Page 1 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

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OPHELIA

I scribble my signature at the bottom of my resignation letter and fold it into an envelope, running my tongue over the seal. My saliva on an envelope is the only thing Mr. Moretti will get from me as I walk out of his office and his life…

Effective immediately.

I finish drinking my coffee, dunking it in the sink as I prepare for my last day of being Salvatore Moretti’s executive assistant. Eight months of chasing after my boss, managing his calendar and gawping at his annoyingly beautiful face was fun while it lasted, but I pride myself on keeping my work life professional, never teetering over into that dangerous gray area.

I’m currently in that area, hence why this will be my last day working for Mr. Moretti. The eye contact’s getting way out of hand. His emerald eyes linger, giving me the green light to go ahead and fuck this all up for myself.

Unfortunately, the gender gap is a real thing, especially in the corporate world. Salvatore Moretti can fuck whomever he wants, and nothing sticks. But me? I pull him aside to update him on his schedule, and I’m seen as a whore.

I slip into my high heels, analyzing my outfit in the mirror. According to the HR ladies, pencil skirts and three-quarter-length-sleeve blouses are “inappropriate” for the workplace.

“Something’s definitely blooming between Phee and Salvatore,” I heard one of them say last week when they all piled into the restroom, unaware that I was taking a piss in one of the stalls. “Maybe. She certainly dresses like she wants to bend over his desk.”

Opening the stall and strutting out in my chiffon blouse was incredibly satisfying. Every single one of them went mute.

Sorry I refuse to dim my light and rotate the same three outfits every day.

My mother told me two things before she died, and although she was highly medicated, completely away with the fairies, I carry her words with me like a backpack that never comes off.

“Remember, Phee, the sun keeps shining even when someone gets burned. Always shine bright, and always stay away from the crows.”

The ‘crows’ thing has always made me laugh. She was put on life support in her final few days, hallucinations one of the symptoms, hence the crows, but everything else she said still resonates.

I relay her words to myself now, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Staying true to yourself in an ever-changing city like New York is important.

In this day and age, the most important asset a woman can have is her job, and I will not burn myself.

And in this instance, leaving is the only way I can hold up my impeccably high standards. Self-restraint only goes so far.

I slot the resignation letter into my purse and leave my apartment, entering the busy streets of New York.

Summer in this city is the worst. The slut shaming increases with the temperature as I walk into the office showing more skin than usual.

I clutch my purse, rattling along in the subway for ten minutes before arriving at the Financial District.

Butterflies rouse in my stomach as I cross the road, heading to the office block. I miss the days when my pulse used to be steady, when I walked into the building tired, my body craving caffeine instead of my boss. Packing a spare pair of panties in my purse was something I never had to worry about, because I never used to be turned on at work.

I inhale a deep breath, stepping into the reception area.

Mr. Moretti’s building is one of the tallest in the Financial District, soaring high into the air, quite like the owner himself.

The interior is contemporary in design, fit with sleek offices built entirely out of glass. Nothing is kept private. You can walk past offices when meetings are in session at your own leisure. The soundproof walls are fun for employees as they attempt to lip-read, guessing what’s being said.

“They’re talking about Mr. Moretti’s latest conquest,” said my friend Sapphire once when I was giving her a tour around the building.

“That man has enough money.”

“Oh, not money,” said Sapphire, bursting into laughter. “Pussy.”

Naturally.

I cross the lobby, butterflies flapping in my stomach as I overthink Salvatore Moretti’s reaction to me quitting.

I bite my lip, coming to a halt in the middle of the lobby. Familiar faces pass me, some offering me a smile, others blanking me. I’m not here to make friends. Not even acquaintances. I’m here to act professional and pay off the apartment I bought, period.