The morning was sharp and gray, the kind of Chicago dawn that smelled faintly of rain and exhaust fumes. From the tinted windows of his black town car, Dwayne studied the streets with the same cool detachment he brought to boardroom negotiations. People rushed past in coats and scarves, coffee cups clutched like lifelines. To Dwayne, they were background noise—necessary but insignificant, cogs in the city's relentless machine.
He leaned back, scrolling through his phone, catching up on overnight reports from Asia and Europe. Every minute of his morning was regimented: a review of markets, a glance at overnight campaign data, a quick scan of social media trends. Control was everything. Order was everything.
But as the car slowed near Clark Street, something pulled his attention away from his screen.
At first, he didn't register what he was seeing. Just another sidewalk café, just another pair of people talking too close. But then recognition slammed into him.
Courtney.
She was standing under the awning of a coffee shop, hair tucked into a neat bun, a paper cup in her hands. She was dressed simply—gray coat, tailored slacks—but she glowed in a way that made the morning seem less bleak. Dwayne's eyes narrowed. It wasn't her presence there that bothered him. It was the man beside her.
Tall. Expensively dressed. Familiar.
Ethan.
Dwayne's jaw tightened, his hand curling into a fist against his thigh. He knew the type instantly—the polished smile, the watch that screamed old money, the casual arrogance in the way he leaned toward Courtney. He wasn't just talking to her. He was occupying her space, standing closer than any man should.
And Courtney… was she smiling?
Dwayne leaned forward, the leather seat creaking. "Slow down," he snapped at his driver.
The car rolled to a crawl. From here, Dwayne had a clear view of them. Courtney laughed softly at something Ethan said. Her laugh carried over the street noise, warm and unguarded. Then Ethan leaned in even closer, his hand brushing against her arm. For one wild second, Dwayne thought he was about to kiss her.
Heat surged through him, hot and bitter.
"Sir?" the driver asked nervously, sensing the sudden change in atmosphere.
"Keep going," Dwayne ground out, his voice like gravel.
The car accelerated, but Dwayne's gaze lingered on the shrinking image of Courtney and Ethan, locked in their little world outside that café.
He told himself it didn't matter. Courtney was his assistant, nothing more. He had employed her to keep her under his thumb, to remind her who held the power. She was ambitious, too ambitious, and putting her in a subordinate role was his way of cutting her down to size.
So why the hell did the sight of her with another man make his chest burn?
Inside Empire Tower, the Empire Brands headquarters, Dwayne's mood soured further. He strode across the marble lobby, his tailored coat sweeping behind him like a cloak of authority. People scattered in his path; employees knew better than to engage when his expression was like this.
By the time he reached his office on the top floor, his temper was a low, simmering fire.
Courtney was already there, efficient as always. She stood by his desk, setting down neatly organized files, her hair catching the light streaming from the floor-to-ceiling windows. She looked up as he entered, her lips parting slightly in a smile.
"Good morning, Mr. Knight," she said.
Her voice was polite, professional, exactly as it should be. But to Dwayne, it was laced with mockery, with deception. He saw her smile, remembered how she'd smiled at Ethan.
"Morning," he said curtly, brushing past her and tossing his coat onto the rack. He didn't look at her again as he sat behind his desk, powering up his computer.
Courtney blinked at the iciness in his tone. "I've prepared the briefs for the Blackwood campaign. Would you like me to—"
"Leave them," he interrupted sharply. "I'll review them later."
She hesitated, clearly sensing his mood. "Is everything all right?"
Dwayne's head snapped up, his eyes cold. "Do I look like I need a personal check-in, Miss Taylor?"
Color rose to her cheeks, but she kept her composure. "No, sir."
"Good. Then stop wasting time."
Courtney's lips pressed into a thin line. She set the files down carefully and retreated to her desk outside his office, shoulders tight. Dwayne watched her go, his jaw clenched.
Why did it bother him that she looked… hurt? He should've been satisfied. This was how it was supposed to be: control reasserted, distance maintained. Yet all he could see in his mind's eye was her standing on that sidewalk with Ethan, laughing.
The rest of the morning was a blur of meetings and phone calls, but Dwayne couldn't focus. Every time Courtney entered the room, every time her voice cut through the air, his attention snagged. She carried herself with quiet strength, never shrinking, never faltering—even when he cut her off, even when he dismissed her contributions.
But what was she hiding?
At lunch, Dwayne retreated to his private dining space adjacent to his office. He stood by the window overlooking the river, his reflection staring back at him in the glass. His mind replayed the café scene on an endless loop.
He knew Ethan now. A quick search had filled in the gaps—Ethan Cole, son of a mid-tier investment banker, known in certain circles for his charm and opportunism. They had crossed paths at charity functions years ago. Dwayne had dismissed him then as irrelevant. But now…
Now Ethan had positioned himself too close to Courtney.
Dwayne didn't like it. Not because she was important to him, of course not. She was an assistant, an employee. But because she was part of his world now. And no one encroached on what belonged to him.
That afternoon, a minor scheduling conflict gave Dwayne the excuse to lash out.
"Miss Taylor," he called sharply as she passed his door.
She appeared instantly, notebook in hand. "Yes, Mr. Knight?"
"You've double-booked my two o'clock," he said, holding up his calendar.
Her brows furrowed. "That's not possible. I confirmed both appointments—"
"Then explain why they're both showing up at the same time." His voice was ice.
Courtney stepped forward, scanning the screen. "That's a system error. If you look here—"
"Do not make excuses," Dwayne cut her off. "Your job is to ensure these things don't happen. If you can't handle that, perhaps you're not as capable as you claim to be."
Her throat worked as she swallowed her frustration. "Understood, sir."
Dwayne leaned back, studying her face. She was too composed, too calm. Was that guilt in her eyes? Or defiance? He couldn't tell. But either way, it infuriated him.
When she turned to leave, he said, almost casually, "By the way. Enjoy your coffee this morning?"
Courtney froze, her hand tightening on the notebook. Slowly, she turned back to him. "Excuse me?"
"The man at the café. Ethan Cole, isn't it?" His voice was deceptively smooth. "Old flame?"
Courtney's eyes widened briefly, then narrowed. "That's none of your business."
"Everything that touches Empire Brands is my business," Dwayne said coldly. "And while you're employed here, your associations reflect on me. Keep that in mind."
Her face flushed, anger sparking in her gaze. But she didn't reply. Instead, she turned sharply and walked out, her heels clicking against the polished floor.
Dwayne watched her go, something twisted and unnamable coiling in his chest. He told himself it was disgust. Disappointment. But deep down, he knew it was something else—something far more dangerous.
That night, long after most of the building had emptied, Dwayne remained in his office. The city glittered below, lights reflecting off the dark river. He stood at the window, whiskey glass in hand, but the burn of alcohol did nothing to ease the fire inside him.
He told himself it didn't matter who Courtney saw. He told himself he didn't care.
But the truth gnawed at him.
The image of her laughing with Ethan would not leave his mind. And for the first time in years, Dwayne Knight—CEO, powerbroker, heir to the Knight dynasty—felt something dangerously close to jealousy.
And he hated it.