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“Great,” I mutter with zero enthusiasm as I head toward the elevator.
“Have a great day, Ms. O’Brien,” he calls from behind me. My shoes suddenly feel tight on my feet, and I worry I may trip. My blouse feels constrictive, making me gasp for air. The dangling earrings, the teardrop necklace…it’s all too much.
Licking my lips nervously, I step into the elevator on shaky legs and swipe my card as instructed, then press floor thirty. The glass doors of the elevator slide shut, and I begin to rise through the building. The higher I go, the smaller people below me become, like my fucking airway.
I’ve never had a panic attack before and wonder if this is how they start—clammy hands, shallow breathing, racing heart.
Dammit, I need to calm the fuck down.
Bringing my cup of coffee to my lips, I take a huge gulp and allow the bitter taste to ground me. In my haste, I’d forgotten to have them add sugar and creamer. But that’s okay, right now I think I need a bolder taste anyway.
My belly begins to churn next, bubble guts in full effect, and I just pray that I don’t end up shitting my pants because of my nerves.
Calm down, Rory. Calm the fuck down. You’ve faced Donald, you’ve dealt with fences. Hell, you’ve been fucking arrested. Being an assistant has to be one of the easiest things you’ve done. You’ve got this.
My pep talk sucks, and I don’t believe a word of it as the elevator opens to the empty lounge area where I once stood with hordes of women vying for this exact position.
I can still see Cindy with her fake blonde hair, her fake ass boobs, and her fake fucking smile plastered on her fake fucking lips. Bitch. Who’s sneering now, cunt face?
I pray the karma gods allow her to see me driving in my Ferrari just once before I have to give it back. And when I do, I’m going to roll down my window and yell, “What’s up, Sandy?” then give her the fucking finger.
It’s gonna be great.
My heels click on the tiled floor as I walk over to the double doors and push them open. Beyond are the four offices I visited once before, mine being the first on the right. Voices drift through the open doors, and their masculine scents assault me.
Shit.
They’re all here before me.
That was a rule. I had to be here before them and stay until the last of them left.
I’m already failing.
Stepping into my office, I hang my purse off the back of my desk chair and plop my ass down, snatching up another sticky note. The looping writing that I’ve deemed as Alistair’s stares back at me, giving me my first order as their employee.
Sit and wait.
“Do I get a fucking treat for being a good girl?” I mutter to myself before doing exactly that. Folding my hands on top of my desk, I stare across the hall and into the office belonging to Maddox. He’s entertaining a gentleman who now looks irate and is pacing in front of Maddox’s desk as he tugs at his hair. The offices are all soundproof, but Maddox has his door open, and I can hear them perfectly.
“We need the Beast!” he shouts. “They won’t accept anybody else!”
Maddox slams his fists onto his desk, making me jump, and then he growls a response. “Then they will have to fucking wait until I’m ready.”
That’s the most words I’ve ever heard him speak, but that’s not the most curious thing of all. Was he just referred to as the Beast? What is this? Some kind of fucked up fairy tale retelling?
He can be my beast, my slutty vagina fantasizes, and I almost want to slap her. Yeah, he’d probably be a good lay, but I’d undoubtedly lose part of myself in the process. Perhaps it would be worth it though…
One thing’s for sure, I wouldn’t have a fucking say in what happens. Maddox seems like the type of man who acts before he thinks, who takes before asking permission. I’d end up bruised and broken, but something tells me it would be worth it.
Maddox’s deep set, black eyes flick to me, and I see malice in his gaze. My heart freezes. I swiftly focus on the papers on my desk, shuffling through some of them like I wasn’t just fucking staring.
We both know I was.
Deciding to look through my desk, I open each drawer and check out the contents. The desk itself must be six feet long, made of an elegant dark wood, stained and polished to a shine. A rose gold Apple laptop rests in one corner, and a leatherbound paper calendar/organizer sits on the other. Directly in front of me is a phone sitting on a base that must have twenty fucking buttons on it, none of which I know how to work.
Opening the drawer directly in front of me, I find the shallow tray lined with pens, pencils, Sharpies, and highlighters. They are organized into little dividers, keeping everything neat and tidy. This must be Rogan’s doing. Honestly, it’s a little girl’s dream come true! All I need is one of those giant packs of Crayola crayons with the built-in sharpener and a few Lisa Frank coloring books, and I’d be all set.
Closing that one, I roll my seat back and note several more drawers lining either side of my desk. Starting with the top one on the left, I pull it open and find personalized stationery. My name is scrawled across the top in pretty calligraphy. I narrow my eyes when I see “Property of Dixen Enterprises” in small print just below it.
