I watched, bemused, as Jim Verraster was led from his quaint little brownstone in lower Chelsea in handcuffs. Morning rolled in, the neighbourhood awoke to the sounds of his sputtering oaths and screaming threats. A sight to behold, I was sure. One the community wouldn't soon forget, nor one that Verasster's image would likely ever recover from.

Taken under the charges of aggravated assault and attempt to do bodily harm; he would be charged and though likely to lawyer up as soon as he was processed, would likely spend at least a few hours in a cell to think over the mess he'd made.

Martha braved it all, a little pint-sized pixie, who it turned out that despite her diminutive stature and soft-spoken voice, she had a core of steel. And hadn't so much as shed a tear in light of everything she'd uncovered along with the details I'd been pressed to reveal in the presence of the police.

Oh, there'd been hurt, to be sure, but as she'd watched from the threshold as Jim was forced into the backseat of a cruiser, Martha's shoulders merely set and her hands clasped firmly in front. A stoic picture of refined dignity.

And once the police were gone and her neighbours dispersed, I returned with Martha to the kitchen, setting on the kettle.

"Here." Turning around, Martha handed me a cool compress. "It won't do much," she apologized. "The swellings already set in. You really should have gone with the paramedics to the hospital." Her gaze dropped to my throat where I knew livid bruises were forming. The ache was growing more uncomfortable by the second.

"I'll be fine," I said, struggling around the rawness of my voice. "There's a lot to handle this morning, and I think the sooner I see it through, the better."

Martha nodded stoically, lowered to a set at the table, and carefully linked her hands atop it.

"I'm not surprised," she whispered, "but I'm not." We sat there for a while, and I listened as she told me her plans to divorce. First thing. The matter was settled, far as she was concerned. Not only was he gay, having an affair, and had the moral range of a teaspoon, he'd violently assaulted a peer—a woman—within their own home, and to someone like Martha, that simply wouldn't do.

I had to admire her nerve, her strength.

As we sipped our tea, the tingle of peppermint helping to soothe my ravaged esophagus, Martha told me how their marriage had always been one sided, and there was a time where she'd thought that this was all she could have, the best she could do. Cancer had taught Martha otherwise. Life was fleeting—transient, and now that she was out of chemo, she wanted more for herself. And believed she deserved it.

Moved by Martha's resilience, and strength, I vowed to pull whatever strings I possibly could to ensure that Martha got everything she deserved and more so in the settlement.

Jim wouldn't even know what hit him.

By the time I reached Iconic, near an hour later, though my throat was swollen and sore, bruises already colouring my skin, I decided I needed to see this all the way to the end. The board had been notified of the incident, and those whom were in the city made their way in to meet with me, the rest were dialled in to the conversation. There, in the meeting room, with the doors closed for discretion and privacy, I shifted my gaze to the eyes seated around the conference table.

From the quiet brown of my predecessor George Watt, to the arresting silver of Tristan Shade.

We voted on following through with our pre-approved plans for his immediate dismissal and made adjustments to his severance package, lowering the dollar figure substantially as he'd decided to attack me, not only a member of the board, but a figurehead for the company. Considering he was now being charged, formally, for assault—we now had a more legitimate basis for firing him without fear of prejudice or legal ramifications.

The rest would be kept close to the chest as it would only colour the recent merger and shed an unfavourable light on Iconic's brand image. It was easier and best to handle this sort of matter under the table.

The end result was almost enough to act as a balm for the pain flaming down my esophagus. The paramedics who'd arrived on scene to tend to both myself and Jim had advised I avoid speaking for at least three days, so this morning's exertions were beginning to take their toll on my vocal cords.

"Kiddo," George sighed as the meeting adjourned and the bodies dispersed, conversation humming around us as they went. His eyes softened on my face, lowered to the purpling welts forming on my neck. "Christ, he did a number on you."

"That he did," I agreed, voice hoarse with effort. I winced against the discomfort. God, at this rate, by end of day I'd be lucky if I could manage more than a few meager grunts.

"I'm sorry this happened, kiddo. I truly am. I never much cared for the man, but you know better than most that in life and in business, personal preferences must be set aside for the sake of the company. For the vision and corporate agenda. He might have been a whiny little pissant, but he was a valuable asset to this place. At least, as long as he didn't act against the betterment of the company. To think what he was planning." The lines around George's mouth firmed into a grimace. "Well, that's been handled—thanks to your quick thinking and effective management. You've done excellent work, Laura. I was proud that day I put you forward to step into my shoes, and you haven't let me down a day since."

Suddenly, I was almost grateful I could hardly speak, because in that moment, I wasn't entirely sure I would have been able to find the words.

Settling large, heavy hands on my shoulders, George squeezed. "You've been through an ordeal. I want you to take some time off, Laura. Gather yourself, your wits. Heal. Come back in a few days, stronger and ready to hit the ground running. I need you whole. I need you centered."

"But I just got back."

"Kiddo," he said, settling in closer. "What happened this morning was brutal. And personal. And violent. When the shock wears off—trust me, it's going to hit you hard. Take some time. You'll need it. A few days. A week, would be better. You can always come back earlier if you need to. But I think you'll find you won't."

Drawing in a breath, I held it. Nodded. Everything else aside, I was beginning to feel the ravages of fatigue coupled with the draining demand of emotions. Tristan had sat in that meeting, his face a stone mask, his silver eyes blazing. I'd seen flickers in their facets when expressing details about Jim's assault, showing the board the bruises—not that they couldn't hear the strain in my voice or see the marks on my face from where I had struck the desk.

But he hadn't so much as said a word, other than to inquire if I was alright. A brief and almost cursory sort of question, one that would have been expected from a personal colleague considering we were surrounded by our fellow directors. Not because he really cared, I thought. Otherwise he wouldn't have left as soon as the meeting adjourned. The first to exit through the doors in a hurry. Off to see to other business, to attend to the rest of his day. Tristan wasn't one to waste time, and this meeting had cost everyone more then what had been planned or prepared for.

And though I shouldn't have been surprised by his abrupt departure, it hurt more than Jim's wayward fist or stranglehold ever could have.

So that was it then, I'd manage the impossible and still—it wasn't enough. Well, to hell with that and him. I might be in love with Tristan Shade, but damned if I was going to crawl and beg. And if that's what he wanted, the bastard didn't deserve me.

"I'll take the week," I managed as George assessed me carefully, all patience and concern in the face of my lengthy silence.

"Good," he said, dropping his hands so he could tuck them into his trouser pockets. "Clear the deck, bounce whatever you have pending over to Teresa, she can manage your load until you come back in. And Bobby, too. Take your laptop in case any fires spring up but don't worry, kiddo, I'll make sure this ship doesn't sink.

#

"Giiiiirl," Paul's voice sang behind me. And I didn't have to turn around to know the speedy patter-patter sound was his feet scurrying after me into my office. "You will not believe—" He stopped cold when I turned around, and he got a good clean look at my face. My throat.

"Mary's freaking tit he hit you?"

Swallowing against the sting in my throat, I nodded. Not chancing any more speaking. Nodding to his blackberry, still clutched in his fingers, I pulled out my own and typed out a message—sending it through What's App instead of corporate email.

Taking the week off. Clearing the deck for Teresa and Bobby to cover.

Flip schedule details over to George Wyatt. Coordinate with respective admins.

"Done, done and done." Paul nodded, tucking a wing of hair out of his eyes. "Did you hit him back?" he asked, eyes glimmering.

Definitely. I smirked. And slapped down assault charges. So Verraster is no more.

Paul let out a little whoop and giggle. Spun around. "Yes, b!tch. Yes. That's how you do it."

I'll be staying with my dad at Ronin, I typed out, my fingers pausing over the keys. Yes, that was where I would go. Somehow, the thought of heading home—alone—to my apartment in light of all of this was too stark. Too depressing. Not when every where I'd look I'd see Tristan. Knowing he was so close within the city wouldn't help my resolve, and I was determined to be strong. To not bend or cave to baser emotions by breaking and going to him first.

There would be painful reminders at Ronin, too, I had to remind myself. Recent and painful memories that I would have to face. But at least the estate put the better part of New York between us. And with distance, hopefully would come perspective.

Paul helped me sort through my emails, my calendar, managed a few brief calls and weeded through a couple files, setting out a pile to delegate, and the other for me to take with me and manage remotely.

We were both so engrossed in the task, almost an hour later, that we failed to hear the knock at the door, or the sound of it opening until a firm female voice cleared her throat rang through.

Turning around slowly, Paul mirroring my movements, we stood, shoulder to shoulder and faced Marcia. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, leaving her hard slash of cheekbones and serious eyes on prominent display.

Hands linked, she moistened her lips.

"Paul, perhaps you'd be so kind as to leave us alone for a moment? I'd like to have a private discussion with Ms. Pierce."

"Uh-uh," Paul cocked a hip, phone weighing in his bobbing hand, "I'm Ms. Pierce's translator. Y'know, cause she can't exactly speak right now so if you have anything to say it needs to go through me." He angled a brow, challengingly.

Marcia's eyes cooled, but she levelled them at me. Then down to my throat. And she swallowed hard.

"Fair enough. This won't take long. First," Marcia straightened her shoulders, cleared her throat, "I...I wanted to say I'd heard. About Jim. About what he did."

Word travels fast in the admin pool.

Paul checked his phone, snorted. "Gossip mill strikes again."

Marcia flinched, but otherwise held her ground. "I'm here to apologize for my part to play in this," she said. "I was wrong. I was petty. I was angry."

"Pffft." Paul razzed. "You better be. Do you have any idea what you both put her through? Like seriously, you're lucky we're on the clock otherwise I'd have to slap that stupid look off your damn face."

"As I said, I'm sorry. I was wrong, and since Mr. Shade is not at his desk; after the board meeting he just took off and—never mind." She waved hand, bringing herself on track. "None of that matters. I am here to tender my resignation to you." Marcia's gaze lifted, and though resolute, I could see the fear. The regret.

She'd been a part of Iconic for the last decade. Pulling long days and longer hours, always one of the first to arrive and the last to leave. Far as I could see, to Marcia Iconic was more than a job. It was home.

Sighing, I glanced up to Paul, angled my gaze to the door.

"You sure?" he asked.

Nodding, I patted his arm, and then stretched out a hand for Marcia to sit down as he left us alone. This was going to be awkward, but some things needed to be kept private and whatever my feelings, I wasn't about to embarrass the poor girl any further.

As we both sat, I looked at her. Really looked at her. Perhaps for the first time in the five years we'd been acquainted. Young, not much older than myself. Perhaps only by a year or two. She had a severe quality to her, but that was a result of long days, hard work and perhaps a bit of a shield she carried to protect herself from the corporate politics that often chipped and chaffed at the thickest of skins.

I knew better than most what a woman went through in the corporate world. People, men in particular, stepping on you, over you—nudging you aside, labeling you as irrelevant and inconsequential. Now I realized I was equally guilty of doing all that and more, to her and just about every other administrative assistant I'd come across before Paul.

I'd considered women who elected to hold such low on the ladder roles weak. Insipid. Spineless. Because they wouldn't rise out of the roles of convention and take hold of true power. To lead instead of follow.

God, I though, shaking my head. I'd been a first class b!tch.

Reaching between us, I took the note book, and scratched out a quick note. Held it up for Marcia to see. Her eyes skipped over the message, softened with a smile. And that smile stripped years off her face.

"I'd like to say no, you haven't, but that would be a lie."

Smiling, I turned the page, penned out another. I'm sorry. I'm not accepting your resignation.

Reading that over, at least twice, she looked up at me, puzzled. "I...but, surely you don't want me to continue working here? Not after I'd threatened to undermine and expose you."

That was Jim's plan, not yours. And I don't believe you knew how far he'd planned to take it.

Marcia's lip set into a firm line. "He'd said that you had botched an account. That he was doing this to save Iconic. I never thought...I mean, I'd hoped it was true. I was pleased to think you were human enough to make mistakes, and that those mistakes might deflate your ego a smidge, but I never imagined he'd go to the Times. And certainly not to forge and alter corporate documents."

Chilled by some inward through, she stroked a hand over her arms. Sighed.

"I'm so foolish. I didn't always dislike you," she said, sliding shy eyes back to mine. "When you first started working here, I was thrilled. Excited to see a woman assume the mantle of CEO. Naturally, the fact that you're younger than me rankled a smidge, but overall I was proud. I had high hopes for you. And you lived up to them, for the most part, but had this...disdain for administration, that rankled me more. It's like you thought less of us because we didn't go to fancy schools or sit in corner suites. I've had enough of people looking down their noses at me, of treating me as less and assuming I am not capable of more."

My throat constricted with more than just the swelling from Jim's assault. Leafing to a fresh page, I scribbled out much of the same I'd said to Paul the night I'd come to his apartment, champagne in hand and with an apology long overdue.

Turning the notebook, I held up the page.

You're right—I judged you. I'm sorry. Truce?

Maria held there for a moment, her cool gaze sweeping over me. Finally, she struck out a hand. Shook mine.

"Truce."