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CHAPTER1
evie
Even if, in theory, it sounds appealing, strangling your boss with one of his priceless silk ties is a bad idea. After all, jailhouse orange is a hideous color, and I highly doubt attempted murder is conducive to earning the raise I’ve been after for the past year and a half.
Telling myself that usually gets me through a day without killing anyone—at least when my phoneisn’tbuzzing with a barrage of incoming text messages. The gist of them, which sent me rushing to the office in the first place, spells out a familiar scenario—Bellamy’s on the warpath.
Given the milieu of horrific scenarios that might entail, I can only pray for restraint as I race into an empty elevator on the building’s first floor. Then, all hope for a good day vanishes as a new message flashes across my phone’s screen—He’s throwing things again.
I grit out a sigh. What damage lies in wait this time?
Just last week, he threw his cell phone through the glass doors of an upscale restaurant. It took four hours of negotiations with the owner, on my part, to convince him not to make the incident public. To reward my efforts, Bellamy ordered me to purchase a phone “stronger” than the last. As if the darn thing should have survived an impact with a sheet of glass.
To my credit, I didn’t take my own outdated flip phone and shove it through his eye socket—though even the world’s most hardened judge couldn’t blame me if I finallydidsnap, considering that Graeme Bellamy puts the “ass” in bastard. As head of the prestigious Atelier Noir, the company I work for, he also happens to put food on my table.
We straddle a strange, fine line—the dangerous one between hate and a grudging sort of respect. Even though I initially became his assistant out of a desire to avoid homelessness rather than to pursue a career in corporate America—or fashion, for that matter—three years later, I’m still here because of him.
For all hisquirks, Graeme Bellamy also puts the “star” in bastard, and spit-shines it while he’s at it. At the age of thirty-two, he is already one of the most influential men, not only in his native UK, but also worldwide. With his claim to fame being the steward of a lingerie brand, the rise to power seems doubly impressive. As a fashion pioneer catering to some of the richest women and men in the world, Atelier Noir is expanding far beyond silky bralettes.
If only its owner possessed a personality comparable to the brand’s comfortable attire. While his sister, Stella Bellamy-Ashton, curates the fashion side of the business, he is solely responsible for aggressively growing their market share to astronomical results. Admittedly, to those who view him from afar—namely any warm-blooded woman within a five-mile radius—Graeme Bellamy is a god. But to those who know him personally?
Devil is almost too polite a term.
“Where in the world have you been?” Branden, a sales analyst, snaps the moment I step out of the elevator and into the lobby of the twelfth floor, better known as hell. The wing contains Mr. Bellamy’s private office and houses the boardroom where he conducts most of his business—aka the fiery pit. “Was, ‘Bellamy’s on the warpath’ not urgent enough for you to hustle, Evie?”
Dressed in a navy suit with a black tie partially askew, Branden Anderson looks as though he barely survived his last tussle with the devil. His short, light brown hair is wild and unkempt, his brown eyes wide with fear. The expression touches my soul, and his brusqueness is instantly forgiven.
Surging past him, I steel myself for the nightmare I’ll find up ahead. “What happened this time?” I ask, mentally bracing for the worst-case scenarios—someone is nursing a concussion, courtesy of one of Bellamy’s hand-held devices. Or he broke something again. Or he punched another politician in the face. All those possibilities threaten to trigger a panic attack—but I’ve dealt with worse.
“The proposed merger with that Eastern European distributor fell through,” Branden explains while smoothing the front of his blazer. “He’s furious.” His crisp British accent cracks, revealing the Scouse Liverpool twang that he secretly spent thousands of dollars on voice lessons trying to disguise.
The devil must be in quite the mood. I’ve only seen Branden this disgruntled whenanotherbusiness partner bailed out of negotiations at the last minute, and Mr. Bellamy inadvertently tried to decapitate him by throwing his cell phone against a wall.
He has a habit of doing that, and I am almost certain another device is about to meet its violent end.Damn.My only form of protection is my bag—thankfully, I’ve learned, since my very first day, never to walk within a yard radius of Bellamy without some sort of shield.
“That bad, huh?” I eye the way Branden’s hands shake as he attempts to smooth his hair and wince in sympathy.
“Worse. You best be on your guard,” he tells me, but his gaze finds the bag slung over my right shoulder, and he sighs. “Though what am I saying? You’re the only one who can calm him down.”
Calm, being the relative word.
“Wish me luck,” I say while warily approaching the boardroom door. Its smooth surface reflects just enough light for me to make out my appearance.
Thanks to the unceremonious wake-up call, I look like shit. My hair is an unruly mess, barely tamed by a hair tie and three bobby pins. No concealer in the world could disguise the circles under my eyes, and the only makeup I had the energy to apply was a streak of ChapStick along my lower lip. Oh hell, I’m breaking all the rules today—Mr. Bellamy demands a polished appearance at all times, but he can kiss my ass.
Just as soon as I finish spanking his.
The moment my hand brushes the doorknob, I work to school my expression. Tighten that upper lip first. Narrow my eyes to minimize the exhaustion second. Finally, I test my breath against the back of my free hand.
All clear. As I push open the door, I become Ms. King, the devil’s assistant, and the only person in the world capable of surviving one of his temper tantrums unscathed—or so the rumors claim.
That assertion is put to the test as what I assume is a silver letter opener ricochets off the wall, inches from my head. Bang!
In anticipation of the next airborne object, I seek out my assailant—the man seated at a massive desk who rips a cell phone from his ear and promptly throws it into the nearby wastepaper basket. It’s barely made a thud amid a wad of crumpled paper before he’s wrenched open his desk drawer and withdrawn a spare—my suggestion after the last ten device mishaps.
“It’s you,” he growls. Despite my resolve, it takes every ounce of steel that my military father instilled within me to keep from flinching as two ice-blue eyes find me the instant I step over the threshold. God, this man is gorgeous—it’s just too bad his temper is equally impressive. His fingers tap a dangerous rhythm against the edge of his desk as he hunts my frame for any flaw to level an insult at. When he spots my bag, the malice in his gaze detonates. “You’re late, Evelyn.”
I wince. Bellamy’s usually musical British accent is crisp and flat this morning. Branden had under-exaggerated. Bellamy isn’t on the warpath as much as he’s strolling down massacre lane.
