A Demotion

Polly's POV

The chicken was dry and the wine was sweet. And the lies were served steaming hot with a side of smug smiles.

I sat at the dinner table like a ghost, hands folded tightly in my lap, the diamond on my ring finger suddenly too heavy. My father, Liam Dennis, was in one of his grand moods, praising James for his "sharp business instincts" and gushing over Shana’s recent charity feature in some glossy magazine.

No one looked at me. No one asked how I was doing. And yet, everything inside me was screaming.

I stared at the fork on my plate like it could save me. My eyes drifted up to James. He looked just like he did last night when I found him balls-deep in my stepsister, only now, he wore a tailored navy suit and the same cologne that still clung to the walls of Father’s study.

My fingers trembled.

"I need to say something," I said, almost choking on the words.

Silence fell like a knife dropped on porcelain. James raised an eyebrow. Shana didn’t even blink.

Father sighed dramatically. "Yes, Polly?"

I cleared my throat and pushed my glasses up. "I… I saw something. Last night...James and Shana...in your study."

The air thinned. Shana took a dainty sip of her wine, expression confident and care free. "She must’ve been dreaming," she said with a light chuckle, like I was the family lunatic.

James leaned back in his chair, cool as winter. "Polly, are you feeling alright? Maybe all that reading you do is getting to your head."

I blinked. "I’m not lying and you fucking know it."

Father’s jaw twitched. "Language, Polly."

"But—"

"I said enough," he barked, slamming his palm on the table so hard the plates rattled.

I flinched, again. Like always.

Shana placed her hand over Father’s like some kind of fragile angel. "Don’t be too hard on her, Daddy. Polly’s just… overwhelmed. She’s still used to always craving attention like she used to as a kid. I just thought she outgrew that."

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My throat was dry, my heart loud. James smirked at me. Not even a trace of guilt.

And I?

I swallowed the pain.

Buried it under mashed potatoes and shame and silence.

The next morning, I woke up with puffy eyes and a headache that felt like it had roots in my spine. I washed my face twice, scrubbed the regret off my skin, and wore my usual knee-length pencil skirt and cream blouse. I looked professional, invisible and safe.

At the office, I tried to keep my head down.

That lasted until 10:47 a.m., when Janet from HR popped her head into the Marketing suite.

"Polly, the CEO wants you at the executive meeting. Conference Room A. Now."

My stomach dropped. The CEO?

I’d worked at Dorian & Slate for four years, climbed my way up to Head of Marketing and not once had I met the elusive Logan Sanchez. He was a ghost, a legend, a name people called in whispers as if he were some spiritual being used to taunt bad kids into behaving. People described him as brilliant, terrifying, and absurdly private.

So why now? Why was there going to be a meeting that involved me?

I straightened my blouse, grabbed my notepad, and walked into the lion’s den. He stood by the window when I entered, noting how other people are in attendance.

He stood tall, so tall I was basically craning my neck to look at his face. He was radiating fear that seeped into everyone's mind, including mine. Logan Sanchez turned slowly, and for the first time in a long time, I forgot how to breathe.

Chestnut curls fell over his forehead, softening the hard lines of his face. His skin was golden bronze, kissed by sun and success. A spatter of freckles danced across the bridge of his nose, subtle and unexpected. His brows were thick, low, like he always had something on his mind, and his brown eyes—God, those eyes—glowed gold in the sunlight streaming through the windows.

He wore a gray vest over a black shirt, sleeves rolled, tie loosened slightly like he didn’t need to try to impress anyone. His lean frame filled the space with a casual kind of dominance, and when he moved, it was like watching a storm gather in slow motion.

He had no smile on his face, his expression rigid.

"Let’s begin," he said, voice sounding like I was listening to a Ford commercial.

I couldn’t focus. I sat in a chair near the edge of the table, jotting meaningless notes, my eyes drifting over to him again and again. There was something about the way his lips moved, precise and perfect. I couldn’t stop looking at them.

God help me, I was staring at his mouth like a starved woman at a feast.

"…Miss Dennis?"

I blinked. "Uh? Oh...I—Sorry? What was that?"

The whole room turned to look at me.

Logan’s eyes didn’t blink. "I asked a question."

I opened my notebook. The page was blank.

He exhaled through his nose, barely. Then said, "Everyone else, dismissed. Except Miss Dennis."

The room cleared like smoke. I stood frozen.

He walked toward me slowly, that same rigid look on his face. When he stopped in front of me, I had to tilt my chin up to meet his gaze. He should be above six feet, maybe three inches taller than that. Solid muscle.

I immediately let my gaze fall back on his chest, focusing on the lines of his tie.

"You’ve been moved," he said. "You’ll be my personal secretary starting Monday. Unless you’d prefer to be unemployed."

I gaped. "What? I—I don’t understand. Why—?" That was literally a demotion even though being a personal secretary to Logan was like serving a god up close.

"I don’t like repeating myself," he said flatly.

I felt the room tilting. My voice cracked. "But… I’m Head of Marketing."

"Not anymore."

His gaze dipped lower, just for a second, but it was enough. Enough to make my skin burn. Enough to make my inner thighs clench involuntarily.

"And you seem to have a knack for getting distracted." When his eyes settled on my chest, I followed his gaze down.

My nipples were hard, straining visibly against the soft fabric of my blouse. Mortified, I crossed my arms and looked away, but I could still feel his stare.