"So how much will I be making in a month?" I ask, crossing my arms. There's no point in fighting him over this—some unwilling part of me already knows I'll lose. But if I'm going to be stuck working under him, then I might as well get something out of it.
He doesn't hesitate. "I paid the last secretary ten thousand."
I lift a brow. "That won't work with me. If I landed a job anywhere else, I'd be making more than that—and you know it. The companies that called me aren't exactly small."
If he's going to trap me into this, I might as well exploit him for it because honestly, I dont see this relationship going anywhere.
"Ten thousand is not a small amount. And how sure are you that you'd have even gotten the job? You'd be competing with hundreds of people. Your chances aren't as perfect as you think."
I shrug, meeting his gaze. "Maybe. But there's also a fifty percent chance I'd succeed. You can't say I wouldn't."
He leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly before his lips curve into the smallest hint of a smirk. "I will pay you fifteen and maybe after you've proven yourself to be capable, I might consider giving you a raise."
I can't tell if he's doing this just to remind me how much power he has over me, or if he genuinely enjoys getting under people's skin. Either way, he's succeeding.
"Can we also keep this a secret… our marriage?" I ask carefully, my voice steady though inside I'm bracing myself for his reaction. Our marriage has not been made public, which means only a handful of people know about it, and I hope none of them are from the company.
"Sure," he answers simply.
Of course, I was expecting that. It's not as if he would proudly introduce me as his wife to anyone. No, it feels like he was brought into my life just to snuff out the little happiness I had managed to hold on to.
I don't linger there any longer. I rise and head toward my room. But just as I'm halfway up the stairs, his voice follows me, low and commanding.
"You'll be starting tomorrow. And Ella—" I pause and turn my head. "I don't tolerate late workers. If you want that paycheck, don't make me wait for you."
The sharpness of his tone digs into me, but I keep moving, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. My footsteps quicken, carrying me down the hall and into the safety of my room.
I close the door behind me, leaning against it for a long second, exhaling the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My chest feels tight—like I've been caged, branded, and told to smile about it.
Tomorrow. I'll be working under him tomorrow. I should feel relieved that I got what I wanted, a chance to work, a chance to prove I'm more than just a prisoner in his house. But instead, all I feel is dread. Dread of walking into that company and knowing he'll be watching me every second, dread of becoming part of his world on his terms.
Still, I refuse to let him see me break. If he thinks I'm just going to crumble under his rules, he's wrong. I'll take this job, play along, and maybe—just maybe—I'll find a way to carve out freedom in the cracks he doesn't see.
I set my alarm early. If Vincent doesn't tolerate late workers, then I'll make damn sure he never gets the chance to throw that in my face
For hours, I sit with my laptop balanced on my knees, scrolling through page after page. Secretary duties, essential skills, professional tips. The words blur a little after a while, but I force myself to keep reading.
I know the bare minimum about this kind of work—answering calls, typing, keeping schedules. I never studied secretarial courses, so my knowledge feels like a patchwork of guesses.
Still, the more I read, the more I piece it together. Answering phone calls politely, writing emails, managing his calendar, filing paperwork, booking appointments, making travel arrangements, keeping track of meetings, greeting visitors with a smile even when you don't feel like it. Simple on paper, but I can already tell it's going to be exhausting—especially under someone like Vincent, who doesn't know the meaning of patience.
At long last, my eyes grow too heavy to keep staring at the glowing screen. My vision blurs, words swimming together like ink in water. I snap the laptop shut with a sigh, stretching the stiffness out of my neck and shoulders.
Dragging myself to the bathroom, I take a quick shower, hoping the warm water will rinse away the tension curling through my body. The mirror fogs, and for a moment I study my reflection—my face tired but determined. Tomorrow I'll be his employee, and somehow, that feels like the first small step toward reclaiming a piece of myself.
Slipping into my nightclothes, I crawl into bed, pulling the blanket up to my chin. My eyelids are heavy, my body begging for rest.