003

Kehlani'sPOV

Working under Chase Ledger wasn’t a job, it was survival.

From the very first day, I realized that the man didn’t believe in good mornings or how was your weekend? He believed in efficiency, deadlines, and results. 

Every word that came out of his mouth was clipped and precise, like his sentences were timed to the exact second it would take to convey the message and move on.

He didn’t raise his voice often. He didn’t have to as the silence between his words was enough to make even the boldest intern tremble.

My first week felt like I was walking on glass. The man had a memory sharper than a blade and eyes that saw everything. 

If I hesitated while typing an email, he would glance up and say, “You’re spelling something wrong.” And nine out of ten times, he was right.

Every mistake I made was amplified under his scrutiny. If I sent a file two minutes late, he would arch a brow. 

If I forgot to copy the right executive in an email, he would say, “Try again.” No anger, no shouting, just a look that made me want to crawl into the nearest printer and disappear.

But I refused to crumble because if there was one thing about me Chase Ledger didn’t know, it was that I didn’t break easily.

Weeks passed, and I found myself learning his rhythm, the way he liked his coffee, how he never used paperclips because he claimed they bend documents and how he somehow always knew when someone was lying.

Everyone in the company feared him, even the board members. 

But there was something about the way he carried himself, the way his authority filled a room without him even trying. 

Sometimes, I caught myself watching him longer than I should. His sharp jawline, the faint veins on his wrist as he typed and the way his voice dropped when he was deep in thought.

 And then I would remember the champagne and the fact that I worked for him now.

Embarrassed, I would quickly snap back to my keyboard with burning cheeks. 

That morning, it was barely 8:00 a.m. when he walked into my office. I was still reviewing a report from the finance team when he placed a folder on my desk without a word.

“Miss Beckham .” He called and I looked up instantly. 

He didn't wait for a response before he tapped the folder. “This report was due an hour ago.”

“I think there is a misunderstanding here. You sent the email asking for an update at seven thirty, it’s eight now.”

His blue eyes flickered with something like annoyance or amusement but I couldn't tell. 

“Are you suggesting I made a mistake?”

“I’m saying, sir, that if we’re going by timestamps… yes, it seems that way.” I retorted and the silence that followed could have frozen fire.

Chase studied me for a long, unnerving moment. Then, almost lazily, he said, “Noted.”

Fast forward to that afternoon after back to back meetings and a spreadsheet that made my brain want to leak out of my ears, my contact lenses decided to betray me.

At first, it was just a mild dryness. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and told myself I could make it through another hour but soon, my vision blurred. 

The words on the screen began to swim, morphing into something unreadable. My eyes burned, and everything turned fuzzy.

“Oh no, not now.” I groaned. 

I blinked harder, tried to keep typing, but the lines of text refused to stay still. I could barely see the keyboard.

“Miss Beckham ...” he didn't finish what he wanted to say and when I raised my head wondering why there was a break, I saw a tall figure in an expensive suit.  

No matter how I tried, I couldn't see him clearly. 

Pretending like everything was fine, I cleared my throat, “I will fix it." 

“How is that going to happen when you can't see?" He asked like I had told him about it. 

“What are you talking about?" I asked, feigning not to know what he was talking about. 

“Your eyes, what's wrong with them?”

“I… uh… nothing,” I stammered. “Just tired, sir.”

“You’ve been blinking at your screen for the last two minutes,” he said flatly. “You can’t see.”

“I can see,” I lied but he didn't buy it. 

Placing his full weight on the table, he said, “You’re lying.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but then my eyes betrayed me again. They suddenly started watering uncontrollably. I fumbled for a tissue, but my hand hit the stapler instead. 

“You ran out of lenses,” he said and as if he could read through me, he added, "Don't even ask how I found out, you've been under my reins for two months.” 

“Yes, I forgot to reorder last week.” There was no point arguing as my so-called secret was not a secret anymore. 

He didn’t say another word, just turned and walked out.

Unsure of what to do, I just sat there trying not to cry. I had probably just confirmed every suspicion he had that I was a walking disaster.

In silence, I started preparing myself for the email that would say my services are no longer required. 

But then, the door opened up again. Though I couldn't see him clearly as he was standing by the door, his cologne was enough to give him out. 

When he got to my table, he placed a small white paper bag on the table. 

“Take them out, or you’ll damage your corneas,” he said, pulling something small from the white paper bag.

He moved around the desk until he was standing right in front of me, sleeves rolled up and that cool authority radiating off him.

“I can’t… they’re stuck.” I swallowed.

“Then stop blinking.” 

Before I could react, he crouched slightly, one hand braced on my chair and the other lifting to my face. 

 His thumb brushed my lower eyelid in a steady and deliberate motion. The heat of his touch made my breath catch.

“Look at me.” I did but my pulse was hammering.

A second later, he removed the old lens with a surgical precision, tossed it aside and picked up the new one.

“Don’t move,” he said, holding my chin tenderly. At that moment, I forgot how to breathe.

When he was done, he leaned back, studying me. “Better?”

“Y… Yes,” I whispered.

“Good.” He straightened, brushing his cuff. “You should see the optician now, my driver will take you.”

Still stunned, I blinked, “You didn’t have to…”

“Don't tell me you think I'm being nice." He huffed, pushing himself up. “I did what I did because I hate labor court battles even though I’m going to win the case.” 

 I was going to snap at him but his ringing phone didn't let me. 

With his phone pressed against his ear, he said, “Send him over, I will try not to spill his blood." 

Trying to wrap my head around what I had just heard, he whipped his head in my direction, "You didn't hear that,” he said and then he was gone. 

Pursing my lips, I watched as he slid out of the office, shutting the door gently behind him. 

“Get a grip of yourself, that wasn't meant for you." I chided myself, trying to steer myself back to work but my thoughts wouldn't stay in one place. 

Grabbing the arm of the chair, I pushed myself up and that instant, the door flung open.