In His Grip

The room hung in silence for a heartbeat too long, the weight of Alan Royce’s voice still lingering like a storm cloud. I could feel the eyes of the room on me, each gaze a dagger, but none sharper than hers.

Sophia Morgan.

She sat just to Alan’s left, poised like a queen guarding her throne. Her piercing brown eyes darted between Alan and me, narrowing as they caught the lingering trail of his gaze on me.

“Well,” she said, her lips curving into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “It seems our new intern is quite determined to make an impression. Bold of you to interrupt, Christa. Or was it just…careless?”

The soft murmur of papers rustling and chairs creaking filled the uneasy silence that followed. A few executives exchanged wary glances, their discomfort palpable.

My throat tightened. “I didn’t mean to interrupt…”

Sophia’s laugh cut through the air, sharp and mocking. “And now you’re here. Delivering…files.” Her gaze swept over me, appraising. “How ambitious.”

“Sophia.”

James Parker’s voice interrupted her venomous tirade. “That’s enough. She’s clearly new here. There’s no need to make a spectacle.”

Sophia’s smile didn’t waver, but her eyes flashed with irritation. “A spectacle? I’m simply stating the obvious. Some people overestimate their position. Tricks won’t work here, not at this level.”

The sting of her words hit harder than I expected, and I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks. My hands clenched into fists at my sides as I forced myself to stay silent.

Alan Royce finally moved. His head tilted slightly, dark eyes flicking to Sophia with a cool detachment that silenced her in an instant.

“She stays.”

Two simple words.

The atmosphere crackled with tension. Papers rustled nervously, and the faint hum of the projector seemed louder in the stillness.

Sophia’s lips parted, “But Alan—”

“Enough.”

Alan’s voice was quiet but absolute, leaving no room for argument.

Sophia froze, hands curling into fists in her lap. Her perfect smile slipped, replaced by a tight line of barely concealed frustration.

James, however, offered me a slight nod and a reassuring smile.

“Miss Hayes.” Alan’s voice pulled me back, his gaze cutting through the room to meet mine again. “You’ll stay and take notes for the remainder of the meeting. I expect a summary on my desk by the end of the conference.”

Stay? Take notes?

For a moment, I couldn’t process the words. Sophia’s head snapped up, her disbelief palpable. Around the room, others exchanged glances, startled. I caught snippets of their hushed whispers: “He’s never done this before…” “She’s just an intern…” “Why her?”

The weight of their scrutiny pressed on me, but none of it compared to the icy glare of Sophia.

“Alan, surely you don’t mean—”

“I don’t repeat myself,” he interrupted, his gaze still locked on mine. His tone was even, but carried the weight of finality.

I nodded quickly, “Yes, Mr. Royce.”

Sophia’s lips pressed into a thin line, her knuckles whitening as she gripped her pen. She didn’t speak again, instead, she glanced my way, eyes filled with a dark emotion that I couldn’t quite grasp.

The meeting resumed, I slid into a seat at the far end of the table, my pen poised to take notes. I dared to glance at Alan, who was already focused on the agenda, his profile sharp against the soft glow of the projector light.

He wasn’t looking at me anymore.

But somehow, I could still feel him—his presence, his control—like gravity itself had shifted to center on him.

Rumors about Alan Royce had swirled ever since I’d started here. A man of exacting standards and unrelenting control, he was said to have no tolerance for mistakes. Yet here I was—not only forgiven but given a task directly from him.

Why?

Why me? Was it a test? A punishment? Or something else entirely?

I lowered my eyes, clutching my pen tightly as I tried my best to focus on the notes I was meant to take.

The meeting continued, each slide projected onto the screen showcasing the immense scope and ambition of Royce Group’s projects. Words like “global dominance” and “unparalleled innovation” floated through the room.

I scribbled notes furiously, trying to keep up with the rapid exchange of ideas and numbers. The discussion shifted to an upcoming event: a yacht gala scheduled for Easter weekend. Names of influential attendees were dropped casually—CEOs, politicians, and media moguls…

“The yacht gala,” Sophia announced, her tone clipped yet commanding. “It’s not just an event; it’s our statement to the world.” Her gaze swept the room, lingering just a fraction too long on me. “Every detail must be perfect. Royce Group doesn’t do second best.”

“Make no mistake,” Alan said, his voice low but resonant, cutting through the air.

I glanced up briefly, catching the sharp line of his jaw as he leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled together.

Finally, the meeting drew to a close. Chairs scraped against the polished floor as the executives began to gather their belongings, exchanging discussions before filing out one by one.

Sophia stood, smoothing her tailored blazer with a calculated grace. As she passed me, her heels clicked sharply against the floor. She paused at the door, throwing one last pointed glare in my direction. Her piercing blue eyes burned with something between disdain and frustration, her lips curving into a tight, mocking smile.

James lingered behind, gathering his notes with practiced ease. As he passed by my seat, he paused just long enough to flash me a quick, conspiratorial wink.

I smiled back gratefully.

The heavy door clicked shut behind the last of the departing executives, leaving the room eerily quiet.

It was just him and me now.

I hesitated, unsure whether to leave or wait for further instructions. My fingers fumbled to organize the scattered pages of notes I had taken.

“You’re still here.”

His said.

I froze, my heart skipping a beat. Slowly, I looked up to find him watching me, his dark eyes unreadable.

Alan Royce leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes lifting to meet mine with a quiet intensity that pinned me in place.

“Your notes,” he said, gesturing with a subtle tilt of his chin.

“Yes, sir.”

I stepped forward quickly, flipping through the pages to find the relevant details. My fingers trembled, and in my haste, the pen slipped from my grip. It clattered onto the table, startling me enough that my elbow knocked into the edge of a precariously stacked folder.

The papers scattered like fallen leaves, and I lunged to catch them.

It was a mistake.

In my rush, I didn’t notice the corner of the table until it was too late. My knee gave way, and I felt myself tipping forward.

Suddenly, a strong arm shot out, wrapping around my waist with startling precision.

I froze.

The next thing I knew, I was pulled firmly against a solid chest, the faint scent of cedar and leather enveloping me. His other hand steadied my shoulder.

My breath hitched, my pulse hammering wildly as I found myself staring directly into Alan Royce’s face. Up close, his features were sharper, more defined.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down my spine.

“S-sorry,” I stammered, my face burning as I tried to pull away.

But his arm didn’t move.

“Hold still,” he said, his voice softer this time, but no less commanding. His hand steadied me, lingering with an intimacy that made my breath catch.

The heat of his hand against my waist felt searing, even through the thin fabric of my blouse. My breath hitched, and I willed myself to keep still, though the flush creeping up my neck betrayed my composure.

“I’m fine,” I managed to whisper, though my voice trembled under his gaze. “Really?”

He didn’t reply immediately. Instead, his eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth tilting upward. “You’re not very good at convincing me of that.”

“I—” My protest died in my throat when he leaned closer.

“You seem uncomfortable,” he said softly, breath grazing my ear. “Do I make you nervous, Christa Hayes?”