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FRABLE | CEO AU
[Nathan has a reputation, like most men in his position. He's ruthless, he's strategic, he makes risky moves and he fucks his assistants. They rarely leave on bad terms. Normally it's a promotion that takes them away from him. He likes to build them up and set them free.
It's how his executive officer won her position. They don't fuck anymore. She's married now, those days are in the past. All that's left of that relationship is an unwavering loyalty and a very careful approach to how she staffs his office. Thus far, she's been incredibly adept at securing women who are ambitious, clever, productive and very interested in casual sex. It's all he has time for, so in his view it makes sense to combine the role of assistant and fuck-buddy. So long as he's only furthering their career and not dragging them down with his proclivities.
What he has yet to realise is that he doesn't have as good a sense for it as his E.O does. Increasingly, he's interested in women who are harder to win over. Increasingly, his interviews are about grilling girls to see how they respond. He's a lawsuit waiting to happen, so he's been quietly left out of the process the last few times. Perhaps that's why the position is open once more.
He's not supposed to be in the office for this round, so both he and his E.O share a confused look as he strides past unfamiliar, nervous women. He quickly evaluates the situation, then the girls. Then he's taking his E.O's notebook from her and reading it. He disregards the running order, he beckons for the pale girl with the long legs.]
You're up.
[He holds open the door of his office for her. He'll shut it before the E.O can join them.]
What's your name?
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Not only is he her boss, he's also around thirty years her senior. Comparatively, she is younger than the others on his payroll. Naturally reserved, this adds to a sense of unease she has when she first enters the workplace, but that's quickly smoothed over. Not simply by her coworkers, but by Nathan himself. She appreciates his attention and praise when it's organic.
One might even say she's begun to crave it. She has very few father figures in her life, with the exception of Anthony, and none of them close to the age her own father would be were he alive. It's nice.
Which makes the occasional unsubtle comment from him extra uncomfortable. He's attractive, but he's far too old, and she's very taken. So taken, a line appears on a test one evening.
Albeit thrilled, the first few weeks are rough on her emotions and her body. She's less likely to brush away the unsolicited attention from him, but when he expresses genuine satisfaction for a good job, she indulges him -- though her expression shifts at the glass in his hand. It's a rocks glass, and she can only have -- ]
Something red?
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Francesca is a little more challenging than he's used to, he thinks. He's never really thought much about it. Maybe he normally makes better choices. Maybe he overlooked his better judgement because she's beautiful. He certainly overlooks how much it frustrates him because she's clever. She's very disarming.
Her response gives him brief pause for that reason, because she fascinates him. Because he knows her normal orders. Because he's already mapped out what she likes and red wine doesn't seem like her choice for a night cap.
But he serves her drink without question. His own drink is made of sterner stuff. It may not be the only glass of sterner stuff he's had today-- it's been stressful.]
Same colour as the dress you wore to the gala. [Why he remembers that is not up for discussion. He just moves forward.]
Was that your fiancé? What's his name again?
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She's relieved when he doesn't question her, a tightness gathered in her shoulders loosening. There is no shame regarding her newfound condition, only the concern about reservations he may have. She's still fresh on the job, and she knows the odds are greater he will find that to be a liability. And anyways, she's shared the information with few people as it is. She isn't ready to disclose it to her employer.
She doesn't need the job, no, but she wants to keep it, she enjoys working.
He serves her and she serves him back with mild surprise that he remembers such a detail, but she forgets that in light of the next comment. The expression he gets is one of skepticism over her wine glass. She decides to forego commenting. ]
Yes, it was. His name is Afshin. [ The emphasis is very slight, but there. ]
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Mm. [He drinks. He doesn't really care about this guy as a person. He's interested in what drew her into thinking he's the right partner for her. He's got a good knack for evaluating people quickly, and he didn't evaluate anything interesting from him all night.]
Where'd you meet? School?
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The light catches on her engagement ring. She smiles at it, fondness curling on her lips and in her voice. She quite enjoys talking about how she met Afshin. ]
At an opera, actually. He was a friend of a family friend, and she introduced us. We had many things in common, he studied music as well, and she thought we would hit it off. And well -- the rest is history, I suppose.
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By all accounts, she looks perfectly besotted. It's not something he relates to, and it's in his nature to pry until he understands. So he continues without really acknowledging her answer.]
What made you decide he was the guy for you?
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She doesn't like the way he phrases the question any more than she likes the question. Something about it jostles her. ]
I didn't -- I didn't decide. [ She frowns, staring down at her ring finger. Her voice is soft, a touch plaintive. ] You don't decide who you love.
[ She squints, looking up at him. ] Were you ever married?
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No. I chose not to. [Because love isn't choice but marriage sure is.]
But it's something you want, marriage? Kids?
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Oh.
[ She says, initially bemused by the frank answer -- though in the next, she rethinks something. ]
I suppose that makes sense.
[ As for his query -- her hand flutters for a moment, angling toward her stomach, before she catches herself and drops it. She shrugs, trying to be nonchalant. ]
I didn't always want it, marriage. It wasn't a priority. But I ... I've always loved babies. [ There. ]
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His eyes drop curiously with her hand. He makes the connection, but he doesn't show it.
That's as subtle as he can manage. He turns his eyes up to hers.]
You'd be a good mother. [He offers the compliment sincerely, but with no explanation. Not that he cares about whether this is an appropriate conversation. He cares that he might say something too nice.
Best to pivot in a negative direction.]
So you settled?
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Batting away the beginnings of a suspicion he's now intuiting her secret, and what that could spell for her, she's raising the wine glass to her lips when she freezes. ]
... sorry?
l She honestly believes she misheard. Because no decent person would ever say such a thing. ]
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He leans back a little in his chair. The conversation is uncomfortable, he isn't.]
I just don't think he's going to give you what you need. [He shrugs, taking a drink.]
He's nice. [A beat.]
He's soft. [And for the final blow..]
And he's boring.
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Her eyes are large at any given moment, but now they're even wider, staring at him first with shock -- followed by anger. Disgust tails, doubling to the point she has the desire to storm out.
Her jaw is set. She's glaring at him. Has to make herself speak, plucking words past her fury. ]
What a relief it must be that you aren't marrying him.
[ Her voice is icy. She hasn't said anything like this before to him -- she has a healthy respect for authority -- but he's tread past the boundary of civility. He's no longer deserving of it. ]
I think it's time for me to leave.
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And yet, he finds himself compelled to leave it all on the line. He shoots up from his sitting position, leaning over her just slightly. He's not trying to intimidate, he's trying to be intimate. Just a little.]
You can go back home to you if you want. [He sucks his teeth, hesitating before he spits it out.]
Or you can stay. With me.
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Or you can stay. With me.
An understatement to say she doesn't always pick up on social cues. But it clicks.
He hasn't exactly been discreet with his interest. Thinly veiled. Is that why he's doing this? Disappointment colors her face. She looks miffed, uncomfortable.
Resolved.
She ignores him to get to her feet, the gears shifting in her head. ]
I'm not -- I'm not going to sleep with you. I have a fiancé.
[ But he doesn't care about that. Clearly.
So: ] I don't want to sleep with you.
[ It lands like a punch. She meets his eyes, resentment in her own. ]
If you hired me to that end, I'm sorry to disappoint you.
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He ought to let her leave, since imposing himself on her like this is probably intimidating. Still, his fingers brush up her forearm. He squeezes gently, doing his best to meet her eyes.]
I hired you because I saw something in you. [Not his dick.]
Ambition. Talent. Smarts. [He drops her arm, backing away. Giving her space.]
I'm not in the business of wasting potential.
[But he sort of expects her letter of resignation. Or a call from HR.]
Goodnight, Francesca.
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She does brood over the weekend. He doesn't reach out to her. Come Monday, their interactions are cooled, sometimes stilted on her end, but surprisingly civil all the same. Professional.
Almost like nothing happened. She begins to wonder if she assumed the worst. Maybe she was -- not wrong, but too harsh.
There exists new distance between them. And she misses the feedback. The praise on a job well done. The collaboration.
Eventually, unable to maintain a grudge, she softens. So does he. When he asks her to accompany him on a work trip, she only hesitates briefly before accepting. At this point, she knows it isn't inlaid with an ulterior motive.
Francesca hasn't seen much of Japan, save for a vacation with her family many years ago. Nathan promises to show her around. After.
Their rooms are on the same floor. She was supposed to meet him in the lobby ten minutes ago. They have an important appointment. A dinner.
And it's not like her to be late. ]
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Eventually, they're pulled back together. Feels a little closer than they were before he mangled his progress. He should stop thinking of it as progress and not just the natural flow of a professional relationship. He should stop thinking of her generally.
But he doesn't. He goes to sleep thinking about her and he wakes up thinking about her. It takes incredible focus to stop his eyes running up her body. He thought once it became clear she was pregnant he'd lose interest. Unfortunately not.
It's not his motivation to take her with him to Japan, but the constant companionship does kind of please him. It's not all business, there's various social gatherings where he's enjoyed the opportunity to have her at his side. She does exactly as well as he imagined and he finds himself feeling proud of her. His professional pleasure still doesn't stop him from imagining following her into her room when he drops her off.
This is what he's doing when he waits in the lobby for her. When she's a little late, he wonders if she's putting in a little extra effort just for him. He'd promised a more rewarding evening because of her success. He's fluent in the language, he knows a couple of special places he thinks she'll like.
Because she's earned it. Not for anything special.
More time passes. His text goes unread. He starts to worry a little. Not so much for her health or safety but because he wonders if she knows he's back to toeing over her boundaries. For that reason, maybe he lingers a little too long before he does the walk of shame back upstairs.
When he's at his door, he looks at hers. He contemplates retiring for the night and preserving his ego from being bruised, but a more sincere concern has started to form. Surrendering to it, he moves away from his door to knock on hers.]
Francesca?
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Or maybe it began in the hours before. How does one measure a miscarriage? When did her body decide upon betrayal, destroying the most precious part of it?
The first cramp doesn't alarm her; she barely notices. Pregnancy is all aches and pains. Were that all, she'd have forgotten about it. It's not. The first blends into a second, a third. She sets the curling wand down, pressing her palm into the cool countertop.
Something feels different.
Wrong.
A stabbing pain sends her to the toilet, tights bunching at her knees. Spotting is supposed to be normal, she knows. She's read extensively.
But -- this isn't spotting. No. It's bright red, staining the tissue, her underwear.
She doesn't know how long passes. In the back of her mind, she remembers he's waiting. She googles; she debates calling her mother; she fights for breath.
She doesn't answer the door at the first knock. Her name goes unanswered.
Eventually, when he turns to leave, the door cracks open. Her face, pale, appears in the space between, crumpling at the sight of him. Her eyelashes clumped with mascara and tears, her voice shuddering breaths: ]
Please help me.
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But he knows her as well as he knows himself, and he knows he doesn't make misjudgements like this about a person. She's not the type to ghost. She'd give him a polite excuse. Something's not right.
When he's pulling away, he's contemplating asking the front desk to let him in her room. Is she asleep? Did she ever come back to the hotel?
The door swings open and promptly opens many questions. His eyes flick over her body and he hears fear in her voice that immediately answers following questions. Something's wrong with the baby.
Gently, but without asking, he slips his hands around her so he can tip her back in his arms and hoist her up. He keeps his demeanour calm, carrying her like a child. Or a bride. He doesn't acknowledge the looks he gets striding through the lobby, getting to the taxi and to the hospital is his priority.]
Tell me what your symptoms are and I'll translate them for you.
[He has her huddled in the back of a taxi. She won't understand him offering a handsome bribe for a little speeding.
His hand drops to hers, squeezing and seeking eye contact from her.]
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In an instant, she surrenders to it. Nobody has ever held her like this, not since she was a child.
She feels like a child now, already. Small, defenseless. Lost. Oblivious to prying eyes when he strides through the lobby. Just wants him to take care of it, like she's watched him take care of everything else without breaking a sweat. If anyone could fix this, it's him.
The taxi is small and humid after the chilly winter air. Her breaths come shallow; she reaches for his arm and grips his forearm, struggling through the onslaught of cramps. ]
I can't stop bleeding. [ It looks like a bloodbath. She's bleeding now, still, she can feel the telling warmth between her legs. So much like menstruating, but worse. Her mouth wobbles. ] And it hurts. So much.
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He nods. He's never had a kid, but he knows that's bad news.]
We'll get you to the hospital and they'll know what to do. [Not bullshitting her, but still being reassuring.
As they leave the cab, money exchanges hands smoothly. With precision, he drops his coat over her shoulders as he walks her through the doors. What follows is probably a confusing cacophony of conversations happening around her in another language. Whatever he says gets things moving quickly. She's in a bed, in a private room with very little delay.
It finally hits a point where he's separated from her. When they return with her, he already knows from their expressions what the news is. He's not sure she's heard it, so his expression is searching when he looks at her.]
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There are some matters that transcend language barriers. This is one such.
The ultrasound says it all. The pregnancy is over. It doesn't matter how long she carried, how much denial she's in. No doctor can revive the stagnant heartbeat.
They wheel her back in. Nathan can see it in her expression. Quiet, resigned. Her face damp, eyes glassy and unfocused.
She reaches for his hand. The weight of it is a comfort on her.
One of the nurses speaks English very well. She helps her into the bed, administering more medication into the IV line, while they wait for the doctor. She narrates as she does, then quietly asks for what she perceives to be her husband's name. Fran doesn't notice her eyes are on the only man in the room. All of her responses have been delayed. ]
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Curiously, though, he feels a depth of concern for her beyond what seems reasonable. Of course he's attracted to her and on a human level he feels sympathy-- what he feels is anguish for her. When he finally slumps in a chair, he feels almost oppressed by his worry. Like it's eating at him.
He all but leaps out of her chair when they wheel her in the room. He catches himself and stands back, letting the nurses do their jobs without pushing in. When she reaches for him, he steps in and takes her hand. She feels cold, so he squeezes her, rubbing his thumb over her palm.]
Nathan. [He doesn't make any correction. She informs him that they'll keep her overnight, that he can get a coffee or go back to his hotel. It's very late and admittedly, he's exhausted. But he's not going anywhere.
His other hand smooths her hair back, tracing down her face to cup her cheek gently.]
I'm sorry, Fran.
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A tilt of her head, progressively bleary eyes. She nods, after a moment -- and relaxes into his palm in the next, the surface of it warm and solid. Paternal, in a way. Protective. All the things she craves. ]
I know. [ Her voice soft and tired, unfathomably tired. It pillows the sadness, tucks it beneath the hollows of her pain and exhaustion. ] I'm sorry, too.
[ Rapidly, she fades into sleep -- lasting maybe for an hour or two, before she rouses, still in pain, still bleeding. ]
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