"Darling," Charlotte drawls, sinking back into her chair. Despite her typical cool, elegant composure; the lithe, calloused palms of her hands grip hard against the edge of the desk. When she lifts her gaze up to meet yours—her eyes gleam, frown imperceptibly tugging at her lips. She's frustrated. Bothered by something.

"Come here." She murmurs, a request—but also, technically, an order. You're her assistant, isn't it your job to help her?