Page 2 of His to Command (Obsessed #7)

two

. . .

Hudson

I'm bored. Board meetings, quarterly reports, acquisition strategies—the same tedious cycle.

I built this empire from nothing, turned it into a billion-dollar monolith, and now I'm trapped in its clockwork.

Nothing surprises me anymore. Nothing challenges me.

I make decisions that ruin or elevate lives before my morning coffee, and I feel nothing but the dull satisfaction of efficiency.

Then I walk into the marketing department meeting, and everything changes in a single glance.

The day starts like any other. My penthouse suite offers a view of New York City that most people only see in movies—a sprawl of concrete and ambition spread out beneath me.

I own a significant chunk of it. From my bedroom window, I can see three buildings with my name emblazoned on them in steel letters.

Hudson Roth. A name that opens doors, closes deals, makes lesser men quake.

My morning routine is precisely timed. Workout: 5:00 to 6:00.

Shower: 6:00 to 6:15. Breakfast and news briefing: 6:15 to 7:00.

Car arrives at 7:10. I'm in my office by 7:30, reviewing the day's agenda while my assistant—a forgettable man whose efficiency is his only memorable trait—briefs me on any overnight developments.

This morning, there's a marketing report on my desk.

The Johnson campaign. Numbers well below projections, despite a substantial investment.

I scan the pages, noting the careful analysis, the projections, the recommendations.

A waste of paper. The problem is obvious—the campaign lacks focus, tries to appeal to too broad an audience.

Basic marketing principles being ignored by people I pay too much money.

"Schedule a meeting with Marketing. Today." I don't look up as I give the order.

"Sir, your schedule is?—"

"Clear it."

He hesitates only a moment before nodding. "Yes, Mr. Roth."

By nine, I'm striding toward the elevator that will take me down to the marketing floor.

I rarely venture from the executive levels.

My presence causes disruption—people straightening, voices lowering, the entire atmosphere shifting to accommodate my status.

It's tedious but occasionally necessary.

Sometimes fear is the most effective motivator.

The elevator doors slide open silently, and I step onto the marketing floor. Glass partitions, open workspaces, the buzz of activity that falters as heads turn, registering my presence. I don't acknowledge any of them as I head directly to the conference room where the meeting has been arranged.

I pause at the threshold, observing before entering. Twenty or so employees arranged around a glass table, clutching their devices and papers like talismans against corporate wrath. I scan their faces—some familiar, most not. It doesn't matter. They're interchangeable parts in my machine.

I enter, and the room freezes. "The Johnson campaign," I say without preamble. "Someone explain to me why we're twenty percent below projections."

The VP of Marketing—Peterson? Patterson?

—launches into an explanation that sounds like excuses wrapped in jargon.

I half-listen, circling the table slowly, a deliberate power move that reminds everyone whose room this is.

I ask pointed questions, watch people squirm.

This is when I feel most alive—in control, unchallenged, absolute.

That's when I see her.

She's sitting near the back, head bent over a notepad, a cascade of dark hair falling from a severe bun. Not looking at me like everyone else, not trying to catch my eye to seem engaged. Just writing, focused, separate from the tension in the room.

I continue speaking, redirecting a question about market segmentation, but my eyes stay fixed on her.

Something about the curve of her neck, the way her teeth worry at her full bottom lip as she concentrates.

She's dressed in clothes meant to diminish—a boxy blouse buttoned to her throat, a skirt that hints at curves she's trying to hide.

It has the opposite effect. I want to see what she's concealing.

She finally looks up, perhaps sensing my attention, and our eyes lock. Hazel with gold flecks, widening behind practical glasses. Her cheeks flush a deep pink that spreads down her neck, disappearing beneath her buttoned collar, and I find myself wondering how far down that blush extends.

Something shifts in my chest. A tightening. A recognition I've never felt before.

Mine.

The thought is so immediate, so primitive, that it startles me. I've never looked at a woman and thought that before. I've wanted women, taken women, discarded women when I grew bored. But this—this instantaneous claim staking—is new.

I continue leading the meeting on autopilot, my mind now working on two tracks. On one, I'm dismantling the marketing team's strategy, pointing out flaws, demanding solutions. On the other, I'm studying her.

She doesn't speak during the meeting, but her body communicates volumes.

The way she shifts in her seat when I look at her too long.

The subtle crossing and uncrossing of legs beneath the table.

The nervous habit of tucking escaped strands of hair behind her ear.

Each movement tells me she feels this too, this unexpected current between us.

I need to know her name.

As the meeting concludes, I position myself near the door. People file past, eyes down, eager to escape. I scan their badges as they pass. Then she approaches, clutching a portfolio to her chest like armor.

Robin Hastings. Marketing Assistant.

"Ms. Hastings." I keep my voice neutral, professional.

She freezes, looking up at me with those remarkable eyes. "Y-yes, Mr. Roth?"

"Good work on the demographics section of the Johnson report. The only part that made sense." It's true—her analysis was clean, thorough, intelligent. But that's not why I'm singling her out.

"Thank you," she says, her voice soft but not weak.

I step aside, forcing her to walk close to me to exit. She smells like vanilla and something uniquely feminine that makes my pulse quicken. My eyes track her body as she passes—the curves she tries to hide evident despite her efforts.

"Have a good day, Robin," I say, deliberately using her first name, watching her reaction.

She hurries away without looking back, but the flush on her neck tells me everything I need to know.

Back in my office, I call in my assistant.

"Find out everything about Robin Hastings in Marketing."

"Sir?"

"Everything. Her file, her performance reviews, her education, her current projects. I want it all within the hour."

He nods, knows better than to ask why. Within forty-five minutes, a folder appears on my desk. I open it immediately.

Robin Hastings. Twenty-five. Bachelor's in Marketing from NYU, graduated with honors.

Hired two years ago. Performance reviews consistently above average but not outstanding enough to fast-track her career.

Lives alone in a one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn.

Unmarried. No workplace relationships noted.

Unremarkable on paper. But I saw something in that conference room—intelligence, yes, but also a hidden fire behind that professional facade. Something that connects directly to a primal part of me I didn't know existed.

I pick up my phone. "Send Robin Hastings from Marketing to my office. Now."

Twenty minutes later, there's a tentative knock at my door.

"Enter."

She steps in, clutching that same portfolio, her eyes wide and uncertain behind her glasses. Up close, in the privacy of my office, I can see her more clearly. Her lips are fuller than I realized, her face heart-shaped, her figure more generous than her conservative clothes attempt to disguise.

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Roth?"

I lean back in my chair, deliberately making her wait as I study her. Power dynamics established from the beginning.

"Sit down, Ms. Hastings."

She perches on the edge of the chair across from my desk, spine straight, knees pressed together. Proper. Controlled. I wonder what it would take to make her lose that control.

"I've been reviewing your work," I say finally. "You're wasted in the general marketing pool."

Confusion crosses her face. "I—thank you?"

"It wasn't a compliment. It was an observation." I stand, moving around my desk to lean against the front of it, now looming over her seated form. "My assistant is taking a leave of absence. Family matter. I need a replacement."

Her eyes widen. "I don't understand."

"It's a simple proposition, Ms. Hastings. I'm reassigning you as my personal assistant, effective immediately."

"But I'm not—I don't have experience as an executive assistant. I'm a marketing analyst."

"You're what I say you are." The words come out harsher than intended, but I don't soften them. "Your analytical skills are precisely what I need. This is a promotion, Robin. Your salary will be doubled."

She blinks rapidly, processing. "Mr. Roth, I appreciate the offer, but I'm in the middle of several marketing projects that?—"

"They'll be reassigned."

"But—"

"This isn't a negotiation." I step closer, watching her shrink slightly in her chair. "I need someone with your attention to detail. Someone who sees patterns others miss."

Someone I can keep close, keep watching, keep wanting until I figure out why I want her so badly.

She swallows, her throat working in a way that makes me want to trace it with my fingers, my mouth. "May I ask how long this assignment will last?"

"Indefinitely." I return to my chair, putting the desk between us again, giving her space to breathe. "You'll start tomorrow. My assistant will email you the details of your new responsibilities and compensation package."

She sits there, stunned, her fingers gripping the arms of the chair. "Mr. Roth, I don't think?—"

"That will be all, Ms. Hastings." I look down at the papers on my desk, dismissing her.

She doesn't move immediately, and I can feel her gathering courage. "Mr. Roth, I really must insist?—"

I look up, fixing her with the stare that has made CEOs of rival companies back down. "Are you refusing a direct order from your CEO, Ms. Hastings?"

Her flush deepens, but there's a flash of something in her eyes—not just fear, but a spark of defiance quickly suppressed. Interesting.

"No, sir," she says finally, standing. "I'll report tomorrow morning."

"Seven-thirty. Don't be late."

She nods stiffly and turns to leave.

"And Robin?" I call as she reaches the door.

She looks back, her hand on the doorknob.

"Wear your hair down tomorrow. That bun gives me a headache."

Her mouth opens slightly in shock, then closes. Without another word, she slips out the door, closing it softly behind her.

I lean back in my chair, a smile playing at my lips. For the first time in years, I feel something other than boredom or irritation. Something hot and restless and hungry.

This is just the beginning. Robin Hastings doesn't know it yet, but she's already mine. It's only a matter of time before she realizes it too.