Chapter five

One week.

Shayla had survived one full week working as Grayson Cross's personal assistant, and she'd done it with grace she didn't know she possessed.

Every morning, she arrived at 7:45 AM sharp, fifteen minutes before she was required, coffee made exactly how he liked it, his schedule organized down to the minute, documents prepared and waiting on his desk. She selected his wardrobe changes with clinical efficiency, attended meetings at his side with perfect notes, answered emails with professional courtesy that revealed nothing personal.

She was the model employee.

Polite. Competent. Utterly untouchable.

And it was killing her.

Every interaction was a carefully choreographed performance. Every smile was practiced in the mirror until it looked natural. Every "Yes, Mr. Cross" and "Right away, sir" was delivered with a calm she absolutely did not feel.

She avoided his eyes. Avoided standing too close. Avoided any situation that might lead to a conversation that wasn't strictly work-related.

And somehow miraculously she'd made it through five full days without breaking.

But Grayson had been watching.

She could feel his gaze on her constantly, tracking her movements, studying her face like he was trying to solve a puzzle. During meetings, she'd catch him staring when he thought she wasn't looking. When she handed him documents, his fingers would linger just a second too long, like he was testing whether she'd react.

She never did.

Her face remained blank, professional, a mask she'd perfected over seven years of survival.

But inside? Inside, she was screaming.

---

Friday morning arrived with the kind of gray sky that threatened rain but never delivered. Shayla sat at her desk, working through Grayson's schedule for the following week, when her own calendar reminder popped up on her screen.

**Saturday, 10:00 AM - 2:00 PM: Work from Mr. Cross's home office.**

She stared at the notification, her stomach twisting.

Tomorrow. She'd have to spend hours alone with him at his house. No office buffer, no other employees, no escape route if things got uncomfortable.

Just her. And him. And all the ghosts between them.

She'd known this was part of the job description. Had read it in the documents on her first day. But knowing something intellectually and facing it in reality were two very different things.

Shayla closed the reminder and tried to focus on the spreadsheet in front of her, but the numbers blurred together.

A couple of hours, she told herself. Just a couple of hours. You can survive anything for a couple of hours.

She glanced at the tinted glass separating her office from Grayson's, where his silhouette moved behind his desk, and exhaled slowly.

One day at a time.

That's all she had to do.

---

At 11:17 AM, Grayson's voice came through the intercom on her desk.

"Ms. Hale, can you bring me the Westfield contract? The one we revised yesterday."

"Right away, sir."

Shayla pulled the file from her organized cabinet everything labeled, color-coded, easily accessible—and walked to his office. She knocked once, heard his "Come in," and entered with the same professional composure she'd maintained all week.

Grayson was standing by the window, his back to her, hands in his pockets. The afternoon light caught the sharp line of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders beneath his perfectly tailored suit.

Shayla's heart did something stupid and painful in her chest.

She ignored it.

"The Westfield contract, Mr. Cross." She held out the file, keeping her distance, her expression neutral.

He turned, and for just a second, so brief she almost missed it, something raw flickered across his face. Then it was gone, replaced by his own professional mask.

"Thank you." He crossed the room and took the file from her, his fingers brushing hers.

Shayla pulled her hand back immediately, like she'd been burned.

If he noticed, he didn't comment.

She was about to excuse herself when her phone rang in her pocket—loud, jarring, completely inappropriate for the middle of a work interaction.

"I'm sorry, I—" She pulled it out, intending to silence it, but the name on the screen made her blood run cold.

The Bradshaw prestigious Academy 

Ayven's school.

Why were they calling?

Her professional mask cracked. Just for a second, but enough that Grayson noticed, his eyes sharpening.

"Excuse me," she said quickly, already moving toward the door.

"Take it here if you need to," Grayson said, his voice softer than she'd heard it all week.

But Shayla was already answering, her hand shaking as she lifted the phone to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Hale, this is Principal Morrison from The Bradshaw prestigious Academy. I'm calling about Ayven."

Her heart stopped. "What happened? Is he okay?"

"He's had an allergic reaction. We've administered his emergency medication, but we think it's best if he's seen by a doctor. Can you come immediately?"

The room tilted.

Allergic reaction.

Ayven.

Hospital.

"I'm on my way." Her voice didn't sound like hers. "I'm coming right now. Tell him...tell him I'm coming."

She barely registered ending the call, barely registered that she was still standing in Grayson's office, that he was watching her with growing concern.

"Hold on, sweetie," she whispered into the phone, even though the call had already disconnected. "I'm coming."

Her hands were shaking. Her breath was coming too fast. The edges of her vision were blurring with panic that she couldn't control, couldn't hide, couldn't shove back behind her professional mask.

Oh God.

Ayven.

Her baby.

"Ms. Hale—"

She spun toward Grayson, words tumbling out in a rush, professionalism forgotten in the face of her terror.

"Mr. Cross, please, I have an emergency and I really need to attend to it. I'll be gone for a couple of hours. I've sorted everything and the documents just need your signature—"

"Shayla—"

"I know I'm new, I know it's only been a week, but I have to go, I have to—"

"Are you okay?" His voice cut through her panic, quiet and genuinely concerned.

The question almost broke her.

She forced herself to breathe, to stand straight, to grab hold of whatever control she had left.

"I'm very fine, sir." The words came out clipped, defensive. "And it's Ms. Hale."

Grayson's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "You can go. Take your time."

She didn't wait for him to change his mind.

Shayla grabbed her purse and ran...actually ran out of his office, through the hallways, into the elevator. Her hands were still shaking as she jabbed the button for the ground floor.

Sweetie.

She'd called him sweetie.

In front of Grayson.

But she couldn't think about that now. Couldn't think about anything except getting to her son.

---

Behind her, in his office, Grayson stood frozen.

Sweetie.

She'd called someone sweetie.

And the panic in her voice—the raw, unfiltered terror—that wasn't about a work emergency. That was personal. Deeply personal.

Did she have a boyfriend? A lover she'd been hiding?

The thought twisted something sharp in his chest.

He moved to the window, watching as Shayla burst out of the building below, practically sprinting to the street to hail a cab. Even from twenty floors up, he could see the urgency in her movements, the way her shoulders were hunched against some invisible weight.

Whatever this emergency was, it was destroying her.

And he had no right to ask. No right to pry into her private life.

He'd considered investigating her. Had actually picked up the phone more than once over the past week, ready to call Marcus and demand answers.

But something had stopped him every time.

If she found out—if she discovered he'd invaded her privacy like that—she'd hate him even more than she already did.

And worse, she might disappear again.

He couldn't risk that.

So instead, he'd done something else.

He'd called in a favor. Had his security team discreetly keep tabs on her movements—not invasive, just... protective. Making sure she got home safely. Making sure no one bothered her.

Making sure she couldn't vanish without him knowing.

It was a violation of her privacy. He knew that. But the alternative—waking up one day to find her gone again—was unthinkable.

Grayson pulled out his phone and pulled up the contact for his head of security.

"Lucas, it's Cross. Ms. Hale just left the building in distress. Make sure she gets where she's going safely. Don't interfere, just... watch."

"Understood, sir."

He ended the call and stood there, staring out at the city, his mind racing.

Sweetie.

Who the hell was she rushing to see?

---

The hospital waiting room smelled like antiseptic and fear.

Shayla paced back and forth, her heels clicking against the linoleum, her purse clutched so tightly in her hands that her knuckles had gone white.

They'd told her Ayven was stable. That the allergic reaction had been caught in time. That he was going to be fine.

But she wouldn't believe it until she saw him.

"Ms. Hale?"

She spun around. A nurse stood in the doorway, clipboard in hand, expression kind.

"You can see him now. Room 304."

Shayla didn't walk—she ran.

Room 304 was at the end of the hallway, the door half-open. She pushed through it and found Ayven sitting up in the hospital bed, looking small and tired but blessedly, beautifully alive.

"Momma!" His face lit up when he saw her.

"Baby." She was at his side in seconds, her hands cupping his face, checking him over with the frantic energy of a mother who'd just had ten years scared off her life. "Are you okay? Does anything hurt? What happened?"

"I'm okay, Momma. I promise." Ayven's voice was hoarse but steady. "The doctors gave me medicine. I feel better now."

The doctor—a middle-aged woman with glasses and a reassuring smile—stepped forward. "He's going to be just fine, Ms. Hale. It was a reaction to peanuts. We've administered epinephrine and he's responding well. I'd like to keep him for observation for another hour, but he should be able to go home after that."

Peanuts.

Shayla's mind raced. She was always so careful. Always checked labels, always told his teachers, always made sure—

"Baby, you know you're allergic to peanuts. Why did you eat something with peanuts?"

Ayven looked down at his hands, his expression guilty. "My friend gave me a cookie. Emily. She's in my class."

"Ayven—"

"She was sad, Momma." His voice was small, defensive. "She said I'm always cold to her, that I don't talk to her. I didn't want her to more sad."

Shayla's heart cracked.

Her brilliant, too-mature, impossibly kind son had risked his health because he didn't want to hurt someone's feelings.

"Baby, I know you were trying to be nice. But you can't eat things that will hurt you, no matter how sad someone else is. You scared Momma so much."

"I'm sorry, Momma." Tears welled up in his eyes. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"I know, sweetie. I know." She pulled him into a hug, holding him tight, breathing in the familiar scent of his shampoo and feeling the steady beat of his heart against her chest.

He was okay.

Her baby was okay.

That was all that mattered.

---

By the time they got home, it was nearly 4:00 PM. Shayla had called the office and left a message with Catherine that she wouldn't be returning for the day. She'd half-expected pushback, but Catherine had simply said, "Take care of your emergency, Ms. Hale. We'll see you on Monday."

Now, Ayven was settled on the couch with a blanket and his favorite cartoon playing on the TV, looking much more like himself. Shayla had picked up his prescriptions from the pharmacy and was in the kitchen preparing dinner—something simple and safe—when she heard the front door open.

"Who's hoooome?" Ruby's voice rang out, familiar and comforting.

"Rubbeees!" Ayven called from the couch, grinning.

Ruby appeared in the kitchen doorway seconds later, her box braids pulled into a high ponytail, her expression shifting from playful to concerned the moment she saw Shayla's face.

"What happened?"

"Ayven had an allergic reaction at school," Shayla said quietly, stirring the pasta on the stove. "He's fine now. But it was... it was really scary for a while."

"Oh my God." Ruby moved to the couch, checking on Ayven herself, who immediately launched into the story with far more enthusiasm than the situation warranted.

By the time dinner was ready, Ruby had coaxed smiles out of both of them, and the three of them sat around the small dining table like they always did family, even if they weren't related by blood.

"So, big boy," Ruby said, twirling spaghetti around her fork. "You gonna stop being a heartbreaker and actually talk to this Emily girl, or what?"

Ayven made a face. "She's annoying."

"That means you like her," Ruby teased.

"I do not!"

"Do too."

"Do not!"

Shayla laughed despite herself, watching them bicker with the kind of warmth that made her chest ache.

This was her life. This was her family.

And she'd do anything to protect it.

Her phone buzzed on the table. She glanced down and saw an email notification from GC Group of Companies.

Her stomach dropped.

She picked up the phone, opened the email, and felt the color drain from her face.

**Subject: Tomorrow's Schedule**

**Ms. Hale,**

**Attached is the address for my home office, along with the access code for the gate. Please arrive at 10:00 AM. I've sent a car service to pick you up at 9:30 AM from your residence.**

**Let me know if you need anything.**

**— G. Cross**

A car service.

From her residence.

Which meant he knew where she lived.

Shayla's hands started shaking again.

"Momma, are you okay?" Ayven's voice broke through her panic.

She looked up to find both him and Ruby staring at her with concern.

"Yes, baby. Momma just has quite a bit of work to do tomorrow."

"Is your boss stressing you?" Ayven frowned, his expression far too serious for a seven-year-old. "Should I come with you to warn him?"

"Nooo!" The word came out sharper than she intended, almost a shout.

Both Ruby and Ayven blinked at her in surprise.

"I mean no, baby. That's not necessary." She forced a smile. "He's not stressing me."

"Common, big boy," Ruby said, covering for her smoothly. "Her boss wouldn't try such a thing. We'd beat him up if he did."

Ayven giggled, the tension breaking.

But Ruby's eyes stayed on Shayla, sharp and knowing.

They finished dinner with lighter conversation, and after Ayven was bathed and tucked into bed—extra kisses tonight, because Shayla couldn't help herself—Ruby cornered her in the kitchen.

"Alright, mama bear. Spill. What's going on?"

Shayla showed her the email.

Ruby read it once. Then again. Then looked up with murder in her eyes.

"He's sending a car to your house? He knows where you live?"

"Apparently."

"That's—Shayla, that's not okay. That's invasive as hell."

"I know." Shayla slumped against the counter. "But what am I supposed to do? Refuse? Quit?"

"Yes!"

"I can't, Ruby. You know I can't." She gestured toward Ayven's room. "He needs this job. We need this job."

Ruby was quiet for a long moment, her jaw tight.

"Tomorrow," she said finally. "You're going to his house. Alone."

"For a couple of hours. Just work. That's all."

"And what if he asks questions? What if he...I don't know....tries to talk about the past?"

"He won't." Shayla's voice was firm, even though she didn't believe it. "I've made it clear. Professional only. He's respected that so far."

"So far," Ruby repeated, unconvinced.

Shayla didn't have an answer for that.

Because the truth was, she didn't know what tomorrow would bring.

All she knew was that she'd be alone with Grayson Cross in his home.

And she had no idea how she was going to survive it.