5 Months Later
Guilt is only for the weak, and I'm anything but that. I've made my peace with the mistakes I've carved into my path. There's no time to wallow in feelings—those never solve anything.
So, during my most recent break, I was in the Maldives, where my heart was as warm as the summer sun.
Nonetheless, a special request pulls me from paradise to New York City—the relentless, sleepless beast.
I turn the key in the ignition and step out of my car, boots clicking confidently against the pavement slick with a recent rain. The city smells like ambition and exhaust, a gritty perfume that fuels dreams and breaks them in equal measure.
The Gray's Empire towers over the block, its mirrored surface capturing shards of the bustling avenue—food carts steaming in the morning chill, street musicians weaving melodies between the honks and chatter, and the occasional sharp-edged call of a New York minute. The building dominates like a crown atop a king's head, its presence impossible to ignore.
Inside, my heels tap sharply against polished marble floors as I glide through the lobby, aware of the eyes that track me—some admiring, some wary.
My presence makes noise. Tylon Gray knows it well.
The elevator hums softly as it ascends. When the doors finally slid open, the fifteenth floor is quiet, sterile even, a stark contrast to the lively hum of the ground floor where digital screens flash ads and abstract art spills color onto the walls.
His secretary rises as I approach, but it's clear I'm an interruption she cannot stop. So she adjusts her dress, a subtle attempt at composure, and sinks back into her chair, fingers returning to the keyboard in a staccato rhythm. The sound fades as I push open the door to Tylon's office without invitation.
"You called," I say, sliding onto his desk with a casual audacity.
He lounges in his chair, one elbow resting on the armrest, rubbing his chin. Then he laughs—a smooth, knowing sound that reveals his pearly white teeth.
"Daring as ever, Zuri. Get the fuck off my desk."
I roll my eyes, dropping into the chair beside me with a smile. "Charming as ever, Tylon. I don't care for your demands."
His eyes glint as he reaches into a drawer and pulls out a thick folder. Sliding it across the desk—black with veins of gold, "Well, you're about to hear plenty more of them."
"Makai Huxley," I read aloud, tracing the name on the folder. "A competitor. You want dirt, the kind you only find when you dig deep."
His voice lowers, deliberate. "I need leverage. Just in case he's hiding something."
My fingers brush the folder's edge before flipping it open and skimming the contents. Tylon has done his homework—I'll give him that.
"How much time?" I ask, licking my lips.
He scratches the back of his neck, considering. "Six months. If you don't come through, I might take pity."
By "pity" he means cutting my pay. And that's not an option I'm willing to entertain.
"Pity?" I repeat, arching a brow. He laughs again, his features sharp and undeniably handsome.
His locs are a work of art—thick and neatly twisted, each one a dark rope that falls just past his shoulders.They frame his face with effortless precision, emphasizing the calm power in his expression.
His light brown eyes that could make women surrender with a single glance—glint with amusement as I meet them with defiance.
"You can shove that up your ass," I tell him.
Tylon rolls his eyes, standing before slipping his hands into his pockets. "You're my best bet, Zuri. Half a million."
I smirk at the displeasure flashing across his face. "The least I'll accept is 1 Million."
This is a big fish he's tossing me to fry. My life isn't worth half a million. Hell, not even 1. But I have a lifestyle to maintain.
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With careful planning and precision, success is inevitable. There's truth in the saying: "Fail to plan, plan to fail."
So I spend the rest of the evening outlining every detail, researching Makai's life—the whispers of his love affairs, the rumors, the women.
Though there aren't any records of him dating anyone. Which leaves me to come to the conclusion that he's not your typical playboy.
But it's noticeable that the women he usually wears on his arm are of his own race.
Lucky for me.
Dye fumes still linger faintly in my bathroom after crafting my new look. My freshly straightened strands fall past my shoulders, now a warm auburnt. The flat iron left a faint burn near my ear, but it's worth it. The black coils I was born with are tucked away, just like the truth.
I open my laptop and type in Huxley Estates.
Hiring.
A personal assistant.
Perfect. Too damn good to be true.
With a new résumé and fake documents Vaughn delivered in an unmarked envelope, I press "submit" under a name that isn't mine—Allesha Kinsley.
With a high profile company as this, I suspect that the background checks will be intense. So I'm hoping that Vaughn worked his magic and ticked all the boxes meticulously.
My application processes swiftly before an interview is scheduled.
I call Tylon. The phone rings three times before he answers, voice sharp and deep.
"Tylon Gray, who's calling?"
"This is your personal number, jackass. And I know you see the caller ID." I can't help but roll my eyes.
I imagine the scowl deepening on his face, and that thought makes me smile.
"Do you have anything worth my time, or should I hang up?"
I roll my eyes again. "Who pissed in your coffee?"
"I don't drink coffee." His flat tone is almost amusing.
This man will be a pain in my ass.
"Fine. The company needs staff. And it so happens Makai needs an assistant."
I hear a slight shift in his voice—interest. "Did you apply?"
A slow smile spreads across my lips. "Of course. Interview's at eight on Monday."
"I like how you treat this matter abruptly. Can't say I'm not pleased."
I lean back, "What can I say? 1 million is a nice figure."