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“Listen very carefully to me, Ms. Reed.”
And so I do—-
“Because the next words I’ll speak will determine the course of your life.”
And so it does.
“YOU LOOK HORRIBLE,” Virginia, the penthouse receptionist, declares as soon as I come in for work the next day.
“Do I?” I ask uninterestedly while writing my name on the logbook. Virginia’s always hated me for being chosen as Mr. Rochester’s PA, a job she apparently also applied for – and obviously failed to nab. Once in a while, the sting of her failure gets to her, and it’s in those instances she’d try to make these little digs, like now—-
“Unfortunately,” she says sweetly, “I’m not lying.”
“Fortunately,” I say just as sweetly as I return the logbook to her, “I don’t care.”
There’s a pause, and then she says stiffly, “Ha.”
And so it ends like always, with Virginia always losing for lack of a proper comeback.
Virginia’s gaze narrows on me as I move on to the second half of our company’s two-step authentication process and I digitally clock in by placing my thumb on the scanner.
“You’re acting strange,” she says suspiciously.
She’s right. Normally, I’d be on a roll by now. In my book, all’s fair in bitch fights and if you start something with me, I’m going to damn well finish it.
Or at least that’s what I do, normally.
But right now, I’m far from feeling normal and it’s all because of—-
The door to the CEO’s office suddenly opens, and everyone in the floor shuts up and sort of freezes.
Speak of the devil.
I’m equal parts fascinated and disgusted at Mr. Rochester’s effect on people, but one thing I’m not is surprised. It’s just further proof of my belief how much people who pay the bills can get away with, and I can’t help lifting my chin defiantly when my boss reaches the reception, stopping only a few inches from where I’m standing.
The scent of his aftershave teases my nostrils, and I involuntarily jerk. The telltale reaction causes Mr. Rochester’s blue eyes to glint, and my teeth gnash. Damn him.
A part of me has secretly hoped he’d be less imposing in daylight, but of course these hopes turn out to be foolish. Although Mr. Rochester is still as coldly handsome as ever, there’s something about the way sunlight pools around his feet that makes him seem even...ethereal.
Which is plain unfair, I think grumpily, considering how he’s a devil in disguise.
He inclines his head at me in greeting, murmuring, “Ms. Reed.”
Shit. It doesn’t escape me that I’m the only one he’s deigned to acknowledge – and neither has it escaped anyone else, considering how many eyebrows shot up at the special attention he’s giving me.
The realization has me squirming internally. Maybe other girls like being singled out this way, but not me and definitely not when this particular man is concerned.
But...he’s the one who pays the bills.
And so I swallow back my reservations and general dislike, and I force myself to smile politely. “Mr. Rochester.”
And let it please end with that, I wish fervently.
But of course it doesn’t.
Ever since I’ve started working in the penthouse floor, the one thing I always hear people say is how terrifyingly aloof and moody Mr. Rochester is, with a beast of a temper. I’m sure this is all true, which is why I’m just as sure that when Mr. Rochester’s lips curve into the most devilishly sexy smile...I know he’s doing it just to get a rise out of me.
Damn him.
Jaws drop all around us as the rest of the staff tries to adjust to the reality of our CEO knowing how to do something else besides brood. Some react more viciously – Virginia in particular – and I grit my teeth as I feel women’s gazes shoot daggers at my back.
Like I said, I hate being singled out, especially if it makes people think it’s because I’m special when in reality I’m just being bullied.
I scowl at Mr. Rochester. Glad you’re having fun at my expense.
My boss’ smile becomes even more devastating. I am, thank you.
God, why can’t movies like The Purge be real? Because if it is, I just know who I’m going to kill—-
Mr. Rochester makes an imperious gesture in my direction. “I’ve just remembered I need a private word with you, Ms. Reed.”
I open my mouth, intending to make up all kinds of excuses to refuse—-
“And in case you’re in doubt,” Mr. Rochester drawls, “it’s not a request.”
Shit. I manage not to choke on my rage as I force out the only acceptable answer. “Yes, Mr. Rochester.”
The walk to his office as I follow behind my asshole of a boss is like heading down death’s row, and even worse I feel like I’m collecting enemies with every few seconds that pass. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, as the saying goes, and right now I’m definitely on every woman’s kill list.
