The Desk of Deceit
The travel from The Grindstone Café (public coffee spot) to CEO’s corner office (office desk) consumed the next hour. Headlights cut cold through the gathering dusk.
The corner office on the forty-seventh floor smelled of leather, old money, and the faint chemical bite of fresh toner. Sofia Holloway stood at the mahogany desk that had once belonged to her father, her hands pressed flat against the polished surface as if she could absorb its history through her palms.
She couldn’t.
The nameplate had been changed that morning. *Sofia Holloway, Executive Assistant to the CEO*. A gilded cage with a view of the city skyline.
The intercom buzzed. She didn’t move.
“Miss Holloway.” Rowan’s voice came through the speaker, clipped and precise. “My ten o’clock is here. Bring the Pemberton file.”
She found her reflection in the dark glass of the window. Dark circles. Hair pulled back so tight it pulled at her temples. She looked like a woman braced for impact.
Because she was.
—
The Pemberton file weighed nothing. Four sheets of paper, corporate summaries, quarterly projections, and a thin manila folder that contained everything and nothing about the family that had circled her father’s company like vultures for the past decade.
Sofia walked the length of the hall, her heels silent on the thick carpet. She’d learned to move quietly in this building. Invisible. It was the only way to survive.
Rowan’s office door was open. He stood by the window, hands in his pockets, the morning light catching the silver in his dark hair. He was thirty-four, three years older than the last time she’d seen him, and age had only sharpened the angles of his face. Made him harder. More unreadable.
Across from his desk, Beckett Pemberton sat with his legs crossed, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He was thirty-one, two years older than Sofia, and he wore his arrogance like cologne—thick enough to choke on.
“Miss Holloway.” Beckett’s voice slid across the room like oil. “I see you’ve landed on your feet. How… industrious.”
She placed the file on Rowan’s desk, careful not to let her fingers brush the edge. “The quarterly projections are in the back. Page three has the breakdown on the Hudson development.”
Rowan didn’t turn around. “Leave it.”
She should have left. Her feet wouldn’t move.
“I said leave it, Sofia.”
The use of her first name hit like a slap. She turned and walked out, her spine straight, her hands steady. She made it to the break room before she let herself breathe.
—
The break room was empty. A coffee machine hissed on the counter. Sofia pressed her palms against the cool tile wall and counted backward from ten.
*Jace is safe. Jace is at school. Jace is safe.*
She’d enrolled him at a private academy on the other side of the city. A forty-five minute commute each way, but worth it to keep him far from the Pembertons. Far from Rowan. Far from the truth that could destroy everything.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Petra: *Drop-off went fine. He asked when you’d come home. I said soon. You owe me dinner.*
Sofia typed back: *Dinner and dessert. Thank you.*
She pocketed the phone and walked back to her desk.
The day passed in a blur of phone calls, scheduling conflicts, and the constant low hum of anxiety that had become her baseline. She avoided Rowan’s office. Avoided the glass walls that made the executive floor feel like a fishbowl. She kept her head down and her voice low and pretended she was just another assistant, just another face in the crowd.
By seven o’clock, the office had emptied. The cleaning crew moved through the halls with their vacuums and carts, faceless and efficient. Sofia stayed at her desk, sorting through a stack of contracts that needed Rowan’s signature before the morning.
She didn’t hear him approach.
“Sofia.”
She looked up. Rowan stood in the doorway of his office, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked tired. Human.
“Come here.”
She stood. Walked to his office. Stopped at the threshold.
“Close the door.”
She closed it.
Rowan sat on the edge of his desk, his hands gripping the wood on either side of his thighs. He was looking at her the way he’d looked at her eight years ago—like he was trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces.
“The Pembertons are pushing for a hostile takeover,” he said. “They’ve been buying up shares from the board members one by one. They’re two signatures away from controlling a majority.”
Sofia’s stomach dropped. “When?”
“Three months. Maybe less.” He picked up a pen from his desk, turned it over in his fingers. “Your father left a mess, Sofia. And now I’m supposed to clean it up.”
“Don’t.”
His eyes snapped to hers. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t make this about him.” She heard her voice crack and forced it steady. “He’s dead. He can’t defend himself.”
“I’m not attacking him.” Rowan set the pen down, careful, deliberate. “I’m stating a fact. He leveraged this company to the hilt trying to outrun the Pembertons. He lost. And now I’m holding the bag.”
“You don’t have to hold it.”
“Yes, I do.” He stood, closed the distance between them. “Because I’m the one who bought the company from the bank after he died. I’m the one who restructured the debt. I’m the one who kept it from being dismantled and sold for scrap.” He stopped an arm’s length away. “I’m the one who hired you without asking questions.”
Sofia’s throat tightened. “Then ask them.”
“Who sent the letter?”
“I told you. I don’t know.”
“Liar.”
The word hung between them, heavy and sharp.
“You’ve always been a bad liar, Sofia. Your left eye twitches when you’re hiding something.” He stepped closer. “Who sent it?”
“Someone who wants to hurt you.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“Then fire me.”
The silence stretched. The clock on the wall ticked. The city hummed below them.
“I’m not going to fire you,” Rowan said, his voice dropping to a register that made her chest ache. “I’m going to find out what you’re hiding. And when I do, I’m going to decide what to do about it.”
He turned and walked back to his desk. Dismissed.
Sofia stood frozen for three full seconds, then left the office.
—
She worked until midnight.
The contracts were signed, the emails were sorted, the calendar was set for the next week. She’d done everything she could to make herself indispensable, to give him no reason to dig deeper.
At 12:15, she opened her bottom desk drawer to retrieve her purse.
The drawing was there.
A crayon rendering on cheap construction paper. A stick figure woman with long brown hair holding hands with a stick figure man with dark hair. Between them, a smaller stick figure with messy black hair and a smile that took up half his face.
At the top, in wobbly eight-year-old handwriting: *My Family.*
Her hand shook as she reached for it.
Jace had drawn this last week. She’d told him to keep it at home. He must have slipped it into her bag when she wasn’t looking.
“Nice art.”
The voice came from behind her.
Sofia spun, shoving the drawing into her pocket.
Beckett Pemberton stood in the doorway of the executive assistant’s cubicle, hands in his pockets, that smile still playing on his lips.
“Last I checked,” she said, “you were shown out at five.”
“Last I checked, I own fifteen percent of this company.” Beckett stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the desk, the computer, the half-empty coffee cup. “That gives me after-hours access.”
“To the building. Not to my workspace.”
“Your workspace is the company’s workspace.” He stopped in front of her desk, picked up a pen and examined it. “You know, I always wondered what happened to you. After your father’s empire crumbled. I figured you’d slink off to some hole and disappear.” He set the pen down. “But here you are. Working for the man who bought your birthright.”
“He didn’t buy—”
“Didn’t he?” Beckett’s smile widened. “Funny how things work out. One day you’re an heiress, the next you’re fetching coffee.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I wonder what else you’re fetching for him.”
Sofia’s hand found the edge of the desk. “Get out.”
“Or what? You’ll call security?” He laughed, a soft sound. “Knowing Owen, he’s probably asleep at his desk. But go ahead. Try.”
She didn’t move.
Beckett straightened, adjusted his jacket, and walked to the door. “I’ll see you at the board meeting next week, Miss Holloway. Do try to look professional.”
He left.
Sofia stood there, her heart hammering, her hand still pressed against the desk. She waited until she heard the elevator doors close before she pulled the drawing from her pocket and stared at it.
*My Family.*
She folded it carefully and tucked it into her bag. Then she gathered her things and walked to the elevator, her footsteps echoing in the empty hall.
—
The elevator ride was a blur. The lobby was empty. The security guard at the front desk barely looked up as she passed.
Outside, the city air was cold and sharp. Sofia pulled her coat tighter and walked to the subway entrance, her eyes scanning the street out of habit. No familiar cars. No shadows that didn’t belong.
She descended the stairs and caught the last train heading uptown.
At 1:15 AM, she let herself into the two-bedroom apartment she shared with Petra. The lights were off. A note on the counter: *Jace is asleep. He had a nightmare. I told him you’d be home soon. – P.*
Sofia set down her bag and walked to the second bedroom. She cracked the door open.
Jace lay on his side, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his small chest rising and falling in the rhythm of sleep. He clutched a stuffed dinosaur, the same one she’d bought him three years ago for his fifth birthday.
He looked so much like Rowan that it hurt to look at him.
She closed the door and leaned against the wall, pressing her hand to her mouth.
*How long can I keep this up?*
—
The next morning, Sofia arrived at the office at 6:30 AM. She needed to get ahead of the day, to bury herself in work so deep that she couldn’t think about crayon drawings or board meetings or the way Beckett Pemberton’s smile made her skin crawl.
She keyed into the executive floor.
The lights were on.
Rowan sat at his desk, a stack of papers in front of him, a cup of coffee steaming at his elbow. He looked up when she entered, his eyes tracking her movement as she walked to her cubicle.
“You’re early,” he said.
“So are you.”
“I never left.”
She stopped. Turned. “You stayed all night?”
“Someone had to clean up the mess.” He stood, walked to the door of his office. “There’s fresh coffee in the break room. You look like you need it.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” He disappeared back into his office.
Sofia stood there, the words hanging in the air. Then she walked to her desk, pulled open the bottom drawer to grab a notebook.
The drawing was there.
She’d put it in her bag. She was sure she’d put it in her bag.
She pulled out the folded construction paper and stared at it.
*My Family.*
How—
“Found something interesting?”
The voice was behind her.
Sofia spun.
Rowan stood two feet away, a manila envelope in his hand, his eyes fixed on the drawing in her grip.
“Sofia.” His voice was quiet. “What is that?”
“Nothing.” She folded it and shoved it in her pocket. “A colleague’s kid. Left it here.”
“Let me see it.”
“It’s not—”
“Let me see it.”
She didn’t move.
Rowan stepped closer, his hand extended. “I’m not asking, Sofia.”
“I said it’s nothing.”
“Then you won’t mind showing me.”
The air between them thickened. The clock on the wall ticked. The city below hummed with the sound of traffic, of life moving on without them.
Rowan’s eyes lifted from the paper. They found Sofia in the shadows, pinned her against the wall with their weight. “Who sent this, Sofia?” His voice was quiet. Dangerously quiet. The kind of quiet that came before buildings fell. “And who the hell is my son?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it.
“The drawing,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I saw it. A woman, a man, and a boy. The boy has my hair. My jaw. My eyes.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Don’t.” The word cut through the air. “Don’t lie to me. Not now.”
The drawing was a weight in her pocket. A bomb waiting to detonate.
“Rowan—”
“He has my last name?”
“No.”
“What does he have?”
She closed her eyes. “Your laugh.”
The silence stretched. Cracked.
Rowan spins Sofia around, holding the drawing: “Is this a joke? Explain. Now.” Before she can answer, Owen bursts in: “Sir, we have a situation. Pemberton drones four hundred yards from your son’s school.” Rowan freezes: “My… son? Jace.”