The CEO Above My Desk Chapter 146

***Violet***

I wake slowly.

Not peacefully. Not rested. Just… aware.

The kind of waking where your body comes back first, then your mind follows like it’s dragging weight behind it.

For a second, I don’t move.

I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember where I am.

Then it hits.

Everything.

The police station.

Hargrove.

The recording.

Rowan.

My husband.

My stomach flips slightly at that.

I push myself up on my elbows, glancing around the room. The bed is empty beside me. Cold. Untouched.

Of course it is.

Rowan doesn’t sleep when things are like this.

Voices drift down from upstairs.

Low. Controlled. Multiple people.

Not just Devin. More.

I sit up fully now. Swing my legs off the bed. Something in me settles into place.

Not panic. Not fear. Purpose.

I stand, smoothing my hands over the fabric of the oversized shirt I apparently fell asleep in, then move quickly to the dresser, pulling out something more presentable.

Dark leggings. A fitted top. Simple. Clean. Put together.

If there are people here... Important people, I’m not walking in looking like I just survived a breakdown.

Even if I did.

I run a hand through my hair, fix what I can, then head for the door.

The voices grow clearer as I step into the hallway. Rowan. Devin. Another voice I don’t recognize.

Older. Controlled.

Authority.

I don’t hesitate.

I head straight for the kitchen instead.

Because if there’s one thing I do know how to do—

It’s walk into a room and take control without saying a word.

Coffee first.

I move quickly, efficiently, pulling out mugs, setting up the machine, scanning the cabinets for anything that works. Snacks. Something easy. Something clean.

Crackers. Fruit. A small platter.

I slice quickly, neatly, arranging it without thinking.

Then the coffee.

French vanilla powder packets.

Simple.

Reliable.

I make a few cups, adjusting ratios automatically.

Half packet for standard.

Full for larger.

Consistent.

Clean.

Done.

I load everything onto a tray and head upstairs.

The conversation pauses the second I step into the loft.

Of course it does.

Four men at the table.

Rowan.

Devin.

And two others.

One of them stands slightly as I approach.

Rowan leans back in his chair, eyes already on me, that familiar smirk tugging at his mouth like he expected this. Like he knew I’d walk in and handle it without being told.

“Gentlemen,” he says smoothly, his voice cutting through the silence, “this is my wife, Violet Ashcroft.”

The word lands heavier than it should. Wife.

I feel it. In my chest. In the way all eyes shift to me differently now.

Not just another person in the room. Not just someone passing through. Someone who matters.

The man standing straightens fully, offering a polite nod as he reaches for the coffee I’m holding out.

“Pleasure,” he says.

And then it clicks.

The face. The voice. The presence.

Oh. Oh shit.

It’s the mayor.

I manage to keep my expression neutral, even as my brain scrambles to catch up.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, handing him the cup like I’m not internally spiraling just a little.

He takes a sip. Pauses.

His brows lift slightly.

“Well,” he says, glancing briefly at Rowan before looking back at me, “this is impressive.”

Rowan’s smirk deepens. Of course it does.

“Thank you,” I reply calmly, setting the rest of the cups down one by one.

Devin watches the whole thing like he’s cataloging it. Probably is.

The mayor takes another sip, clearly not expecting it to be as good as it is.

“You’ll have to show my assistant how you made this,” he says casually.

I glance toward the woman standing slightly behind him.

She looks like she hasn’t slept in days.

Her posture is perfect. Her expression is not. Tight. Controlled. Holding on by a thread.

I smile at her. Soft. Knowing.

“Of course,” I say. “If you’d like.”

She hesitates. Just for a second. Then nods.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “That would be… helpful.”

Rowan’s hand brushes lightly against my lower back as I turn, subtle but grounding, like he’s acknowledging me without interrupting the moment.

“Don’t be long,” he murmurs low enough that only I hear.

Not a command. Not really. But close.

I don’t respond. Just grab another mug and gesture toward the stairs.

“Come on,” I say to her.

And just like that, I step out of the war room upstairs… And into something a little more real downstairs.

I set the mug down on the counter.

Turn.

And shrug.

“I’m not going to show you shit,” I say.

She blinks. Once. Twice. Then... “What?”

“It’s coffee,” I say simply, reaching for one of the packets. “French vanilla powder. Half for a normal cup. Full if they’re being dramatic and want a big one or a thermos.”

I tear one open slightly and hold it up between my fingers.

“You can buy these anywhere. Or in bulk if you hate your life enough.”

She stares at me.

Really stares. And then she laughs. Not polite. Not controlled.

A real, slightly unhinged laugh that sounds like it’s been stuck in her throat all day.

“Thank you,” she breathes, dropping into one of the kitchen stools like her legs just gave out. “Oh my God, thank you.”

She leans forward and just… lets her forehead hit the counter.

I slide the fruit platter toward her.

“You look wrecked,” I say.

“I am wrecked,” she groans into the marble. “Do you know how many calls I’ve taken in the last twelve hours? How many ‘urgent’ meetings turned into political damage control sessions? I haven’t even had time to pee without someone knocking on the door asking for updates.”

I snort softly. “Assistant life.”

She lifts her head just enough to look at me. “You get it.”

“I live it,” I reply.

She sits up slowly, grabbing a piece of fruit like her body remembered it needs food. “Mayor’s assistant,” she says, like that explains everything.

“Unfortunately,” she adds a second later.

I nod. “Yeah, that tracks.”

She studies me for a second. “You married your boss.”

I smirk slightly, setting another piece of fruit onto the platter like I didn’t just hear that for the hundredth time in my own head.

“My boss isn’t really that big of an asshole,” I say. “Maybe at first.”

She snorts. “They’re always ‘maybe at first.’”

I shake my head, leaning back against the counter. “No, he just… puts it on. It’s a front. Control thing.”

Her brows lift slightly.

“He’s actually really sweet,” I continue, surprising myself a little with how easily the words come out. “Understanding. Pays attention to things people don’t think he would. Takes really good care of me.”

She watches me closely now.

Like she’s trying to decide if I’m delusional.

Then... “…Huh,” she says.