Page 1 of Executive Privilege (Event Horizons Agency #1)

The presentation that was supposed to make or break my first month at Event Horizons just got hijacked—by the man whose name is on the damn building.

Nicholas Blackwood.

He’s standing at the head of the sleek glass conference table, hands tucked into the pockets of a tailored charcoal suit.

The city skyline stretches behind him through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but no one’s looking at the view.

Not when Nicholas Blackwood is in the room.

Especially not when he's looking at me the way he is now.

Cool. Controlled. Calculating. Waiting for me to back down or step up.

Guess which one I’m choosing.

“Ms. Reynolds,” he says, and his voice is low and rich. “Would you care to explain why we’re recommending a complete rebrand for Morrison Industries, when the client specifically requested campaign optimization?”

The air in the room tightens. Twelve people sit around the table—account managers, analysts, creatives. Half of them shift uncomfortably in their seats. The other half lean forward, eager for blood. I can practically hear the mental betting pool opening up.

And Nicholas? He doesn’t move. He just watches me, his dark brown eyes sharp as cut glass, waiting to see if I’ll fold under pressure.

Spoiler: I won’t.

I meet his gaze and give him a calm smile. “Because optimization assumes the foundation is solid,” I say, voice steady despite the adrenaline crackling under my skin. “Morrison’s brand identity is about as cohesive as a toddler’s finger painting. You can’t optimize broken.”

The room goes still.

Someone coughs. A stifled laugh comes from my left. I don't need to look to know who it is—Marcu, probably. He loves drama.

Nicholas’s brow arches, just a fraction, but it’s enough to register the smallest hint of something behind that impassive mask—surprise? Amusement? A flicker of interest?

“Interesting analogy,” he says. “Continue.”

The way he says it—measured, controlled, but with the barest edge of curiosity—should probably make me nervous. But it doesn’t. Not really. What it does is make my stomach twist, and not entirely from anxiety.

He’s testing me. And if there’s one thing I’m not afraid of, it’s proving someone wrong.

“Morrison Industries has been around for forty years,” I say, advancing the slide behind me.

“But their current brand ecosystem is fractured. Their logo hasn’t been updated since 1987.

Their messaging strategy contradicts itself across platforms, and their demographic analysis is based on research from before I could walk. ”

I pause, then add, “Heck, before you could walk.” I say think knowing he's likely only about five years older than me.

A few people chuckle under their breath, but I keep my eyes on Nicholas. His mouth doesn’t move, but something in his jaw flexes. He shifts slightly in his stance, his broad shoulders rolling as he crosses his arms.

I was completely myself when he interviewed me; he should have known this is what he would get with me.

He takes off his jacket and drapes it over his chair. I notice how the fabric of his shirt stretches over his chest, and his tanned, veined, strong forearms as he rolls up his sleeves. God help me.

He's buying time. Thinking it over. I wonder if he's purposely trying to distract me with his little display.

“And you determined this how?” he asks, tone clipped.

“By doing my job,” I reply, sharper than I meant to, but I don’t backpedal.

“I’ve spent every night this week reviewing market trends, sentiment data, and competitor positioning.

Morrison isn’t losing market share because their ads are bad.

They’re losing because no one under fifty knows what the hell they do anymore. ”

Another slide click. Another glance from Nicholas. That same quiet intensity, like he’s cataloging my every movement.

I'm fully aware that what I'm saying out loud in front of everyone could be career-limiting, since this account is not new to Event Horizons Marketing Agency, and the things I'm saying could easily be taken personally.

“This is Morrison compared to their top three competitors across brand recognition, consumer trust, and purchase intent,” I explain.

“They’re being crushed by companies that figured out how to talk to modern consumers while Morrison is still chasing the glory days of print ads and cheesy jingles.

I know this is the direction they gave us, but it's time we educate them, don't you think?”

Silence. Thick, humming, charged silence.

Nicholas doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. The way he watches me says enough. He’s processing. Calculating. Maybe impressed. Maybe furious. I genuinely can’t tell.

Finally, he speaks. “So your recommendation is to ignore the client’s stated request and instead tell them their entire identity is outdated and irrelevant.”

“If we truly care about them, yes,” I say, locking eyes with him. “We can give them what they asked for. Or we can give them what they need.”

Another beat of silence. Then:

“Jennifer,” he says without looking away from me, “reschedule the Morrison presentation for next week. Ms. Reynolds will need time to prepare a complete rebrand proposal.”

Wait. What?

I blink. “Sir?”

“You’ve made your case,” he says, closing the folder in front of him with a sharp snap. “Now sell it. One week. Comprehensive strategy. You’ll present to the client—and to the team.”

My pulse jumps. That’s not just pressure. That’s an open stage with all eyes on me—including his.

“One week,” I repeat, the words tasting like both victory and impending doom.

“One week,” he confirms. Then he stands—commanding, elegant, impossibly composed. “I hope your execution is as confident as your criticisms, Ms. Reynolds.”

I want to say something clever. Something sharp and dry. But all I can manage is a nod as the rest of the room begins to stir, people filing out and whispering as they go.

Angie, in her bright orange blazer, gives me an encouraging thumbs up before heading out the door.

I was just handed the biggest opportunity of my career. Or the fastest way to fail spectacularly in front of the most intimidating man I’ve ever met.

“Holy hell,” a voice says from the doorway.

I turn. Frankie, Event Horizon’s receptionist, unofficial morale officer, and gossip central, is leaning against the frame, one brow raised, lips curved into a grin.

“That was either brilliant or career suicide,” she says, stepping into the room with her very high heels and with her usual confident grace. She’s radiant in a fitted emerald dress that makes her look like she walked out of a magazine.

“I’m leaning toward career suicide,” I murmur, stuffing my laptop into my bag.

Frankie chuckles. “Trust me. Nicholas doesn’t hand out career suicide missions. If he just gave you the Morrison rebrand, it’s because he thinks you can pull it off.”

“Or because he wants to watch me implode in slow motion.”

She waves a manicured hand. “That man doesn’t do drama for fun. He does results. And you? You just made him react. I’ve seen him sit through meetings without blinking. But today? He was standing up and engaged, watching you like you were the only person in the room.”

A flutter stirs in me at that. I hate that it’s there. I hate even more that I know exactly what she means.

“I don't think it’s like that,” I say quickly.

Frankie just grins wider. “Sure, totally professional. Just a normal boss watching his new hire like she’s a riddle he can’t wait to solve. Lots of women would love to be looked at like that by him.”

I walk back through the open office, ignoring the sideways glances from coworkers who definitely heard about the meeting before I even made it back to my desk. The air hums with the kind of buzz that only comes from workplace gossip.

My desk is in the strategy cluster, near the window. I drop into my chair and power on my laptop, trying to focus on the task ahead—research, planning, presentation design.

But I feel him.

I glance across the office. His door is open. He’s back behind his desk, jacket still off, shirt sleeves still rolled to his forearms. He’s typing, brow furrowed in concentration.

Then he looks up.

And he sees me.

Just for a second. Just long enough for my breath to catch.

Then he returns to his screen.

My laptop chimes with a new email. It’s from Nicholas.

“Morrison presentation has been moved to next Friday at 2 PM. Ms. Reynolds will be presenting a comprehensive rebranding strategy. All brand team members are expected to attend.”

I stare at it for a long moment. Not because I’m surprised—he told me exactly what to expect—but because seeing it in writing makes everything real.

This is happening. He’s backing me. Publicly.

And he’s going to be watching every second.

My phone buzzes.

Emma : How’s the new job going? Please tell me you haven’t already managed to piss off your boss.

I glance at Nicholas’s office again.

Me : Too late. But I think it might be working out for me.

Because despite the high stakes, the impossible timeline, and the fact that Nicholas Blackwood is the most complex, unreadable, maddeningly attractive man I’ve ever worked for… I’m not afraid of this.

I’m ready.

I open a new document and title it: “Morrison Industries Rebrand Strategy – Confidential.”

One week to prove I belong here.

One week to figure out why my boss’s approval makes my pulse race.

One week to make sure whatever the hell just happened in that conference room happens again.