He even talked to me like a normal person.
Then he walked me up the steps, saw me inside the penthouse, and he just… left.
Maybe I am being ungrateful, but am I wrong here? Because, if I remember correctly—and I’m pretty sure I do—there is a benefits clause in that contract. A clause that Ransome put in there because, and I quote,He has needs.There’s also amonogamy clause for the duration of the contract, which means that ifIhave needs, I am only allowed to have them fulfilled by him. And so far, save for a few hand touches as he helps me out of cars and knee bumps under the table, there haven’t been a lot of needs met.
I peel off the new heels that have no doubt worn blisters clear to my bone—because Ransome chose them, and how could a man possibly know a pair of comfy heels from a pair of tortuous ones?—and toss them across the room.
I might be acting like a middle school girl right now, but seriously, Idohave needs. And he is supposed to meet them, contractually at that. Yet here I am, alone, in his penthouse. I don’t even have my toy box, because it’s at home under my own bed where the rest of my things are. Because I am, in fact, stuck here.
“And to think I used to be obsessed with him,” I scold myself. “Or that I bought his charm”
I plop down on the couch and recap the evening.
He seemed interested. This is a man that I lusted after for months. It was a way to escape my life. A nice way, to be honest. And over those months, I got to know him a little by little. Not just his coffee order and the way he likes his suits pressed, but the things that make his lips tick in the hint of a smirk from time to time. Granted, it only lasts a second, but you don’t expect a miracle to go on forever.
Tonight, he actually seemed to open up a little. There was an inkling of light in him, that light I thought I’d been glimpsing in my devoted months of service. And it hits me that maybe, just maybe, Ransome isn’t just a man I found myself obsessing over.A man that I want carnally. The man I saw tonight—he could be more than that for me.The one,as Electra so romantically puts it.
That’s not to say that I wouldn’t still want him to rip my bra off with his teeth.
I mean, let’s be honest. Ransome is not a soft man byanystretch of the imagination. But after tonight, I almost believed that maybe, just maybe, he could be a good man. Even if he is some kind of drug lord.
My head is suddenly spinning with all the contradictory thoughts. I realize I am exhausted. And frustrated as fuck. So I go to bed, hoping that my irritation will be gone in the morning.
Unfortunately, that’s not really how my irritation works. It doesn’t just fade away with a good night’s sleep. It festers. When I wake up, I am exhausted from tossing and turning, and even more annoyed with the man than I was before.
But I have a job to do and I’ll do it. On eight hours or sleep or zero.
I wear the longest skirt on the rack, paired with the blouse with the highest neckline. I also opt for a pair of flats that I assume he intended for leisure and not work, but since my feet are still bleeding from last night’s heels, he doesn’t get to complain about my lack of dress code compliance.
Ivan drives me to the coffee shop. This time, I don’t try to make small talk with him, even though I’ve spent the last week or so determined to crack him. I’m just not in the mood.
I pick up our coffees and walk through the lobby and up the stairs without so much as a hello to anyone. I don’t have time to chat if I want to be prudently early. I am, after all, an important man’s assistant. No mere secretary.
I write up his schedule, print it out, and lay it on his desk front and center. Then I pour his coffee into a fresh mug and wait.
And wait.
Ransome walks through the door with eight seconds to spare, two seconds sooner than usual.
I hold out his coffee. Though my eyes are fixed on the wall in front of me, I can still see his face. He doesn’t look at me.
“Good morning Mr. Rozanov,” I say robotically.
“Miss Parker,” he says.
I swallow, hard and discrete.
He walks to his desk, looks out the window, sips his coffee, turns and looks at his schedule.
“A meeting with my father?” he asks, irritation in his tone.
“Yes, sir. Requested this morning,” I answer almost soldierly.
“Before lunch?” I can hear his knuckles cracking as he clenches his fists.
“Per your father’s request, Mr. Rozanov.”
“You should have consulted me first. I am not in the mood to meet with my father and his men today.” He rounds his desk and heads for the door, coffee in hand.
