• Ilsa Morgan •
Eric had a rather, odd personality that sent shivers racing down my spine. There was something I couldn't quite understand about him. Something that made me raise up my walls in total caution.
How could someone so young act so boldly as if he owned the world. I know this had nothing to do with the fact that his father was my boss.
I was practically eating from his hands, relying on every task that I perfected to get a raise.
I closed the door shut behind me, locking myself up inside my bedroom. I leaned against the hard wood, the coldness seeping into my skin through the thin fabric of blouse. I was just so exhausted, after what felt like an eternity trying to entertain him.
This was supposed to be my off, and yet it had been occupied with another Bolton.
I wanted to simply use what remained of my off to rest a little bit. But how could I do that with Eric roaming freely in the next room? What was he? Overconfident? A red flag?
Of course he was.
Who in their right sense would dare to steal a girl's panties just so you could inhale their scent? Was this perversion? Was this supposed to scare me? Was this supposed to make me pray for Mr Bolton to come back rushing and take his son?
I wasn't sure but whatever it was, it made my insides tighten with a dark amusement.
Maybe this was one of the reasons why I had to go back to Church and repent, before I went too far into the dark.
I tossed myself down on the bed, staring at the white ceiling that had a set of lights framing it in smooth circles. They almost looked like shimmering diamonds, creating a beautiful artwork that made me wish I could ascend into the night sky.
Little had I known, my mind would drift back into the past....
*
*Three Months Ago*
Mr. Bolton wanted perfection.
Not excellence, not "good enough," but perfection.
And if we didn't deliver that by the Solstice Runway Gala, the company would tank. That's what he said, word for word. "We either impress the buyers or we bleed out."
How charming?
It was my first major event as a PA—first time being trusted with anything that held real weight. And I could feel that weight crushing my spine as I rushed down the hallway, heels ringing against polished concrete, clipboard tucked tight under my arm.
Every turn in the studio smelled like steam and fabric and coffee that had long gone cold. Everyone was tense, everyone had deadlines and no one had time to breathe.
Least of all Jude Lorne.
I found him in the collective studio, hunched over one of his sketches like the world would end if he let go of his pencil. Which, honestly, might've been true. He had that whole tortured-genius energy. The kind of guy who forgot to eat if no one reminded him.
"Jude," I called, stepping around a mannequin draped in something sleek and sharp.
But there was no response so I moved closer.
I blurted, "The new fittings need your sign off. Bolton's breathing down my neck and if we don't—"
He raised a hand, silently commanding me to shut up.
I bristled.
He didn't look up. Just kept sketching, one long, fluid stroke after another. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his jaw tight. I waited. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty seconds. Forty seconds.
But how long was I going to keep waiting for him? So I snapped. "You know, I could just forge your signature."
Somehow, that got him. There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, just the ghost of amusement and then he looked up. And when I say 'looked,' I mean 'looked'.
His eyes were the kind that made your brain short circuit. They were amber, clear, and too damn focused. For a second I forgot every word on my clipboard..
"What?" he asked, his voice low and too casual.
"The fittings," I said, recovering. "You need to sign off. We're two days out from the Gala and Bolton's losing it."
"And am I supposed to give a damn about it?" he asked with a dismissive tone. But what did he mean by that?
"Of course you're supposed to," I said. "We are currently behind time, you know."
His eyes remained in mine, and mine in his. "So what? I don't see the need to freak out, darling."
"It's Ilsa."
"Excuse me?" he cocked a brow.
"My name is Ilsa, not darling." I mumbled.
He chuckled. "Let me guess? You're the type that's afraid of making attachments?"
"I don't see how any of that is your concern, sir," I said, my eyes never leaving his. There was something about his features that made my heart beat race, something that made me want to keep staring into that intensity. "We have to respect our office hours...since I have a feeling that you're not paid to investigate me."
"What's so special about your anyways, that makes you think that I'd be stupid enough to even think of investigating anything about you?" he asked.
I took a deep breath, tightening my grip on my clipboard. Now wasn't the time to be exchanging words with Mr Lorne. I had so much on my plate right now, and he was just adding more weight to my weight. "Let's just get back to business."
He finally took the clipboard with a low chuckle. "You're nervous."
"No," I corrected him. "I'm drowning."
He didn't smile, but there was a glint in his eyes. "Why don't you try swimming faster?"
"Helpful," I muttered.
I watched him engrave his signature on the clipboard, and I felt an urge of relief washing over me. At least I had finished doing something correct, and within two days time, the Solstice Runway Gala would be flowing perfectly.
I wanted everything to be in order.
I wanted to prove to Mr Bolton that I was an asset he could deploy. I wanted him to see that hiring me wasn't a waste. I wanted to make sure that I was at the peak of my career by the end of this year.
As soon as I got my clipboard back, I turned to leave.
I didn't have anything holding me back anymore, did I?
Except I only walked a few steps before he cleared his throat, a clear sign that I was supposed to stop. Of course he wanted to say something. But what?
"Would you be interested in going out with me? For a drink or something? I don't know," it was awkward, hearing him say that after he was so rude to me earlier.
I smirked, without staring at him. "Are you asking me out on a date?"
"I guess so," he said.
"Wow," I wanted to laugh at him. "A few minutes ago, I remember you telling me that there was nothing interesting about me. So what made you change your mind?"
He chuckled, the sound of his voice deeper than before. I felt a shiver race up and down my spine, forcing me to face him against my will. He walked across the table, clearing the distance between us, bit by bit.
He wore one of those long sleeved shirts, and reaped blue jeans that just made him appear, glamorous. Or was it the lighting that only illuminated his masculinity. I don't know, and I don't really care.
Jude Lorne was a top shot, one of the best designers that were in the company. Mr Bolton looked so highly upon him, and it made me feel a little jealous.
Would I ever reach that degree of admiration for my boss? I wasn't sure.
He stopped in from of me, and I inhaled the deep scent of him. His cologne flooded my nostrils, leaving them burning like incense in a temple. This scent was so addictive.
He smelled like sin.
"...You're right," he said, with a low voice that rang like a smooth pur. "I did say that and I was wrong."
I raised a brow, surprised. "You're not the type to admit that."
He tilted his head slightly, a faint smile playing at his lips. "Maybe you're not the type I thought you were."
I didn't know what to say to that. My heart was doing that thing, pounding like a drum in my chest, each beat louder than the last. I hated how he was starting to get under my skin.
"I don't do flings," I said, folding my arms, mostly to stop myself from fidgeting.
His voice dipped even lower. "Then it's a good thing I'm not asking for one."
I stared at him.
Yet... here he was.
"I'll think about it," I said finally, letting a smile curl at the corners of my mouth.
He nodded, stepping back. "Fair enough."