Instead, she exhaled, and picked up the phone.
Her nails clacked dramatically against the buttons as though she wanted me to know how painful this was for her. "Yes," she said into the receiver, eyes never leaving mine. "There's a…Miss Nita here. She says she's Mr. Numero's fiancée."
The way she said "fiancée" made it sound like a crime.
When I finally burst into Junior's office, the first thing that hit me wasn't the smell of money or the intimidating sleekness of his corner space—it was him. He was seated behind a desk so polished it looked like it belonged in a museum, not an office. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city skyline behind him, the perfect backdrop for a man who thrived on power plays. Junior leaned back in his leather chair, fingers steepled together, looking for all the world like he'd been expecting me. Which, of course, he had. That smug half-smile tugged at his lips, the one that screamed I won before you even walked in here.
"Ah, Miss Williams. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
I marched forward, tossing my bag onto one of his overpriced visitor chairs. My blood was boiling so hot I half expected steam to hiss out of my ears. "Cut the crap, Junior," I snapped, "You got me fired."
"Sweetheart," he said, "I am in the process of taking over an empire from my father. I have hundreds of thousands of employees. I juggle investments that could buy small countries. I run companies that never sleep. And you think, that I have the spare time to meddle with your… little job?"
The way he said little stung. "It wasn't little!" I shot back. "I put my blood and sweat into that job. I worked my ass off to be where I was. Not all of us out here have daddy's empire handed to us on a silver platter!"
I stepped closer to his desk. "If you're so powerful, Junior, then be man enough to admit it. Admit you pulled strings because you always have to have your way. What's the matter? Couldn't handle me having some independence? Couldn't stand the idea that I was building something of my own outside of your shadow?"
I told myself to look away, to break eye contact, but I didn't. Because I wanted him to feel the full weight of my rage.
"Why," he drawled, "would I ever want to take away your independence? You're free to do whatever you want, sweetheart…" He paused, "…as long as it aligns with the Numero name." The casual arrogance in his tone made my blood boil. "You really expect my wife to be bossed around by someone who isn't qualified enough to clean my shoes?"
Was he serious? My hands flew up in exasperation. "Numero name?" I practically shouted, as though the word itself tasted rotten. "Did you forget I only have it for a year? A year, Junior! What happens when the clock runs out and we go our separate ways? What exactly do you expect me to fall back on? Air? Your leftover scraps? Oh wait—silly me—on your 'generosity,' right?"
"You're being dramatic," he replied smoothly, as though I'd just complained about the weather instead of my entire future. "Of course, you'll be handsomely compensated. You wouldn't have to lift a finger for the rest of your life. Security, comfort, money—it's all there for you. I thought accountants were supposed to be the smart ones when it comes to finances?" His brow arched in mock confusion.
"Oh, my God." I pressed a hand to my forehead. "You were insufferable as a teenager, and you're still insufferable now, Junior."
The shift was instant. He moved. Too fast. One second he was lounging behind his desk, the next he was looming in front of me. My instincts screamed at me to back up, and I did—until my spine collided with the cold, unforgiving wall. My pulse spiked, my breath catching in my throat.
His face was close now, too close. "What did I say," he growled, "about calling me that?"
My heart hammered against my ribs from fear. My palms flattened against the wall as if I needed to ground myself.
For a fleeting, gut-wrenching moment, I wasn't the woman standing in an expensive office anymore—I was a teenager again. The scrawny girl who cried behind the school gym lockers, clutching her books to her chest while he and his friends laughed at how "nerdy" I looked. The echo of that humiliation returned in full force, crashing over me. His face—the one I had convinced myself to stop fearing—was suddenly the very same mask of power and cruelty I remembered. And God help me, in the past few days, I'd allowed myself to believe in a different version of him. I had dared to wish that maybe, just maybe, he'd changed. That the sharp edges had been softened by adulthood, by time. But in that instant, staring into the cold fire of his eyes, I realized how naïve I'd been.
My throat tightened so violently it felt like a fist had wrapped around it. The burn of unshed tears stung my eyes. I hated how small I felt, how my body betrayed me with the same weakness I thought I'd buried years ago. "Get off me," I whispered. I wanted it to sound commanding, dripping with the venom of a woman who refused to be cornered. Instead, it came out shaky, and unbearably honest.
For the briefest heartbeat, his expression shifted. The hardness melted, just a little. But it was too late. That one flicker of softness couldn't erase the storm that had already torn through me. My chest ached, my hands trembled, and I had nothing left to say to him. Not now. Not when all I wanted was to run.
I shoved past him, the force of it startling us both, my shoulder slamming against his chest before I bolted for the door. "Wait. Just—wait." But I couldn't. My heels clicked frantically against the floors as if speed alone could erase the sound of his voice from my memory. The elevator doors closed with a groan. The ride down stretched into eternity, each floor creeping by at the pace of a funeral march. My reflection in the mirrored panel mocked me—red eyes, shaky lips, a woman undone. I kept whispering to myself, Don't cry. Don't you dare cry. But my chest betrayed me, hitching in sharp, shallow gasps.