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His office is in the very far corner of the third level, secluded from everyone else, and an empty desk sits in front of it. A lumpis stuck in my throat at the thought of him because he was the one who kept rejecting my resume.
Why?
What’s so wrong about me, and why did he finally end up giving me the position?
But it doesn’t really matter. I am here, and I will do everything to prove to Mr. Locke that he wasted two years without having me on his team.
Also, I will not mention how hot he is.
Absolutely not.
Okay, that’s a complete lie, I will scream it out loud; Landon Locke is a freaking hottie. But I’m a professional and will keep my screams to myself.
Thank you very much.
Or so I thought…
2
LANDON
“What?”
I mean to ask in a normal, maybe slightly worried voice but it comes out as a fucking shriek.
“What do you mean Sydney got into a car accident and can’t come to work? Why wouldn’t she?”
Maybe I’m an idiot, but I really can’t understand why Cole from HR is telling me that my personal assistant can’t come back to work because her car got smashed? It’s fucking New York. Things like that happen on daily bases. Scratch that on hourly bases.
I need my assistant, she might be annoying, but she knows her shit and doesn’t mess up. Too much. Or too often. And that’s already considered phenomenal in my book.
People are delinquent idiots, and I’m not easy to please—well, at work—I hold my employees to a high standard because we are running the best magazine in the world. Everyone depends on us for news. Everyone trusts us to speak the truth, educate them, sell them a fairytale, and open their eyes to the harsh realities of the idols they worship.
We exploit the nooks and crannies of their lives. We dig up the dirt and show off the dirty laundry. No one’s secrets are safe from us. And everyone has got some.
That much, I am sure of.
Do I feel disgusted with myself for splashing in lies? Nope. Not even a bit.
It’s not my fault the world works this way. Not my fault men and women can’t stay fucking faithful. Not my fault they are weak for that drink or drugs, forbidden pussy or cock. Not my fault lying idiots don’t realize that all truths come out eventually.
I’m just here to break through the pink fog of adoration. To rip open those closets full of skeletons. One bastard at a time.
And now I have to do it alone? I’m a damn CEO. I don’t do shit alone.
When I took over Fashion Linc two years ago, it was a sinking ship with thousands of lawsuits filed against it. With a bunch of incompetent idiots working in it and rotting it from the inside.
Not anymore.
I took care of the cases against us and fired seventy percent of the idiots mentioned above. Just in two years, I turned this magazine into a goldmine.
I am fucking amazing. I am brilliant, and I saved it. But I do need my team. All of them.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Locke, maybe I didn’t make myself clear. Miss Hall didn’t just crush her car; she was heavily injured and has to go through extensive rehabilitation now,” Cole tries to explain to me again. And I still don’t see how it is my problem. She was hired to do her job, she did it okay, and I expect her to show up every damn day and keep doing it. I don’t have time to hire someone, train them, or mold them to fit my needs. The newbies always go nuts when they learn of my ways.
I sigh and say through gridded teeth, “For how long?”
“I’m sorry, for how long what?” Cole looks petrified, shifting nervously on his seat across from me.
