The Night Before I Knew Him (June and Hermes) novel Chapter 4

June

I’m not breathing.

Or maybe I am, it's just so shallow it doesn’t count. The type of breathing people do when they’re trying not to panic, not to sweat, not to scream.

Because he hasn’t said a word.

Just a nod, barely — like I’m the delivery girl dropping off his lunch.

"Close the door," he says, voice dipped in frost.

I flinch, shouldn't I?

The door shuts behind me with a final, unforgiving click. And for a second, there’s nothing but silence.

I don’t know where to look. I don’t know who he is anymore.

He stares at me like I’m… new. Like I didn’t have his teeth in my neck two nights ago. Like I didn’t fall apart beneath him with his hand gripping my thigh and his voice dragging moans out of me I didn’t even know I had. He looks through me.

I want to believe he’s pretending. That this is a game. That this is part of some bigger...thing. But if it is, I don’t know the rules. And I’m already losing.

Then he says it:

"Sit."

It’s not a suggestion. It lands like a slap.

I lower myself into the chair like it might bite me, every inch of me tight and trembling. My skirt rides up a little when I sit, and I feel his eyes drop — just for a pulse beat — before snapping away.

I don’t speak. I don’t ask questions. What the hell would I say, anyway?

"Hi, remember me? You ruined me in the best way possible and then ghosted like a coward?" No.

So, I sit quietly, matching his cold gaze. I pretend I don’t notice the tension thickening the air like fog. I pretend I’m fine. That he’s just another boss. That I’m just another intern.

But my stomach is in knots. Because why is he pretending?

No — that’s not right.

He remembers. I saw it. That flicker in his jaw, the way he blinked too hard. He’s pretending it didn’t matter.

Shit–

He walks to his desk, smoothly and controlled, and picks up a sleek black folder. His fingers are precise and cold, and he drops it on the small desk in front of me.

"You’ll be working off my schedule. Here’s the weekly agenda. You’ll be expected to memorize it,” he says, tone flat and efficient. “Meetings, calls, events. If I’m there, you’re there. You do not get to ask questions about what I do, where I go, or who I speak to."

My fingers freeze on the folder.

"There are rules," he continues, stepping back with the full gauge of stillness. "You do not speak unless spoken to. You do not linger. You do not initiate personal conversation. You do not comment on my mood, my voice, or my body language."

My head starts spinning. What did hell kind of rules are these?

He turns fully to face me, and it hits harder than it should. He’s taller than I remember. Broader in this lighting. Like the hotel softened him and the office weaponized him.

"And above all," he says sharply, "you do not look me in the eyes unless I’ve permitted it."

My breath catches. It’s not the words — it’s the way he says them. Like they cost him something.

I nod, slowly. "Understood. Sir."

Sir. The word tastes sour.

His eyes linger on me for one full dangerous second, and then he looks away, as if I’ve burned him. He pulls a printed itinerary from his desk and lays it next to the folder.

"Today, you’ll accompany me to a press conference at 11:30. Then a lunch meeting with regional heads at 1:00. You’ll stay outside the rooms unless otherwise instructed. Make yourself useful. If you’re confused, figure it out."

The click of his pen is the only sound for a beat.

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