Byron parks the car and his gaze lingers on me, still heated from earlier.
I turn to him with a grin, leaning in close, I stare down at his now flaccid dick. "Thanks for the ride," I say to it, my voice thick with mischief.
He shakes his head, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips told me all I need to know. Only I could make him this vulnerable, and he knows it.
I hop down the car. "If I don't see my car—"
"I said I was gon' send someone to pick it up. I dunno what's so special about it anyway," he says, giving me a look that screams yes, I said it.
What's so special about my car? I drive a Tesla. A FUCKING TESLA. And he's seriously asking me what's special about it?
I was about to list the reason my Tesla is special when he cuts me off again. "You're twenty-eight minutes late." He glances at his wrist. "Twenty-nine." Raising a brow, he smirks. "You were saying?"
"Fuck you," I curse, slamming the door and marching toward the towering building ahead of me.
I'm late, yes. Do I need the job? Absolutely not.
I just graduated from college, and Byron insisted I get a job. Trust me, I flat-out refused. But, of course, Byron being Byron, he went ahead and landed me a job at one of the world's biggest marketing companies—without my consent. What's his fucking problem? He keeps acting like he's my father—not when he's fucking me though.
They should've rejected me on the spot, considering I don't have any prior experience. But they didn't. For a second, I thought, maybe—just maybe—it was my 3.75 GPA that secured me the position.
It wasn't.
It was Byron.
I sigh, standing in the middle of the lobby, feeling the weight of a dozen eyes on me. Nosy office workers, gossiping like they've never seen a girl in jeans before. I catch a whisper from a woman passing by with her colleague: "Is she the new P.A.?"
Holy fuck. I'm the new P.A.? As in, personal assistant to the CEO. I thought I'd be fetching coffee or answering phones, maybe pretending to do some filing. Byron is so dead when I get my hands on him.
I chuckle under my breath, catching another snippet of judgment from the peanut gallery. "She's dressed so informal." Informal? They should be grateful I didn't show up in the bodycon dress I'd originally planned on wearing.
Finally, I make my way over to the reception desk where Dianne—my old college friend and now the company receptionist—stood behind the counter.
Dianne had told me, once we graduated, that she'd landed a job here in Manhattan, at one of the world's biggest marketing companies, as a receptionist. Honestly, I was surprised—not because it's a billion-dollar company—because people are actually willing to work.
I flash her a grin. "Good morning, D," I greet, leaning casually on the counter.
She adjusts her glasses with a frown. "Rae, you're late."
"I'm not late. Everyone is just…" I glance around at the tailored suits, all staring at me like I don't belong here. They couldn't get enough, could they? "...early," I finish, turning back to her.
She shakes her head like a disappointed teacher. "Mr. Evans is in a meeting in one of the conference rooms."
"Is he cute?" If I'm going to be stuck working with this guy, I at least need to know what I'm dealing with.
Dianne's eyes widen. "It's not gonna work on him, Rae," she says, her tone dead serious.
How many times have I heard that? People never seem to get it: men will always be men. If it's not alcohol, it's sex, or both.
"You sure?" I ask, a smirk creeping onto my face.
Dianne smiles, surrendering with a small sigh. "What am I kidding? It's you."
I chuckle at her resignation. It's always like this with Dianne—she knows me too well.
But then, her eyes start trailing down, taking in my outfit, and I see the slight frown forming. Black crop top, gray baggy jeans, white sneakers. Not exactly screaming "office attire," but I wasn't trying to impress anyone.
"Rae…" she says carefully, her eyes lingering on my exposed midriff. "You do realize this is a corporate office, right? Not a…"
"Not a… what?" I tilt my head, all innocent.
Dianne sighs. "All I'm tryna to say is, you're dressed unprofessional," she mutters.
I didn't ask for this job. No one—not even Byron—can make me change how I dress.
No one. Seriously, how the hell does my outfit affect the company?
I shrug, brushing her off. "D, you know I don't give a fuck."
She sighs again, for what feels like the millionth time. "I give up," she says, throwing her hands up in defeat.
I grin. Dianne never has the energy for an argument. It's always: I give up, you're right, or just okay. It's kind of adorable.
Dianne tries to hide a smile and asks, "How's uh… Byron?" Her eyes dart everywhere but me, and I can see the nervousness in her face.
Ah, right. Dianne still has that crush on Byron. I almost forgot. Sometimes, I forget that Byron is a famous NBA player. Watching girls drool over him always makes me roll my eyes in irritation.
Nobody at college knew I was close to Byron Dele until he showed up at my graduation last month with Sean Dylan—another big NBA star.
The auditorium had over four thousand people, and I was shocked, but not as shocked as the crowd.
Byron hates the media, but yet he walked into that packed auditorium, cameras flashing, fans screaming—all for me. I didn't have any family since I grew up in foster care, but he made sure the whole crowd cheered for me.
I cried.
I've lost count of how many desperate chicks messaged me, begging for his number after that day.
Dianne was mad I never told her I knew him, since he was—is—her crush but I made it up to her by bringing her to parties with Byron and me. The first time he spoke to her, she was a nervous wreck—fidgeting with her shirt, curling her toes like a little kid.
Byron once told me she's way too innocent for him, and if she ever ended up in his bed, he'd fuck her so hard she wouldn't know which way is up. He said she'd never be the same after, and honestly, I believe him. Still, I can't help but imagine them together. The internet would go wild.
"He's good," I reply, trying to steer away from the topic.
Dianne seems to catch on, and thankfully, she doesn't push it. "You should probably get to your office before the meeting ends," she suggests.
I groan. "I wanna quit," I say, my tone dead serious.
Her brow creases in confusion. "You... kidding, right?"
I wish I was. I straighten up, trying to shake it off. "Where's the office?" I ask her, before turning to the man in the charcoal-gray Brioni suit who's been staring at me for a while now. He quickly looks away when our eyes meet.
She traces my gaze. "Two minutes in and you already have an admirer."
I flash him a smile as he awkwardly shuffles toward the elevator. I turn my attention back to Dianne. She slides two cards across the counter toward me. "Here's your key card and ID card. I was supposed to hand them over to you…' thirty-two minutes ago'."
I snatch the cards and slip them into my handbag. "You crucifying me for being 'thirty-two minutes late'?"
Dianne laughs. "Your office is on the eleventh floor."
"Bye, bitch." I give her a wink and head toward the elevator, swiping my card over the sensor. The doors slide open with a soft whoosh, and I step inside.
It feels like only a moment passes before the elevator glides to a stop on the eleventh floor. I walk down the corridor, straight to the office at the end. Another swipe of the card, and the door slides open.
As soon as I step inside, the soothing scent of lavender envelops me. The room is simple, minimalist. To my left, there's a sleek office chair tucked under a clean desk, a couple of monitors, and a telephone neatly set up. On the right, a cozy lounge area with a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. Simple yet... calming.
My eyes land on a tinted glass door directly ahead of me. Where does this lead? I swipe my card again, and to my surprise, it slides open.
I step through, my sneakers making a soft clicking sound against the marble floor. It's another office—almost half the floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the far wall, offering a sweeping view of the city. The view is the only thing breathing life into this space, aside from a massive painting hanging at the end of the room.
It's stunning. Just stripes of different colors, but somehow more beautiful than the overpriced piece Byron had bid on during an auction, solely because the other bidders were his enemy.
I lift my hand, drawn toward the painting, wanting to see if it feels as beautiful as it looks when a voice cuts through the air and stops me in my tracks.
"Don't touch it."
I freeze mid-motion. Slowly, I lower it and turn to face the voice.
How come I didn't see him when I stepped in?
Well, maybe if you'd paid attention to the left, you would've noticed him.
Shut up.
He's seated behind a large, sleek desk, his attention focused on his laptop, as if he didn't just scold me like a mother catching her child about to ruin a perfectly iced cake.
I walk toward the desk and stop about three feet away, my eyes still fixed on him. Normally, I'd be thinking about how handsome he is, but after that tone? He looks ugly.
Real ugly.
"This company has a dress code," he says without even glancing up.
Tell Byron, not me. "And who are you?" I find myself asking, not that I give a flying fuck about who is.
He pauses, finally lifting his head, his cold, piercing eyes meeting mine. I arch a brow, daring him to answer. His gaze feels like a drill, trying to cut into me, but I don't flinch.
My eyes drift to the nameplate on his desk. Damian Evans and beneath it was written… CEO.
He's the CEO? Of course he's the CEO, idiot.
A slow, mischievous smile creeps across my face. Why do I get the feeling working for him is going to be fun? And no, not the kind that involves us tangled up and gasping for air.
He didn't even bother answering my question, instead he refocuses his gaze to his laptop.
I slide into the seat opposite him, my smile firmly in place. "You know, I had a friend named Damian back in high school."
The office falls silent. For a moment, I swear I hear a cricket chirping in the background. But I push on. "Until he tried to grope me in the bathroom." Flashes of that moment rush back, and I can't help but chuckle.
Most people hate talking about their traumatic experiences, but honestly, that was one of the least traumatic moments in my life.
Damian's fingers pause over his keyboard the moment the word grope escapes my lips. Just as quickly, the soft tapping of his keyboard filled the silence again.
I don't know but somehow I felt comfortable sharing that with him—a stranger I just met less than a minute ago.
"I expect my employees to obey the company's rules, including the dress code."
Right. We're back on that topic.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk. "Damian. Can I call you Damian?" I ask, though in my head, I know I'll call him that whether he approves or not. Personally, I think you should only address a man with 'Mr.' when you're trying to get him inside you. And with him, that's definitely not the case. He looks like he needs help, not a hookup.
He doesn't reply.
Great.
I'm already fed up with him. All I want to do now is strangle him.
Breathe, Rae, breath. Don't let the devil get a hold of you.
I take a deep breath and let it out in one go. It doesn't work. In fact, it makes it worse. Now I feel like ripping his head off and using it for batting practice.
My fists clench on the desk. "Look, Damian. I'm your PA. When I ask you a fucking question, you give me a fucking reply. Do you understand?" I snap. I can't hold it in anymore, and honestly, I don't care if he fires me at this point.
He doesn't even move. For a moment, I'm not sure if he even heard me. The room is dead silent, save for the steady ticking of the clock on the wall.
My blood boils as I try to ignore the voices in my head, each one whispering for me to grab the paperweight on the desk and smash it over his head.
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name... I close my eyes, silently reciting the prayer, desperate for it to drown out the urge to kill someone's son... Amen.
To my surprise, the thoughts fade. But the second I open my eyes and lock onto his, they come rushing back with full force.
Lord, save me. I'm way too young to be charged with first-degree murder.
"The employee handbook has been sent to you." He finally breaks the silence, but as soon as he says it, he immediately returns his attention to the laptop, fingers poised over the keyboard like a conductor preparing to lead an orchestra.
Now I wish he had just shut up. There's a fucking way I'm reading a handbook.
"Anything else?" I say, my voice laced with sarcasm.
I was expecting the room to fall silent since he clearly had a talent for ignoring human interaction but instead, he glances up, his expression flat. "No."
I chuckle at my high expectations, shaking my head. Seriously, he needs help. I would have suggested a therapist, but nah, he needs an exorcist.