The CEO Above My Desk Chapter 140

***Violet***

It’s the same question. Again.

“And what time did you leave the courthouse, Mrs. Ashcroft?”

I stare at the detective across from me.

He’s not the first one.

Not the second.

This is the third round.

Different faces. Same tone. Same implication. Same stupid question.

“I already answered that,” I say, keeping my voice level.

Not polite. Not soft. Just flat.

He doesn’t blink. “Answer it again.”

My jaw tightens.

There are three of them in the room now. That feels intentional.

One across from me. One to my right. One leaning against the wall like he’s just there to observe, but his eyes never leave me.

Pressure. That’s what this is. Not a conversation. Not a statement. Pressure.

I shift slightly in the chair, folding my hands together on the table so they don’t see them shake.

“Approximately 2:15,” I repeat. “We exited the courthouse together.”

“With Rowan Ashcroft.”

“Yes.”

“And where did you go before that?”

“The boutique.”

“What boutique?”

I exhale slowly through my nose. Don’t snap. Don’t give them anything extra.

Rowan’s voice echoes in my head. *Answer what’s asked. Nothing more.*

“The one on Westbrook,” I say.

“Name?”

I stare at him. He stares back. Waiting. Testing.

“Do you not have that in your notes?” I ask.

The detective to my right shifts. “We’re asking you.”

“I’m answering you.”

“Then answer clearly.”

I lean back slightly in the chair. “Westbrook Boutique.”

He writes it down like it’s brand new information.

It’s not. I can see the file in front of him. Typed. Printed. Highlighted.

They already know. So why—

“Who paid for the items purchased?” the one against the wall asks suddenly.

I glance at him. New voice. Same angle.

“Rowan.”

“With what method?”

I almost laugh. “Do you want the last four digits too?” I ask.

The detective across from me doesn’t react. “Answer the question.”

“His card.”

“Which card?”

Okay. That’s new.

My eyes narrow slightly. “You’re asking me which specific card my husband used?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The room stills. Just for a second.

Then the detective across from me leans forward. “You answer the questions. We’ll handle the investigation.”

There it is. That tone. That assumption. That I’ll shrink. That I’ll fold.

That I’ll start explaining myself to make this easier. I don’t.

“I don’t know which card,” I say calmly. “He handed it over. They processed the payment. I was trying on clothes, not auditing his finances.”

The detective to my right writes something down.

The one at the wall steps closer. “You seem… irritated.”

“I’ve been asked the same questions three times,” I reply. “I think that’s a reasonable reaction.”

“Or,” he says slowly, “you’re getting nervous.”

My heart spikes. But I don’t let it show.

“I’m not nervous,” I say evenly. “I’m bored.”

That earns me a look. Good. Let them feel it.

The detective across from me flips a page. “Let’s go back.”

Of course we are.

“Who else was present at the boutique?”

“Employees. Camille. Theo. Rowan.”

“Names.”

I blink. “You want the employees’ names?”

“Yes.”

I lean forward slightly now. Matching his posture. Matching his energy.

“I was getting married,” I say. “Not conducting a census.”

The detective to my right shifts again.

The one across from me doesn’t like that answer.

“Mrs. Ashcroft—”

“Violet,” I correct.

He pauses. Just a flicker. Then continues. “Violet. This is a homicide investigation.”

“And I’ve been cooperating,” I reply.

“Then continue to do so.”

“I am.”

“Then don’t get defensive.”

I tilt my head slightly. “I’m not defensive,” I say. “I’m observant.”

Silence. Heavy. Tight.

They’re pushing harder now. I can feel it.

The questions aren’t about timeline anymore. They’re circling. Closing in.

“Did Rowan Ashcroft express any intent to harm Detective Calder?”

“No.”

“Did he discuss wanting Calder removed?”

“No.”

“Did you ever feel he was capable of—”

“No.”

I don’t let him finish. The word comes out sharper than I intended. The room goes still.

The detective at the wall pushes off and steps closer. “Let him finish the question.”

“No,” I say.

That gets all three of their attention. I sit up straighter. Hands flat on the table now. Steady.

“He is not capable of that,” I say, my voice firm. “And you’re not going to twist my words into something else.”

The detective across from me studies me carefully now. New look. Not dismissive anymore. Measuring. Good.

Let him. Because I can feel it now. The shift Devin talked about. The anger. The refusal to shrink.

The understanding that they’re not just asking questions... They’re building something.

And I am not going to help them do it.

The one to my right leans in slightly. “Why do you think you’re here?”

The question catches me off guard. Not because I don’t know the answer. Because of how he asks it. Like he wants to see if I’ll say it. Like he wants me to admit it. I don’t.

“I’m here because you asked me to give a statement,” I say.

He shakes his head slowly. “No.”

There it is. He leans closer. “You’re here because your husband had motive, means, and opportunity.”

My stomach twists. But I don’t move. Don’t react. Don’t give him anything.

“That’s your theory,” I say.

“That’s the evidence.”

“That’s incomplete,” I correct.

He smiles slightly. “You think you understand what’s going on?”

I hold his gaze. “I think you don’t.”

That wipes the smile off his face.

The detective at the wall steps even closer now. Close enough that I can feel it. The pressure. The attempt to intimidate.

“Careful,” he says quietly.

I don’t look away. “You first.”

Silence slams into the room.

And then... I feel it. Not hear. Not see. Feel. Eyes.

On the other side of the glass. Watching. Observing. Waiting.

My pulse picks up. Where the hell is Devin? He stepped out. He said he needed to help Rowan. That this would be routine. That they’d just take my statement. This is not routine.

This is something else. Something deliberate.

But Rowan said—

*Answer what’s asked. Nothing more.*

So I do... but on my own terms.