The CEO Above My Desk Chapter 137

***Violet***

By the time we reach the station doors, I know one thing for certain.

Violet Pierce cannot walk in there.

Not the version of me who smiles through disrespect.

Not the version who says sorry when someone else bumps into her.

Not the version who softens her voice so men feel important.

That woman survived.

She paid bills.

She kept jobs.

She handled customers, tantrums, entitlement, men who thought calling me sweetheart made them charming, women who snapped fingers for attention, people who treated kindness like weakness.

She served a purpose.

But tonight?

Tonight she would be eaten alive.

I pause just outside the glass doors, drawing in one slow breath.

Switch it off.

Customer service mode.

The careful smile.

The apologetic tone.

The instinct to smooth everything over.

Off.

Find the other one.

The woman I buried because she made people uncomfortable.

The blunt one.

The sharp one.

The one who doesn’t flinch.

The one who says what everyone else dances around.

The one who walked upstairs in a towel and verbally hit Theo with a folding chair.

Yeah.

Her.

I square my shoulders.

Then I step inside.

And immediately—

The air feels wrong.

Cold.

Hostile.

Charged.

The police station is bright in the ugliest way possible, harsh fluorescent lights exposing every cracked tile, every scuffed desk, every tired face. Phones ring. Radios chatter. Keyboards clack. Somewhere in the back, someone is yelling.

But underneath all of it... There’s anger.

A lot of it. Too many uniforms. Too many eyes.

The moment we enter, conversations slow. Heads turn. Some subtly. Some not at all.

And I feel it. The hatred. Directed at me. At us.

At the woman tied to the billionaire they brought in.

At the woman Detective Calder had become obsessed with.

At the woman now standing there while one of their own lies dead.

One officer near the front desk stares openly, jaw tight.

Another mutters something to the cop beside him, both glancing my way.

I don’t hear the words. I don’t need to.

I know contempt when I see it.

For one terrifying second, instinct kicks in. Look down. Walk smaller. Move fast. Don’t make eye contact. Disappear.

Then Devin’s voice cuts through my head like a blade.

*No more apologizing for taking up space.*

I lift my chin. Straighten my spine and walk forward.

If they hate me, they can do it while looking up.

Devin doesn’t slow. He strides through the lobby like he owns the building, leather bag in one hand, tablet in the other, fury hidden beneath polished professionalism.

The desk sergeant stands as we approach. “Can I help you?”

“No,” Devin says crisply. “But you can stop wasting oxygen and get me to my client.”

The sergeant blinks. “Sir, I need—”

“You need to listen carefully,” Devin interrupts. “Rowan Ashcroft was removed from private property in an unmarked vehicle before counsel was present. I am counsel. So unless someone here wants tonight to become tomorrow’s federal complaint, you will escort me to him immediately.”

The room stills. Even I almost pause.

The sergeant stiffens. “Watch your tone.”

Devin smiles. Cold. “I’d rather watch yours.”

Oh.... Oh, I like him.

The sergeant looks at me then, maybe assuming I’ll be softer. Easier. Big mistake.

“And you are?”

I let half a beat pass. Long enough to irritate him. Then I answer. “Someone you’re delaying.”

His brows rise slightly.

Good. I can do this.

He looks back to Devin. “We’re in the middle of an active homicide investigation.”

“And I’m in the middle of losing patience,” Devin replies.

Another officer nearby steps closer, broad shoulders, buzzcut, anger practically steaming off him. “You people think money changes everything.”

I turn before Devin can. “No,” I say evenly. “But competence would’ve helped.”

His face darkens instantly.

Worth it.

Devin doesn’t even look surprised. He just says, “Excellent start,” under his breath.

The officer takes one more step. “Calder was one of ours.”

My pulse spikes. But I hold.

Then I tilt my head slightly. “And now he’s dead,” I say. “So maybe this would be a great time for all of you to ask why.”

Silence. Heavy. Sharp. The hatred in the room intensifies.

Good. Let them feel uncomfortable.

The desk sergeant exhales hard through his nose.

“Interview room three.” He points down the hall. “I’ll escort you.”

“No need,” Devin says. “You’ve done enough damage already.”

He starts walking.

I follow immediately. No hesitation. No shrinking. No apology.

As we move down the hallway, I feel every stare burning into my back.

Every whisper.

Every ounce of resentment.

And for once... It doesn’t make me smaller.

It makes me angry.

Because if this is how they act when one bad man dies... How many others did they protect while he was alive?

We stop outside a gray metal door marked INTERVIEW 3.

Devin adjusts his cuff once, then glances at me. “You ready?”

No. Absolutely not. But I hear my own voice answer anyway.

“Yes.”

His mouth twitches faintly. “Good.” Then he opens the door.

When we walk into the room, it is the first time I have ever seen Rowan Ashcroft look caged.

Not broken.

Not afraid.

Not defeated.

Caged.

He sits at the metal table in the center of the small interview room, sleeves rolled to his forearms, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, one hand tapping once against the tabletop in a slow, controlled rhythm. The fluorescent light above him throws hard shadows across his face, making him look colder. More dangerous.

More himself.

A paper cup of untouched water sits near his elbow.

Of course it’s untouched.

Two detectives are in the room with him. One older, heavyset, trying to appear calm. The other younger, stiff-backed, the kind of man who mistakes arrogance for authority.

Both turn when the door opens.

Rowan doesn’t.

Not immediately.

He already knows it’s me.

I can tell by the slight pause of his fingers against the table.

Then slowly, he lifts his eyes.

And the entire room disappears for one second.

His gaze lands on me first.

Checks me over.

Whole.

Dressed.

Standing tall.

Good.

Only then does he look at Devin.

“Took you long enough,” Rowan says dryly.

Devin walks in like he’s entering a conference room instead of a police station. “I had to stop your wife from verbally dismantling three officers in the lobby.”

A beat passes.

Then Rowan looks back at me.

There is the faintest flicker of approval in his eyes.

It sends heat straight through me.

The younger detective straightens. “This interview is ongoing.”

“No,” Devin says, already setting his bag down on the table. “This unlawful little field trip is ongoing. The interview restarts now that counsel is present.”

The older detective exhales. “Mr. Hale, we were simply asking routine questions.”

“And yet,” Devin replies smoothly, “you transported my client in an unmarked vehicle, separated him from counsel, and started without representation. Fascinating definition of routine.”

The younger detective bristles. “Watch it.”

Devin turns his head slowly.

“No,” he says. “You watch me.”