Chapter Three
The day had been long, numbers stacked on numbers, contracts on contracts. I was gathering my things, ready to head home, when a soft knock came at my door.
"Come in," I ordered, not bothering to look up.
The door opened. Heels clicked softly against the floor. When I finally raised my head, a woman stood in front of me.
She was gorgeous. The kind of beauty that could make other men forget their own names. But not me. Beauty had no power over me anymore.
"Who are you?" My voice was flat.
"The new secretary," she replied timidly.
My eyes narrowed. "And who, exactly, gave you this job?"
"Your father, sir."
Of course. My father—the only man alive who still thought he could overrule me.
I leaned back in my chair, my gaze slicing through her confidence like glass. "Well, you'll either resign on your own… or wait for me to fire you. I don't employ women as secretaries."
Her lips parted as if to plead, but before she could speak, the bitterness rose in me like poison. "And your mouth stinks," I added coldly. "Do you even brush your teeth at all?"
Her face went red with shame. She lowered her head. "Yes, sir… I brush every day."
Pathetic.
Then, to my irritation, she dropped to her knees.
"Please, sir, don't fire me," she begged, her voice breaking. "I'm a single mother. My son is in the daycare here, the one provided for workers. My life and my son's life depend on this job."
I froze.
A son.
Not a daughter. Not another woman in the making. A boy. An innocent child.
My jaw tightened. I hated the thought of her staying. I hated women in my space, hated their tears, their games, their weaknesses. But her son was different. He had nothing to do with her sins.
For his sake, I spared her.
"You can stay," I said finally, my tone clipped. "But don't mistake this for kindness. You disgust me. If not for that boy, you'd already be gone."
She bowed her head, whispering thanks, while I shoved files into my briefcase and walked out without another glance.
---
The ride home was quiet, my tinted car sliding through the city like a dark shadow. But as the gates of my mansion swung open, irritation tightened in my chest.
She was waiting.
One of the women I had spent a night with stood at my gate, her arms folded, her eyes searching for me like I was her salvation.
Pathetic.
I stepped out, adjusting my cufflinks, and gave her the kind of smile that never reached my eyes. "I know your type," I said coolly. "You've gotten attached. But I paid you not to do so. That was three hundred dollars—your reminder that it was nothing but a fling."
Her lips trembled. "I just wanted to check on you," she whispered.
My laugh was dry, merciless. "Check on me? Am I a baby in daycare? An old man in a sick bed? Get lost."
She flinched, but still took a step toward me, desperation spilling over her face.
That was her mistake.
I turned to the gate man, my voice sharp and unforgiving. "Throw that trash out. Put her where the rest of the dirt belongs."
"Yes, sir."
Immediately, his hands closed around her arm. She tried to protest, but her voice was drowned by the sound of my footsteps retreating into the mansion. I didn't look back.
I didn't need to.
By the time I reached my room, the noise had faded, leaving me in silence. My sanctuary. My cage. My lonely zone.
The world believed Michael Kent had everything. Money. Power. Women begging for scraps of his attention. And maybe I did.
But when I stood in my room, the walls closing in, the shadows whispering, I knew the truth.
All I really had was emptiness.
Sometimes I wonder where men find those loyal, honorable women.
Because the ones I meet either crave money, chase luxury, or vanish the moment things get real.
Maybe love just isn't for me.
Maybe I was never meant for it.
Not me.
Never.