Men Aren't Allowed Near My Beloved Assistant

Vivian's POV

"You're here before the security system even registers human activity," the night guard says as I pass through the lobby at 5:47 a.m.

"The security system doesn't have quarterly projections to review," I reply without breaking stride.

Meridian Holdings sleeps around me—forty-two floors of glass and steel and silence. I prefer it this way.

The elevator hums its familiar ascent, and I mentally catalog the day's battles: the Mercer acquisition at ten, the board presentation at two, the inevitable phone call from my mother sometime between those disasters.

By the time I reach the executive floor, I've already won three arguments that haven't happened yet.

My office sits at the corner of the building. I settle behind my desk and pull the first contract from the stack, letting the familiar rhythm of analysis quiet the noise in my head.

At exactly 7:03, the door opens.

"Good morning, Ms. Cross. Your coffee, and the Morrison briefing with color-coded priority flags as requested."

Elle enters like she always does—efficient, composed, radiating a warmth that makes something in my chest tighten despite four years of practice ignoring it.

She sets the ceramic mug on my desk, the steam curling upward at precisely the temperature I prefer.

One hundred eighty-two degrees. I've never told her this. She simply observed and adjusted.

"The blue tabs indicate items requiring your signature before noon," she continues, sliding the leather portfolio beside my coffee. "Yellow tabs are discussion points for the Mercer meeting. Red tabs are potential landmines I've flagged for your review."

Four years of working together, and Elle still makes me forget what I was about to say.

She stands at the edge of my desk in a navy blazer that frames her shoulders perfectly, blonde hair pulled back in a way that exposes the elegant line of her neck.

Her smile is warm but measured, and I find myself wondering, not for the first time, what it would look like if she let it reach her eyes completely.

"You've already spoken with Morrison's people," I say, forcing my attention back to the briefing.

"His assistant mentioned he's anxious about the timeline," Elle confirms, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I assured her we're ahead of schedule, which seemed to calm him down considerably."

"You assured her."

"Was I wrong to?"

"No." I take the first sip of coffee, and it's perfect. It's always perfect. "You were exactly right."

Elle nods, but something flickers across her expression—a hesitation I've learned to recognize over four years of daily proximity.

She clasps her hands in front of her, and I notice the slight tension in her shoulders.

"There's something else," I say, setting down the mug.

"Yes."

She takes a breath, and I watch her compose herself the way I've watched her compose a thousand difficult conversations for my benefit. The morning light catches the curve of her jaw, and I hate how aware I am of every angle.

"I need to request two days of personal leave, starting tomorrow."

The words land in my chest with unexpected weight.

I keep my expression neutral, cataloging the disruption: tomorrow's schedule, the Mercer follow-up, the board presentation aftermath.

Elle Wyeth has not taken a single unplanned day off in four years.

But beneath the logistics, something else stirs—something that feels uncomfortably like panic at the thought of two days without her walking through that door.

"May I ask why?"

"My grandfather passed away last night," she says, her voice steady despite the grief I can see pooling in her eyes. "The funeral is in Vermont, and I need to be there for my family."

Vermont.

The word echoes somewhere in the back of my mind, pulling at threads I don't have time to examine.

I watch her face, searching for permission to offer something more than professional sympathy.

Her eyes glisten, and I want to reach across the desk in a way I haven't wanted anything in years.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I say, and the words feel too clinical.

"Thank you, Ms. Cross."

She swallows once, then continues in that same professional tone that suddenly feels like a wall between us.

"I've already prepared contingencies for my absence. Your calendar has been restructured—I've moved the Henderson call to Thursday and blocked time for independent review of the quarterly reports. Department heads have been briefed on urgent matters, and I've queued all necessary materials in your shared drive with detailed notes."

Of course she has. Even in grief, Elle Wyeth anticipates every need before I voice it. And yet she has no idea about the need she creates simply by existing in my orbit.

"You did all of this last night," I say quietly.

"I wanted to ensure minimal disruption to your schedule."

"Elle." Her name feels different on my tongue than it usually does—softer. I've trained myself to use it sparingly. "You just lost your grandfather."

"I'm aware," she says, and for the first time, I hear the tremor beneath her composure. "But the company doesn't stop because my personal life is complicated."

The company.

As if Meridian Holdings is the reason she stayed up preparing contingencies instead of allowing herself to grieve.

I want to tell her that the company can burn for all I care if it means she takes care of herself. But that would reveal too much.

"Take the time you need," I tell her instead. "I'll have HR arrange coverage—"

"That won't be necessary," she interrupts gently. "I've already accepted their offer for a temporary replacement. Everything is handled. You won't even notice I'm gone."

Won't notice.

Like I don't notice everything about her. The way she tilts her head when she's thinking, the soft rhythm of her breathing when she's focused, the exact shade of blue her eyes turn in the afternoon light.

Not noticing Elle isn't an option. It never has been.