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I bring up the Ignis website on my laptop later that night in bed, clicking idly through the tabs. I’ve read every single word a hundred times, but this is my routine now. It soothes me.
Mostly, though, I’m killing time until I click to the page about the boss. Levi Laurent frowns from his profile photo, so grouchy and stern even on his own website. His eyes pierce through the screen, and I shift against the bed sheets, cheeks warming. The laptop cooks against my lap.
Loathing. This is what loathing feels like. That’s why I’m so hot and bothered by this man.
You can’t tell from this photo, but his eyes are green. Bottle green. Oh, the irony.
“Hello, spawn of Satan.” I scan Mr Laurent’s bio for the millionth time, but obviously there’s nothing interesting there. Nothing useful. It’s sanitized PR, but what am I hoping for? That overnight, someone might have changed it to list all his secret phobias? “I’m going to make you suffer. You have no idea what’s coming for you.”
Neither do I, to be honest, but… details. I’ll figure something out.
Because I’m close to him now. In his office every day, bringing him drinks and controlling his calendar, with an inside peek into his business affairs. Surely I can ruin his life somehow.
And as I glare at Mr Laurent with his tailored shirt and sharp jaw, my chest simmers—with anger, not guilt. In my belly are the hot snakes of rage.
I can do this. I can.
Revenge will be mine.
Four
Levi
Ilean back in my desk chair with a groan, massaging my temples. This week has been awful—just one disaster after another—and if I were a superstitious man, I’d think I was cursed.
The canceled meetings and the broken elevator. The faulty fire alarm that keeps going off at the worst possible moments. Even the vile coffee that my assistant brings… and what does she do, stew it in an old boot?
It’s all put me weeks behind schedule, with pissed off contacts and extra-harried employees. My shoulders are so tense, my bones should crack.
“Coffee, sir.”
Georgina’s blonde head pokes around the office door, then the rest of her body follows. She’s in a burgundy dress today, with long sleeves and a little black collar. I watch her bring a steaming mug across the room, held aloft like she’s awarding me a prize and not assaulting my taste buds.
“Ah. Thank you.”
Tell her. Tell her she makes the worst coffee you’ve ever tasted.Tell her to bring you drinks from the cafe across the street from now on.
“You don’t need to stay late,” I say instead. “There’s not much you can do.”
As the boss, it’s all on me. It’s always on me. Besides, the worse things get around here, the happier my assistant seems to be. Must be some bizarre coping mechanism.
Sure enough, Georgina beams as she places the mug on my desk. “I don’t mind. You seem stressed, Mr Laurent.”
I bet I do. The way she stands there, waiting expectantly for me to drink her awful coffee—that doesn’t help, either. She always lingers until I take the first sip, and I have to force my lips into a smile. Like she’s a toddler bringing me a macaroni picture frame.
“It’s been a long week.” Maybe for once she’ll take the hint and leave.
Georgina hums. “Oh, I forgot to tell you earlier. Someone saw a rat on the third floor. I called pest control, but they need to shut down the whole building for a day while they deal with it.”
Shut… the whole…
“Mr Laurent?” Her voice sounds tinny. Like it’s coming from far away. Slender hands grip the back of my chair, and she spins me to face her.
Blue eyes gleam as she stares down at me. Is that… triumph?
“You look terrible,” my assistant says, her lips moving out of sync with her voice. What is wrong with my brain? And why does she seem so pleased with my misery? Her mouth curves up into a smile, and fuck, she’s so close. So kissable.Thatwould help me burn off some stress, I’m sure. “Maybe you should stop for the night. Come back rested.”
