on the edge of my bed.

The mattress dips slightly under her weight, the fabric of that white dress catching softly against the dark sheets, a contrast that shouldn’t look as good as it does.

I watch her.

Of course I do.

Her hands rest in her lap for a second before she exhales, long and quiet, her shoulders dropping just slightly.

Then she looks up at me.

“So…” she starts, her voice softer now, not sharp like before, not defensive. Just… tired. “Where do we go from here?”

The question hangs there.

Simple.

But it isn’t.

I step further into the room, slow, controlled, closing the space between us without rushing it.

“We stay here,” I tell her.

No hesitation.

No uncertainty.

“Until everything is handled.”

Her brows pull together slightly. “Handled how?”

“Marcus will want statements,” I say. “Everyone. He’ll go through everything we have, everything Camille pulled, everything Theo and I already started digging into.”

My jaw tightens slightly at that.

“There are too many moving pieces right now.”

She nods slowly, absorbing it.

“And until then?”

“This is home,” I say simply. “Until further notice.”

That lands.

I can see it.

The shift.

Her fingers twist slightly together in her lap before she asks the next thing.

“What about work?”

Of course she asks that.

I almost smirk.

“We’ll commute,” I tell her. “It’s out of the way, but not enough to matter.”

I pause, watching her.

“We’ll make it work.”

Because I will make it work.

She nods again, quieter this time.

Then... She hesitates.

And I already know what’s coming.

“What about the PI?” she asks.