I startle so badly that my chair knocks into the desk, nearly knocking over my pen jar. “Jesus, do you—do you hover for sport?” I mutter, a furious heat creeping up my neck and cheeks.
He raises a single eyebrow, not amused. “You were staring off into space,” he says. “You’re supposed to be working.”
“Sorry, sorry,” I sigh, rubbing my eyes once before cursing under my breath at the mascara smeared on the side of my finger. “I’m just—I’m just tired. I’ll focus.”
“Probably because you were up until three a.m. writing something that should’ve already been done,” he deadpans. “Run this by me before you finish it so you at least know if I hate it before you print it.”
I fight not to roll my eyes. “You’ll probably still hate it, regardless.”
“True,” he says, turning away from me and stalking back to the door. “But maybe I’ll hate it less.”
He retreats without another word, shutting the door again, and I’m left staring at my screen. My heart is thumping, skin prickling, and my brain absolutelyrefusesto behave.
It shouldn’t bother me how much he hates my work sometimes. Usually, it doesn’t. But I’m exhausted and stressed, and it’s like he doesn’t care how his words land, even when I’m clearly not on form. He’s able to walk away unbothered while I’m left stewing in my bruised pride with questions I don’t dare ask in case he sees it as weak.
Sometimes, not always, but sometimes I wish I could quit, wish I could walk out of this office and never look back.
If I didn’t need my paycheck like oxygen, I would.
At least then I wouldn’t have to work on the other side of a door from him, wouldn’t have to rewritemyselfjust to survive him.
I hate him, and I hate that Idon’thate him.
If I didn’t need this job, I’d tell him exactly where he could shove his press release. But I do need it. What’s worse, my body wants him. Wants the proximity and his broody, stupid stares and crude words, wants hands I can only imagine on my skin. Which is insane.
He probably doesn’t even know how to want someone like me, not really. He’s not the kind of man who sees women like me as an option. I’m mouthy and curvy, with opinions that don’t come sugar-coated. I can feel it in the way he moves, hear it in the way he talks. He’s used to sleek, polished,yeswomen in sky-high Louboutins with mouths primed for compliance. Women who wouldn’t dream of rolling their eyes at him behind his back, or fantasize about him bending them over a mahogany desk.
Okay, maybe that last one is fair, but he doesn’t wantme. Not really. He just wants my work to be in top form.
But, fuck, I want him, and it’s fine.
I’m used tofine.
Chapter 2
Anthony
The boardroom is warm, too warm, and there’s too many people in here. There are seven people talking at the same time, and not one of them is saying anything I didn’t already know walking in.
Joseph Brant drones on about the next collection’s margins while Karen Bartley taps her pen with all the subtlety of a nuclear countdown. Someone is speaking about the quarterly projections and macro trends, and I don’t have the patience to listen to any of it. With the meeting room’s espresso machine broken, I can’t even make myself a cup of energy.
My phone vibrates once in my pocket. I ignore it.
Karen opens her mouth, and I have to steel myself in advance for the dull humming of her voice as she mentions something about social media. I want to tell her she knows absolutely nothing about online marketing and to shut her mouth, but I can’t bring myself tocareenough.
I feel another vibration in my pocket and sigh quietly while I slip my phone out to glance at the subject line of the email alert.
Voss Trust: Clause Review — URGENT
From legal.
I unlock my phone, keeping my face still. My eyes scan the first few lines, then the whole thing, slower.
Inheritance terms remain contingent on direct lineage…must produce a legal heir before age fifty…failure to comply will result in dissolution of controlling interest per original trust charter…
The words turn into an annoying roar in my head. Of course. Ofcourse,my father would’ve buried a clause like this in the fine print. A final reminder that nothing I’ve built is truly, fully mine. Ultimately, I exist to continue the bloodline. Even from his grave, he’s reminding me of that.
I’ll be fifty in less than two years.
