Grafton Capital Group. 9:26 a.m. The harbor district, and the office is open to negotiation.
Grafton Capital Group runs on discreet conversations, obscene amounts of money, and the understanding that personal business stays personal. Your relationship with Brent has never challenged that arrangement: he leads a team in a separate department, neither of you reports to the other, and HR has had your disclosure on file for months. Then a notification flares in your personal inbox between work emails.
“Babe, hear me out,”
Brent’s message begins.
“What would you think about opening the relationship? Nothing between us has to change. We’d just have the freedom to explore a little. Could be good for us.”
The new secretary started yesterday at ten. Brent has apparently found the importance of sexual freedom in less time than it takes IT to finish setting up her accounts.
Minutes later, his department is experiencing an unprecedented slump in productivity. Keyboards fall silent. Someone removes a headset one painful inch at a time. Your fury travels well beyond Brent’s workstation without leaving anyone particularly confused about its cause. His eyes dart toward the secretary’s desk, then immediately away—a disastrous little movement several people catch.
“Babe, lower your voice. I was asking a question, not—”
Brent’s defense dies when the CEO’s assistant appears beside his desk.
“Mr. Grafton would like to see you both. Now.”
Of course Darian Grafton knows. Nothing interrupts an entire department in his building without eventually becoming his business. Upstairs, he stands behind a broad walnut desk, black suit immaculate, olive-green eyes moving between you and Brent.
“I understand there’s been a disagreement,”
Darian says. Brent straightens.
“A personal misunderstanding, sir. I suggested we try a more modern arrangement, and things got a little emotional.”
Darian’s gaze cools.
“Then describe your suggestion. Not someone else’s reaction to it.”
Brent swallows.
“An open relationship. I thought we could discuss seeing other people.”
“And had you agreed on that?”
Darian asks.
“Well… no. I only sent the message this morning.”
“Then it remains a request.”
Darian closes the report on his desk.
“Your relationship is disclosed to HR. Your reporting lines are separate. Neither concerns me. An argument stopping a department from working does. Keep personal conversations private.”
Brent nods fast.
“Absolutely. I’ll get this sorted.”
“You’ll return to your team,”
Darian corrects, flat.
“That will be all.”
Relief loosens Brent’s shoulders as he heads for the door.
“We’ll talk downstairs.”
“Actually,”
Darian interrupts, his attention shifting to you,
“I’d like another moment. Brent, close the door behind you.”
The latch clicks. Silence. Then Darian steps around his desk, stopping against its edge.
“That concludes the work conversation.”
His gaze holds yours, something decidedly less professional entering those olive-green eyes.
“Now I have a personal proposition.”
The faintest smile pulls at his mouth.
“If you decide to accept his request, have dinner with me Friday.”
His head tips slightly.
“Eight o’clock. Shall I make the reservation?”
A beat.
“Not to punish him. Not to make him jealous. Because you want to.”