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And people who pay the bills always get their way, I think with a sigh while switching my laptop open. Pulling out the report Mr. Rochester’s asked for, I update it with the latest data and click Send thirty-five seconds after.
A moment later, a message pops up over my inbox.
Your message has been sent.
Ha! Take that, Mr. Rochester.
Getting up, I close my laptop – hopefully for the last time – and just as I pick my bag up from the floor, the iPhone I’ve shoved in my back pocket chimes out a message alert – and it’s the special tone I have assigned to my asshole boss.
Seriously?
I reluctantly take my phone out and read his text.
Mr. Rochester: Update on the Marconi report?
Me: Already sent, sir.
Mr. Rochester: Good girl.
I grimace. The former PAs probably had their hearts skipping a beat over that, but I just can’t help feel it’s a little bit condescending. Then again, I’m also the practical sort, and I know the words “good woman” don’t quite have the same ring.
But then, I continue arguing mentally to myself, if he had a male PA, I doubt Mr. Rochester would have told him ‘good boy’ by way of praise.
So whatever way you look at it, he’s being a little sexist—-
Mr. Rochester: Inform Maria for me you’re scheduled for overtime bonus, will you?
—-but I’ll totally forgive him for that since Mr. Rochester is, in my opinion, the best boss ever.
Me: Understood, sir. Thank you, sir.
No reply follows, but I don’t mind.
Yes, yes, yes!
In the mood to celebrate, I impulsively decide to make a detour towards the kitchen, which is exclusive for the penthouse staff and always has a fully stocked pantry. It’s definitely going to have everything I’d want for a celebratory dinner, I think happily, and even better all of it will be free.
On my way I catch a glimpse of my reflection on the glass walls of the office, and my nose wrinkles, like it always do, when I’m confronted by the reality of my appearance.
Hair – average.
Eyes – average.
Even my body is the same, neither thin nor chubby but just...average.
The thought of what Mr. Rochester would say if he sees me makes my nose wrinkle anew.
Bloody mediocre?
I mentally nod to myself as I enter the kitchen. Yeah, that would probably it. Although I’ve been working for Mr. Rochester for the past half month, my boss and I actually haven’t come face to face yet. In the past two weeks that I’ve been his P.A., Mr. Rochester has only been communicating with me either by phone or email.
Even so—-
Why are there moments when I feel like I’ve known him for a long time?
I mull this over as I rifle through the pantry’s contents. Maybe it’s because Mr. Rochester never tiptoes around me? Unlike my previous bosses, who were all perfect gentlemen, our British CEO is so rude there are times he makes me seem nice. He likes calling a spade a spade, never mind if he ends up rubbing other people the wrong way.
I kinda admire him for that, I admit to myself grudgingly, but only when his viciously blunt words aren’t directed at me.
After finally settling on some Japanese crabstick salad and pasta, I pull out my phone to browse my newsfeed on my socials, and I let out an inelegant snort as I’m once again greeted by an insane number of friend requests.
It’s been like that ever since word’s spread that I’m now Mr. Rochester’s PA, which I think is stupid. What did these women expect me to do, anyway? It’s not like our resident bad boy would ask me for dating advice or something.
After washing up, I make myself a cup of latte and go back to scrolling up on my newsfeed. I take my time perusing photos and status messages but not liking or commenting on anything. It’s just endlessly fascinating to me how people seem not to have any qualms posting everything on their feed—-
I don’t get it, but I do respect it, and it’s another thing I sort of admire. At least they’re putting their selves out there, which is more than I can say for myself. As I take another sip of my latte, an article shared by someone from my old high school catches my eye.
CONSTANTIN EDWARD ROCHESTER – EXPOSED!
Obvious click bait, I think to myself, snorting over my mug.
But it also works, and so I click.
The link takes me to my mobile browser, and a new page starts to load.
What the—-
My face warms as a single photo takes up the entire screen of my iPhone, and I realize too late what exposed means.
In the photo, my boss is lying lazily on a bed of white silk sheets, ebony black hair tousled, one arm behind his head, and his sapphire blue eyes smirking at the camera.
