Page 24 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

We share a look as I sit down next to him, wrapping my fingers around the pen, desperate to make notes so I have something to do with my hands.

Mr. Moretti is meeting with a senior investment banker from Wall Street.

“We have a competitor open to acquisition," begins the man. The crisp white shirt on his back must have taken some serious ironing, seeing as though there’s not a single crease on the shirt.

I remember walking in on Salvatore yesterday, seeing the blood slashed across his shirt. Is making people bleed a normal part of business, a way to keep people in line?

Perhaps I’ve been walking around with rose tinted glasses my entire life, unaware of the unpolished, more grittier sides of this industry. The Oxford shoes, straight black ties and crisp white shirts allude to professionalism, but human beings are animals at the end of the day, as I now know myself, having experienced a different side to Mr. Moretti on Friday.

Even the most powerful people in society have needs, and I wonder if people like Mr. Moretti are hungry for things far worse than money and sex.

Fifteen minutes later, the meeting is being wrapped up and people start leaving.

“Nice to meet with you, Mr. Moretti,” says the banker, reaching across the table to shake his hand. “I hope to see you at the Stock Exchange two weeks from now.”

“I look forward to it.”

I finish jotting down notes and open the door, seeing suited men out of the office, offering them smiles. Some take the smiles too literally, seeing it as an invitation to ask what I’m doing on the weekend.

“Miss Bennett has lots of work to complete for me this weekend,” intercepts Mr. Moretti, seeing the last gentleman out. “Thank you for attending this meeting…” He shuts the door behind the man, facing me… “On time.”

“Please forgive me, Mr. Moretti.”

“For being four minutes late?” He narrows his eyes at me. “You lost a mark for punctuation for today.”

“I never knew you were counting.”

“Good work, but you’re still my executive assistant.”

“Wait.” I blink, confused. “You think I was deliberately late?”

“What other explanation would there be? You were planning to end your position here.”

“Yes, and you disapproved by soaking the letter in blood,” I say, crossing a line as I challenge authority in a semi-public place. Speaking out of line is a felony, even when we’re alone. Surrounded by people walking past, on display to the rest of the building, makes this situation even more tense as Salvatore flashes me a glare, his green eyes coming to life.

“I trust that you’re keeping this unfortunate event to yourself, Miss Bennett, and will continue to do so.”

“I can sign a non-disclosure if that’ll make you feel more comfortable," I say, crossing boundaries yet again by throwing jokes into the conversation.

Mr. Moretti clenches his jaw, taking the non-disclosure joke very seriously. I’m sure this is no laughing matter.

“It’s come to my attention, Miss Bennett, that you’re still here.”

“I’m being courteous and engaging in conversation with my boss.”

“Not that,” he says, watching me intensely. “I’m sure you would have quit by now if you really wanted to.”

“You made a rather interesting point yesterday,” I say, watching him. “You value what I bring to the table.”

“Yes,” Mr. Moretti says. “When I’m not throwing you over the table.”

Shivers rush down my spine, wetness leaking down my thighs. Him talking dirty to me when the entire building can look into this room is risky.

I glance over my shoulder, making eye contact with two female colleagues from the HR department. Both issue me scolding glares as they walk past the glass very slowly.

“You’re letting other people write your story, Miss Bennett.”

“Sometimes, other people’s opinions determine how successful I will be.”