(Sienna Vale POV)
I took a job for a real ass wipe.
That's exactly what I said.
Adrian Kade—billionaire, control freak, professional menace—is one of the least pleasant people I've ever met. And I've met lawyers, club promoters, and my ex. None of them come close.
He's the kind of man who can silence a room with one look. No yelling, no theatrics—just that cool, precise stare that makes everyone suddenly remember they have better places to be. He's rude to his staff, terrifying in meetings, and radiates that cold, polished kind of cruelty that makes HR flinch when his name shows up in their inbox.
He's not kind. He's not patient. He's not redeemable.
So why work for him?
Because he pays very well.
When your baby brother's drowning in legal fees and the system's grinding him to dust, you take the money and survive. That's the deal.
I didn't take this job because I'm ambitious or because I admire him. I took it because my brother's lawyer charges more per hour than I make in a day. Kade Enterprises might be hell, but hell pays on time.
Adrian Kade—the man of the year, according to every glossy magazine—isn't a man at all. He's a machine in a suit. Sleek. Expensive. Emotionally defective. He doesn't talk; he commands. He doesn't ask; he dictates.
And for reasons that must be karmic punishment, I'm the one who keeps his empire from imploding.
This morning alone, he's made two interns cry, fired a marketing exec, and rejected his own mother's charity invite. It's not even ten a.m.
When I started three months ago, I thought the stories were exaggerated. Then I watched him dismantle a forty-year-old VP for missing Lampa decimal point in a report and realized Adrian Kade doesn't exaggerate. He annihilates.
Still, every two weeks a paycheck lands in my account that keeps a roof over my head and my brother's attorney on the clock. So I swallow my pride, paste on professionalism, and get through the day.
"Good morning, Mr. Kade," I say, balancing his espresso—double shot, no sugar—on a tray that probably costs more than my rent.
He doesn't look up. "You're late."
I'm not. He's early. But I've learned better than to argue.
"I was finalizing your quarterly call notes," I say evenly. "Would you like me to push your eleven o'clock, or let them sweat?"
He finally looks up. Grey eyes, perfect hair, expression carved out of arrogance. "Let them sweat."
Of course.
I nod and turn to leave, but his voice follows me, cold and sharp. "And Ms. Vale—don't ever speak to me like we're equals again."
My jaw locks. I don't turn around.
By noon, I've survived four pointless summonses to his office—each one a new exercise in restraint. He doesn't request things; he demands them. Corrections. Revisions. Explanations for mistakes he probably made himself.
The man thrives on control.
At five, he leans back in his chair like he's about to ruin my evening. "Ms. Vale, have you adjusted my travel schedule?"
"Yes."
"And the vendor contract?"
"Signed."
He finally looks up, the faintest smirk playing at his mouth. "Efficient as ever."
"Thank you," I say, already halfway out the door.
He lets me go early, which almost never happens. I don't question it—I pack my bag and bolt before he remembers another urgent task.
So yes—my boss is an ass wipe. But he's an ass wipe who pays my rent, funds my brother's defense, and keeps my life glued together by the thin thread of a direct deposit.
The city outside is loud and cold and still somehow better company than him. I breathe in exhaust fumes like freedom.
Most people unwind with drinks. I go to my second job—the one that pays in cash and doesn't ask for small talk.
When I joined the agency, I told myself it was temporary. Just time for money. No names. No attachments. No judgment. I convinced myself it wasn't selling myself—it was selling hours.
And it worked. Until the night I walked into a penthouse suite and found him.
Adrian Kade.
My boss. My paycheck. My personal hell. Sitting there, perfectly composed, like he owned the air I was breathing.
He didn't fire me. Didn't even blink. Just looked me dead in the eye and said, "You're late."
Déjà vu—only this time, it paid better.
So yeah—my boss is an ass wipe.
But he's an ass wipe who pays my rent, funds my brother's defense, and keeps my life glued together with the thin thread of a direct deposit.
And as long as he does, I'll keep my heels sharp, my smile professional, and my voice steady.
Because the minute I decide to stop pretending, the whole damn world might burn.
The elevator dings, doors sliding open like they know my next mistake. My phone buzzes.
Unknown Number: 8 p.m. Tonight. Same location. Same rate.
No name. No signature.
But I know exactly who it is.
And just like that, I'm not off the clock anymore.