That was when I finally turned to face him. My eyes locked onto his. "I want it on paper—the contract."
"Oh… uhm, okay. I will reach out to my lawyer and get back to you on that." Junior finally said, his usual arrogance dimmed by my sharp tone. But, of course, he recovered quickly. He always did. He leaned a little closer, the faint smell of his expensive cologne wrapping around me. "Looks like you don't trust me either, Princess. If you're going to hate me, at least let me know why."
I sighed heavily, trying to bury the heat rising in my chest. He really was as overbearing as he had been when we were teenagers. The same boy who thought the sun rose and set because he decided it should. "Don't call me that either," I snapped. "And I have no reason to trust you."
"Fine," he said after a pause. "If that's how you want it, so be it." His eyes lingered on me in the dim limousine light, almost searching for cracks in my armor.
When we arrived at my house, the driver stepped out. He opened the door for me, and the cool night air hit my skin like a splash of relief. I climbed out quickly, not giving Junior the satisfaction of drawing out the goodbye. The driveway was bathed in the soft glow of lantern lights, the familiar safety of home beckoning me inward. I walked up to the front door without a backward glance, though the hairs on my neck prickled knowing his eyes were on me.
I stood at the threshold, one hand on the door, and turned just enough to see the limousine rolling toward the gates. Its tinted windows reflected the moonlight, giving nothing away. My chest tightened with helplessness. That man had crashed into my life like a storm and was now dictating my every move with his rings, his money, his games. But if he thought this was going to be easy, he was sorely mistaken.
As the car disappeared into the night, swallowed by shadows, I exhaled a long, shaky breath. *****
I had just settled into my chair at work when chaos erupted, shattering my fragile illusion of a normal Monday morning. The desk was still cluttered with the aftermath of Friday's procrastination: half-empty coffee cups, a stack of reports that looked suspiciously like they'd multiplied over the weekend, and my laptop blinking with unread emails that screamed urgent. I had only just gotten comfortable, slipping my heels off under the desk and preparing for a productive sulk, when the receptionist's voice crackled over the intercom. "Miss Williams, there's… uh… a car here for you." The pause, the hesitation, oh, I knew that tone. My stomach dropped so fast I was surprised it didn't thud against the office floor.
A car here for me meant only one thing. Numero trouble. It could only mean an invasion by one of the three walking headaches who had made it their life's mission to interrupt mine. But which one? Numero Senior? Mama Numero? Or Idiot Numero himself, Junior, who thought rules existed only for peasants and gravity applied to everyone but him? Each choice was equally capable of ruining my day in its own unique, catastrophic way.
I groaned and strolled toward the lobby, dragging my feet like a prisoner walking the last mile. I didn't even need to reach the glass doors before spotting it: a black SUV with tinted windows, parked as though it owned not only the curb but the entire street. The thing looked less like a vehicle and more like a mobile fortress. My office colleagues peeked out from behind cubicle walls, eyes wide.
Sure enough, the chauffeur stepped out. Not the charming, polished man from Saturday night, oh no. This one looked more like he'd been moonlighting in an action film—broad shoulders, mirrored sunglasses, suit so crisp you could slice bread on it. He opened the SUV door. For a split second, I half-expected a red carpet to roll out, complete with trumpets.
"Miss Williams," he intoned with a small bow that made me feel like some duchess in exile. "Mr Numero requests your presence."
My life, I realized with hilarity, had become a frigging Bridgerton movie. Any moment now, violins would start playing, and Lady Whistledown would announce in scandalized tones that Miss Williams had caught the eye of the most insufferable rake in the kingdom. I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Which Mr Numero precisely?" I asked through gritted teeth.
"Mr Numero Junior," the chauffeur clarified smoothly, adjusting his sunglasses.
Of course. Idiot Numero. Why was I not surprised? I could practically feel my blood pressure spike. I squared my shoulders, channeled every ounce of sarcasm in my bloodstream, and said, "Mr Numero 'Junior' can request all he likes. I'm working." I gestured for him to leave, dismissing him.
The man didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. His posture was so stiff he might have been carved from stone, and I had the sneaking suspicion that even if a meteor came crashing down on the parking lot, he'd still be standing there. Fine. He could stand there all day for all I cared. I wasn't moving. Mr. Numero Junior could kiss my ass and whatever smug, controlling throne he sat on.
I spun on my heels and walked back into the building. My coworkers peeked over their cubicles, eyes wide, whispering as if I were marching into battle. In a way, I was. Back at my desk, I plopped into my chair, arms crossed, triumphant in my resistance. But of course, fate—or rather, my boss—had other plans.
"Ah, Miss Williams, good news!" Mr. Hargrove, my boss, appeared like a magician pulling himself out of thin air. "You can take the day off."
I stared at him as though he had just suggested I take up skydiving without a parachute. "What? I'm in the middle of preparing the audits for Sweet Royale Catering Services. You know, the same clients who threatened to set our inbox on fire if we don't deliver by Wednesday?"