As Elis left the room, Delancy was already by the lift, files in hand.
She was always waiting—precise, composed, unshakably prepared.
"Brief me on my schedule," I said, adjusting my cuffs.
Without a word, she handed over the files. Efficient as ever.
People often said speaking to Delancy felt like addressing a machine—razor-sharp gaze, unreadable expression, all business.
To me, she was invaluable.
Delancy kept the firm humming, shielded me from meddlesome colleagues, never once questioned my affairs. She knew better than to pry. Better yet—she didn't care.
"Your personal life is not part of my job scope, sir, nor would it interest me."
I remembered those words from her interview—crisp, clinical. She hadn't even blinked at my looks. No awe. No intrigue.
She really was the best secretary I'd ever hired. Tough as nails. Immune to flattery. Ruthlessly efficient.
"No, Mr. Gacanagh would not like to go through the details with you, Edwin," she snapped at a nervous young lawyer.
Her tone: crisp. Final.
"Take it up with your assigned mentor."
The lawyer slumped, defeated.
I smirked. Excellent.
Everyone in this firm wanted to impress me. Earn my recognition. That's why I needed a gatekeeper like Delancy—impervious to charm, untouched by ambition, and utterly fearless.
But she hadn't always been this way.
A few years ago, Delancy Anders was a wife. Trapped in a marriage to a man unworthy of the title. He controlled her finances, her movements, her breath. The kind of man who believed raising a hand made him powerful.
I despise men like that.
So I ended it.
No courtroom. No drawn-out proceedings.
I simply… spoke to him.
When I left his house, he never touched her again. He left the country soon after. No forwarding address. No trace.
When Delancy joined the firm, she never asked what I'd done.
She didn't want to know.
That made her perfect.
I paid her above market, ensured her son's future. How do I keep her?
Simple. I top up her salary from my own pocket.
In return, she kept my empire razor-sharp. My schedule: flawless. My enemies: at bay.
She was not a pawn. Not a fool.
She was simply… mine.
My secretary. Ruthlessly efficient.
So what if they called her cold? Said talking to her was like speaking to ice?
Greatness isn't for crybabies.
There's always work during the day. A necessary evil.
Kitsunes and Banshees could wait.
The day drifted by—quiet, uneventful. The kind of peace that lets paperwork breathe.
I leaned back in my chair, gaze slipping past the glass wall overlooking Sommerville. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting amber streaks across the skyline. Below, fog coiled between towers, creeping along streets like ghostly fingers.
Then—
A scuffle outside my office.
Delancy's voice sliced through the air, sharp and clean.
"No, Mrs. Flowers, you have to clean the workspace."
"But they're not paying me," came the frail reply, tinged with exhaustion.
Oh?
I despise disruptions—especially ones I didn't orchestrate.
The slow scrape of my chair across polished floors silenced the room.
When I stepped out, the scene greeted me:
Delancy, composed and cold.
Mrs. Flowers, clutching her mop like a lifeline.
Delancy didn't even look at me.
"Sir," she said, "the facilities team we subcontracted isn't paying the cleaners."
"And?" I folded my arms.
Without pause, she handed me a slip of paper.
"Name and number of the person in charge—for you to threaten, if you'd like to handle it yourself."
A slow grin crept across my face.
Oh, this was far too entertaining to delegate.
"Stay," I told Mrs. Flowers, and dialed the number from the office phone.
A few rings. Then a hesitant click.
"Hello, Richard. Are you actually withholding the cleaners' salaries?"
Silence. Then a nervous breath.
"Mr. Gacanagh. It's… a surprise to hear from you. But I must say, this isn't exactly your concern. We have our own ways of handling—"
Not my concern?
My fingers tapped a deliberate rhythm on the desk.
"Let me be clear. I am a busy man. I have a specific way I want things done. You've disrupted it.
Pay the cleaners—or you will never have the chance to do anything again."
Silence. Cold. Heavy. Then:
"Y-Yes, Mr. Gacanagh. I'll see to it. Immediately."
Click.
I exhaled slowly through my nose.
Simple. Efficient.
Moments later, Mrs. Flowers' phone rang.
She answered, then gasped.
"Oh—oh, thank you, sir! Thank you!"
She bowed, trembling, and hurried off like I might change my mind.
I nodded, already reaching for the next file Delancy had placed on my desk.
"Tomorrow," I muttered, dismissing the matter.
Work for the day was done.
But as you might expect...
Elis's words still lingered.
Banshee.
That screaming, white-haired legend of this town.
I needed to find her.