Page 3 of His to Command (Obsessed #7)

three

. . .

Robin

The executive floor is a different world. The carpet swallows sound. The lighting is soft but expensive, casting everyone in a flattering glow. Even the air feels different—filtered, rarefied, like it costs money to breathe it.

"Ms. Hastings." A tall man in an impeccable suit approaches. "I'm Gregory Reynolds, Mr. Roth's departing executive assistant. I'll be training you today."

I force a smile. "Thank you. I'm still not sure why I was selected for this position."

Gregory's expression doesn't change. "Mr. Roth's decisions aren't questioned. This way, please."

He leads me past a security checkpoint where my employee badge is replaced with a sleek black one that reads "Executive Office.

" The corridor beyond feels endless, walled in glass and chrome.

We pass conference rooms named after constellations, executive offices larger than my entire apartment, until finally arriving at double doors with no nameplate.

They don't need one. Everyone knows whose space this is.

Gregory scans his badge and the doors whisper open.

"This is the executive suite," he explains, leading me into a reception area that's bigger than the entire marketing department.

"You'll work here." He indicates a sleek desk positioned like a sentinel before another set of doors.

"Those lead to Mr. Roth's private office.

No one enters without his express permission. "

My workspace is immaculate—glass desk, ergonomic chair that probably costs more than my monthly rent, three monitors, and a tablet. It feels exposed, sitting here where everyone who visits Hudson must pass by me first.

"Your credentials have been updated in the system," Gregory continues, gesturing to the computer. "You'll handle Mr. Roth's calendar, correspondence, travel arrangements, and any personal matters he delegates to you."

I swallow hard. "Personal matters?"

Gregory's eyes flicker. "Mr. Roth values discretion above all. Whatever you see or hear in this office stays in this office."

He spends the next hour walking me through systems, protocols, security clearances. My head spins with information—Hudson's preferences, the hierarchy of who gets access to him and when, which calls to put through immediately and which to screen.

"He takes his coffee black, one sugar, at precisely 9:30 and 2:00.

Lunch is delivered from whichever restaurant he specifies that morning.

He does not like to be disturbed between 7:00 and 8:30 AM unless it's on this list of priority clients.

" Gregory hands me a leather-bound binder.

"This contains everything else you need to know. "

I flip through pages of meticulous notes. Hudson's favorite restaurants. Hudson's tailors. Hudson's exact specifications for everything from water temperature to how reports should be formatted.

"This is..." I search for a word that won't betray my panic.

"Comprehensive," Gregory supplies. "Mr. Roth expects perfection."

At 7:28, Gregory checks his watch. "He'll be here in two minutes. Remember, you don't speak unless spoken to. You don't offer opinions unless asked. You anticipate his needs before he realizes he has them." He heads for the door. "Good luck, Ms. Hastings."

And then I'm alone, perched at my new desk, waiting for the man who's turned my safe, invisible existence upside down.

At precisely 7:30, the outer doors open.

Hudson Roth strides in like he's entering a battlefield, eyes already assessing, cataloging, calculating. He wears a charcoal suit that looks painted onto his broad shoulders, a crisp white shirt, a tie the exact color of dried blood. His presence sucks the oxygen from the room.

Those steel eyes land on me, and I feel pinned like a butterfly to cork.

"Ms. Hastings." He stops before my desk, looming over me. "I see you followed instructions."

His gaze slides over my loose hair, and heat blooms across my skin. I resist the urge to gather it back, to hide behind the curtain it provides.

"Yes, sir," I manage.

"Sir." A smile plays at the corner of his mouth. "I like that."

He studies me for a long moment, gaze traveling from my face down to where my hands rest on the keyboard, then back up. Taking inventory of what he's claimed.

"Coffee," he says, then walks through the inner doors to his office without waiting for a response.

I exhale, realizing I've been holding my breath. My hands tremble as I navigate to the kitchenette Gregory showed me. Black, one sugar. Don't spill, don't spill, don't spill. The mantra repeats as I carry the steaming cup back, knocking lightly on Hudson's door.

"Enter."

His office is a minimalist cathedral to power. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a godlike view of Manhattan. His desk is a slab of black marble on steel legs. Behind it, Hudson sits reviewing something on his tablet, jacket removed, sleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms dusted with dark hair.

I place the coffee precisely at the corner of his desk, where Gregory instructed.

"Thank you, Robin."

My first name in his mouth still feels intimate, inappropriate. I murmur a response and turn to leave.

"Stay."

I freeze, my back to him.

"Turn around."

I do, clasping my hands to stop their trembling.

"You look different with your hair down."

I don't know how to respond to that. "Is it... acceptable, Mr. Roth?"

"Hudson." He takes a sip of coffee, eyes never leaving mine. "When we're alone, you call me Hudson."

My throat tightens. "I don't think that's appropriate, Mr. Roth."

"And yet it's what I want." He sets down the cup. "Come here."

I hesitate.

"That wasn't a request, Robin."

My legs carry me forward against my better judgment, until I stand before his desk, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and expensive, with notes that remind me of whiskey and leather.

"Closer."

I round the corner of the desk, stopping an arm's length away.

"Why are you afraid of me?" he asks, leaning back in his chair, studying me through half-lidded eyes.

"I'm not afraid," I lie.

"Your pulse is racing." His gaze flicks to my throat. "I can see it here." He raises a hand, and for one wild moment I think he's going to touch me, but instead he gestures to a chair. "Sit."

I perch on the edge of a leather chair, knees pressed together, wondering how this became my life so quickly.

"Tell me about yourself, Robin."

I blink in surprise. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything." The word hangs between us, heavy with implication. "But let's start with why you hide."

"Hide?" My voice catches.

"Your intelligence. Your body. Your potential." He leans forward, elbows on the desk. "You dress to be invisible, yet you're the most noticeable woman in any room."

Heat flushes my cheeks. "I dress professionally, Mr. Roth."

"Hudson," he corrects. "And professional doesn't mean shapeless. You have curves, Robin. Why conceal them?"

My mouth opens, closes. How do I explain that curves like mine have always attracted the wrong kind of attention? That I learned early that being noticed for my body meant not being taken seriously for my mind?

"I'm more comfortable this way," I finally say.

"Are you?" His voice drops lower. "Or are you just afraid of what happens when people see you? Really see you?"

Something in his tone makes my skin prickle with awareness. Like he already sees through every layer I've wrapped around myself.

"Mr. Roth—Hudson—I'm not sure what this has to do with my job."

"Everything." He stands abruptly, circling the desk until he's standing over me. I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "I don't waste resources, Robin. I saw your work. Your mind. But I also saw you. And now I want to know what else you've been hiding."

He reaches down, and this time he does touch me—one finger tracing the line of my jaw, tilting my face up. The contact sends electricity racing across my skin. I should pull away. I should stand up, walk out, report this to HR.

Instead, I sit frozen, my breath shallow, as his thumb brushes the corner of my mouth.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, almost to himself.

Then, as suddenly as he approached, he steps back. The professional mask slides back into place, but his eyes remain heated, intent.

"Your first assignment is on your tablet. I need it completed by noon."

Just like that, I'm dismissed. I rise on unsteady legs and retreat to my desk, heart hammering against my ribs.

The morning passes in a blur of actual work—scheduling meetings, reviewing contracts, fielding calls. Hudson remains in his office, emerging only for a scheduled meeting, barely glancing my way as he passes. I begin to wonder if I imagined the intensity of our earlier encounter.

Until I catch him watching me through the glass walls of his office. Not once, but repeatedly throughout the day. Every time I look up, his eyes are on me—assessing, calculating, possessing.

At lunch, he buzzes my desk. "Join me."

It's not a question. I enter his office to find food laid out on a conference table—not take-out containers but proper china, silverware, cloth napkins.

"Sit," he says, indicating the chair beside his, not across the table.

I comply, hyperaware of his proximity as he serves me—salmon, asparagus, some kind of grain I don't recognize. Our fingers brush when he hands me a water glass, and I nearly drop it.

"Tell me about the Johnson campaign," he says, cutting into his food with precise movements. "What would you have done differently?"

It's such a normal, professional question that I relax slightly, launching into my analysis of where the marketing strategy went wrong.

He listens intently, asking pointed questions that push me to elaborate, to defend my positions.

It's exhilarating, being taken seriously, having my ideas engaged with rather than dismissed.

"You're smarter than you let people know," he observes when I finish. "Why?"

I shrug, uncomfortable with the direction. "Being underestimated has its advantages."

"Not with me." His voice hardens. "I expect you to show me everything you are. No holding back."

The words carry a double meaning that makes my stomach flip.

After lunch, I return to my desk. Minutes later, my phone pings with a calendar notification—a dinner meeting at 7:00 PM. With Hudson. At his penthouse.

My head snaps up to find him watching me through the glass. He raises an eyebrow, challenging me to object.

I should say no. I should maintain boundaries. But the word "mandatory" glares from my screen, and beneath it, a note: "Car will pick you up from the office. Bring the Westfield proposal."

The afternoon crawls by. I tell myself this is normal—executives often work from home, have late meetings in private residences.

But nothing about this feels normal. Every time Hudson passes my desk, he finds a reason to touch me—a hand at the small of my back guiding me aside, fingers brushing mine as he takes a document, standing close enough that our shoulders touch as we review something on my screen.

Each contact is brief, professional on the surface, but deliberate. Testing. Pushing boundaries one millimeter at a time.

By the end of the day, my nerves are frayed, my body humming with unwanted awareness. As I gather my things to leave, Hudson emerges from his office, jacket back on, expression unreadable.

"The car will be here at 6:30," he says, stopping at my desk. "Don't be late."

"Mr. Roth," I begin, summoning courage, "I'm not comfortable with?—"

"Not comfortable with doing your job?" His voice is silk over steel. "With reviewing a crucial proposal? With earning your considerable new salary?"

Put that way, my objection sounds ridiculous, unprofessional.

"Of course not," I backpedal. "I'll be there."

Something like satisfaction flickers in his eyes. "Good girl."

The praise shouldn't affect me. It's condescending, possessive. But heat pools low in my belly, and I hate my body's betrayal.

As Hudson walks away, I realize with crystal clarity what's happening. He's watching me. Every move. Every breath. Every curve. Like a predator stalking prey.

And God help me, some dark, hidden part of me is enjoying the chase.