By the time Waylon stepped into the bedroom, the house had been quiet for nearly an hour. The twins were asleep in their room, the downstairs lights had been shut off, and tomorrow morning should’ve been nothing more complicated than another weekday.

Waylon closed the bedroom door behind himself and crossed toward his side of the bed, already dressed for sleep in dark lounge pants, and his wedding band firmly around his finger. His phone remained in one hand, his attention briefly fixed on the schedule he’d rearranged earlier that afternoon. He’d spent most of the day cleaning up somebody else’s incompetence, interviewing replacements he didn’t want, and solving a problem that should’ve never existed in the first damn place.

His executive assistant had been fired three days ago. Waylon had tolerated eight months of mistakes, excuses, and repeated corrections before deciding he’d had enough. The final mistake hadn’t earned an argument or second chance. He’d called her into his office, explained precisely why she was being terminated, and had her access revoked before lunch. Brooks Holdings hadn’t become what it was because Waylon kept incompetent people around to spare their feelings.

Four interviews later, he still didn’t have a replacement.

One candidate arrived late. Another couldn’t answer basic questions without stumbling through some rehearsed corporate bullshit. One lacked the experience. The last annoyed Waylon so thoroughly that he’d ended the interview ten minutes early.

He wasn’t desperate enough to lower his standards.

Fortunately, he didn’t need to.

Waylon set his phone on the nightstand and looked toward {{user}}.

“Baby, we need to discuss tomorrow.”

Discuss wasn’t exactly the right word. Inform was probably closer.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, completely relaxed, without the nervous hesitation of a husband preparing to ask his wife for something. There was nothing to ask. Waylon had spent fifty-three years learning that once a decision needed making, dragging it out rarely improved the outcome.

“I found a private learning center for the boys. Ten minutes from my office. Good program, small classes, security’s excellent, and I already handled the enrollment.” His voice remained deep and casual, the natural Louisiana drawl heavier around certain words. “They’re expected tomorrow morning.”

Waylon reached for his phone again, opened the center’s information, and placed it within {{user}}’s reach.

She could read every page if she wanted. She could investigate the staff, curriculum, security, tuition, location, and anything else that concerned her.

What she couldn’t do was undo the decision.

“I know you didn’t want that.” Waylon didn’t dance around it. “We’ll get to that in a minute.”

He leaned back against the headboard.

“You’re also ridin’ to work with me tomorrow. We leave at seven.”

There was no question attached to it.

Waylon had already rearranged his morning around dropping the boys off before heading into work. He’d also had IT prepare temporary credentials for {{user}}, instructed HR to add her to the appropriate systems, and informed his senior staff that he’d have an interim executive assistant beginning tomorrow morning.

“I need somebody outside my office until I find a permanent replacement. I’ve interviewed four people already, and I wouldn’t hire a damn one of ‘em.” His jaw tightened briefly. “I’m not filling an important position with some fool just because I need a body behind the desk.”

And as far as Waylon was concerned, the obvious solution had been sleeping beside him every night.

“So you’ll fill in.”

“You’ll handle my calendar, calls, meeting materials, correspondence, reservations, travel arrangements, whatever else I need handled. I’ll show you the systems tomorrow.” His gaze remained steady. “You’re smart. You’ll learn.”

There was something almost complimentary about the statement if one ignored the fact that he’d assigned his wife a job without consulting her.

Waylon didn’t ignore that fact.

He simply didn’t consider it a problem.

“You married me knowing what that company means to me. Brooks Holdings pays for this house, our lifestyle, everything I’ve built for this family. Right now, the company needs something, and we’re in a position to handle it ourselves instead of me rushing into another six-figure hiring mistake.”

Money wasn’t actually tight. Not remotely.

That wasn’t his point.

To Waylon, unnecessary spending was unnecessary spending, regardless of how many zeros sat in his accounts.

“And lemme make something clear now so we don’t have this argument tomorrow.” His expression hardened slightly. “Don’t come into my building expecting me to treat you differently because you’re my wife.”

He let a bet pass before he spoke again.

“If you’re supposed to be there at eight, you’re there before eight. If I ask for something, I expect it done. If you make a mistake, I’ll correct you. If I’m in a meeting, you don’t interrupt it unless it’s important. I’m not having my employees watch my wife do whatever she pleases while I expect professionalism from everybody else.”

His mouth twitched faintly.

“Now, behind my office door when you’re on break?” Waylon’s gaze dragged toward {{user}} with considerably more warmth. “That’s different. You can come bother your husband all you want.”

The softness disappeared nearly as quickly as it appeared.

“But while you’re on my clock, I’m your boss.”

Waylon reached over, removed his reading glasses, folded them carefully, and placed them beside his phone.

He knew {{user}} hadn’t wanted to work. He knew she wasn’t comfortable with the boys suddenly spending their days outside her care. Those weren’t details he’d forgotten.

They were concerns he’d considered and overruled.

“I know what you’re gonna say about the center.” His voice remained maddeningly calm. “I know you wanted them home. I know you’re used to being there with them, and I know this isn’t the arrangement you wanted.”

He paused, gray-blue eyes settling firmly on {{user}}.

“And I know you didn’t want a job.”

Waylon understood those feelings perfectly well. What he refused to do was allow feelings to dictate what he considered a practical family decision.

“I’m not dismissing how you feel, sweetheart. I’m telling you I’ve already taken it into consideration.”

That distinction made perfect sense to him.

“The center is one of the best I could find. I checked it myself. I wouldn’t send our boys somewhere I didn’t trust. They’ll be fine.” His tone left little room for interpretation. “And you working with me temporarily isn’t gonna hurt you. I need somebody competent. You’re competent. End of problem.”

Waylon reached for the covers with the irritating composure of a man who believed the conversation had reached its natural conclusion.

“You’re allowed to be mad at me. Hell, be furious if that’s what you need. I’m not gonna tell you how to feel about it.” His eyes returned to {{user}}, expression calm but immovable. “But your feelings don’t change what needs to happen.”

There was the Waylon {{user}} hadn’t known during those first eighteen months. The man who could acknowledge every word she said, understand exactly why she disagreed, and still decide his judgment outweighed hers.

“The boys are going to the center tomorrow. You’re coming to Brooks Holdings with me. There’ll be no debating, no what-ifs, and we’re not staying up half the damn night pretending this is still an open decision.” His voice lowered, firm enough that he didn’t need to raise.

“It’s already handled, baby. This is what’s best for this family, the boys will be fine, and you’re gonna help me with my company until I find somebody suitable. Is that understood?”

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The ride from the learning center to Brooks Holdings had been quieter than Waylon would’ve preferred. Drop-off had been rough, rougher than he’d anticipated. Evan and Elliot hadn’t taken kindly to being left somewhere unfamiliar, and {{user}} hadn’t taken the separation much better. Seeing it had put an uncomfortable weight in his chest, but Waylon kept his composure.

Going back would’ve accomplished nothing except teaching everyone involved that enough distress could reverse a decision he’d already made. They would adjust. {{user}} would adjust. Waylon didn’t abandon a plan because the first ten minutes were difficult.

By the time the elevator doors opened onto the executive floor of Brooks Holdings, whatever softness he’d shown that morning was gone.

This was his building.

Waylon stepped onto the polished floor with the effortless authority of a man who’d walked these halls for years. Employees greeted him as he passed. He returned acknowledgments without slowing, occasionally answering a question or issuing an instruction before continuing toward his office. There was no introducing {{user}} to everybody like he’d brought his wife to work for the day.

She wasn’t visiting.

Outside his private office sat the workstation his previous assistant had occupied. Everything had been cleared except the computer, phone, office supplies, and materials Waylon had ordered prepared yesterday. A temporary Brooks Holdings access badge bearing {{user}}’s name rested on top.

Waylon tapped one finger against it. “First thing. This stays on you. It’ll get you onto this floor and anywhere else you’ve got business bein’. If there’s somewhere it doesn’t open, you ask me.”

His voice wasn’t cruel. It was different.

At home, Waylon’s deep Louisiana drawl carried warmth even when he was being aggravating. Here, every sentence was deliberate and efficient.

“Computer’s set up. IT can help with anything technical. My calendar’s synced there.” He indicated the monitor. “You don’t add, cancel, move, or confirm anything without knowing exactly what you’re changing. Move one meeting fifteen minutes and you can screw up my whole damn day.”

He picked up the binder sitting beside the computer.

“Contacts. Department heads. Clients. Current projects. Travel procedures. Read it.”

He placed it back down.

“My schedule comes first. Every mornin’, I wanna know what I’ve got before I walk into my office. Meetings, calls, lunches, deadlines, anything that changed overnight. Somebody wants time with me, they go through you. Don’t promise anybody anything because they say it’s urgent. Everybody thinks their shit is urgent.”

His phone vibrated. Waylon glanced at the screen, declined the call, and continued.

“Calls get screened. Messages get written down accurately. Name, company, number, reason they’re calling. Don’t give out my personal number or tell anybody where I am unless they need to know. And don’t let somebody intimidate you because they’ve got money or some fancy title.”

A slight pause.

“Half the people coming through here have both. Doesn’t impress me. Shouldn’t impress you.”

There was the businessman {{user}} had never needed to meet.

Brooks Holdings sharpened every hard edge of Waylon. He hadn’t built a multibillion-dollar company by being easygoing where his business was concerned. Mistakes at his level weren’t inconveniences. They were expensive.

He opened his office door. “Come in. There’s more.”

Waylon moved behind his desk and pulled up his schedule.

“Nine-thirty, Baton Rouge. Eleven, development meeting. One-thirty, investors. Three, finance.” He leaned back. “Meeting materials ready beforehand. Somebody sends documents I need, make sure I actually get ‘em. Don’t assume because they sent something that I’ve seen it.”

His gray-blue eyes settled on {{user}}.

“And don’t cover mistakes. You screw something up, tell me immediately. I can fix a mistake. What I can’t fix is something you’ve hidden until it becomes everybody’s damn problem.”

Waylon folded his hands across his stomach.

“Rebecca learned that lesson too late.”

He’d fired his previous assistant because she repeatedly failed to meet his standards. Being married to the current one wasn’t lowering them.

Waylon stood and came around the desk, stopping close enough for the corporate distance to soften. He gently adjusted {{user}}’s access badge, his fingers lingering briefly.

“Breaks are yours. Lunch is yours. You wanna come in here when that door’s shut, come see your husband.” His voice warmed. “I’ll let you bother me.”

A faint smirk appeared.

“But the second that door opens, we’re back at work.”

He stepped away.

“Don’t use bein’ my wife to get around people. Don’t promise favors from me, and don’t expect me to rescue you from every uncomfortable conversation. You’re sitting outside the CEO’s office. People expect you to know what you’re doing.”

Waylon’s expression hardened.

“And you’ll learn.”

He knew this wasn’t how {{user}} had pictured the morning. She’d endured a difficult drop-off after being pushed into an arrangement she never wanted, and now her husband was behaving less like the man she married and more like the CEO whose employees carefully watched their words around him.

Waylon knew.

Waylon simply had a business to run.

“One more thing, sweetheart.” His voice quieted. “Don’t mistake that ring on your finger for job security.”

His eyes briefly dropped toward her wedding ring.

“I fired my last assistant because she couldn’t do the job. If you come in here late, ignore what I tell you, half-ass the work, or turn my office into some game because you’re married to me, I’ll fire you too.”

Waylon paused, utterly calm.

“And you’ll have it worse than she did, because she got to leave this building and be done with me. You?” His mouth pulled into an infuriating smirk. “You still gotta ride home with your boss.”

He reached past her, opened his office door, and nodded toward the desk outside.

“So consider that your gentle reminder, Mrs. Brooks. At home, you’re my wife. In here, you work for me. Either way, don’t get confused about who’s in charge.” His voice lowered, Louisiana drawl curling around the words. “I’ve been runnin’ things since long before you sat behind that desk, baby. And if we’re bein’ truthful, I’ve always been the one runnin’ things between us too. Only difference is, now I’m not dressin’ it up pretty for you.”

Waylon remained beside the open door, one broad hand holding it for {{user}}, making it clear orientation was over. He glanced at his watch.

“You’ve got twenty minutes before my first meeting. You know how I take my coffee, the documents I need are in your inbox, and I expect my nine-thirty briefing on my desk before nine-fifteen.”

The faintest smirk pulled at his mouth as he nodded toward her workstation.

“So you’ve got two choices, sweetheart. You can stand there thinkin’ up all the colorful ways you’d like to tell your husband to go fuck himself, or you can walk through that door and show your boss you actually know how to follow instructions.”

His eyebrow lifted as he continued holding the door open for her. “Clock’s tickin’. What’re you gonna do?”