Days slipped into weeks, and weeks stretched into months. Chelsea still hadn't found a way to rid herself of Xavier Hernandez.
Her apartment mirrored her frustration, papers scattered everywhere, like failed attempts at strategy bleeding across the floor. Mr. Whiskers, her cat, prowled the chaos with restless energy, almost as if he too had grown sick of her obsession.
"It's like he's untouchable," Chelsea muttered, tossing another scribbled plan into the mess. Her once perfectly polished image was gone. She looked less like the untouchable professional she had built herself into and more like a teenager struggling to get over her first heartbreak.
Her reflection in the mirror was almost unrecognizable. Hair tangled, eyes sunken and rimmed dark, she looked like a stranger. She had once been Chelsea Brown—the woman who demanded attention the moment she stepped into a room. Now? She wasn't even sure she existed anymore.
A sharp ding broke the silence. Her phone.
She froze, staring at the notification, weighing whether to open it or not. Finally, she unlocked the screen.
"Your offer still stands, Sunshine."
Her lips curved into a dry smile. Mr. Whiskers purred beside her, and she took it as consent. "Guess that's my green light."
For the first time in months, her eyes sparked with life. She had a plan. She was going back, back into Xavier Hernandez's world.
---
The next morning, Chelsea dressed to kill. A sleek black gown, a hemline daring enough to flash her legs with every step. Her hair was curled, bouncing lightly around her shoulders. Red heels, fiery and bold, polished to gleam like blood under the lights. Silver jewelry framed her collarbones and wrists, glinting like armor.
When she walked through the company's doors, heads turned. Whispers rippled through the office. She wasn't just back. She was announcing she wasn't leaving again.
Without hesitation, she pushed open the door to Xavier's office—straight into the middle of a meeting. Two men rushed in behind her, clearly trying to stop her, but she didn't flinch.
"Xavier Hernandez," she declared, arms folded across her chest. She wasn't apologizing for the intrusion, nor did she plan to leave.
Xavier didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. "Leave."
The executives looked startled, glancing at each other for direction.
"You heard him," Chelsea added, her tone mocking, finger flicking toward the door. "Out."
The men hesitated, but Xavier's eyes hardened. "Did you not hear me?"
Chelsea smirked, twisting the knife. "Don't make Omertà angry, gentlemen."
The word landed like a dart. Xavier's eyes flickered, sharp and unreadable. Message received.
When the room emptied, she dropped into a chair across from him. "Miss me?"
He didn't answer, but his stare burned through her.
"I'll take that as a yes." She leaned forward. "I'm not scared of you."
"You should be," he said, rising to lean against the desk between them.
"Make me." Her smile was pure provocation, eyes glittering with challenge.
His gaze darkened, intensity lacing every second of silence between them. He was losing his grip.
"Careful with what you wish for, Sunshine," he murmured, turning his focus to the black mug in his hands, as if breaking eye contact would drown the thoughts clawing at him.
Chelsea knew she was getting under his skin. She could read it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his posture shifted.
"I accept," she whispered.
His brow arched. "Accept what?"
"To be your… personal… assistant." The words were soft, deliberate.
He tilted his head, feigning confusion. "Sorry, Sunshine. Didn't catch that." His lips curved, almost amused.
She saw the game he was playing. Saying it again would bruise her pride, and she refused to give him the satisfaction. She stood, grabbing her bag, preparing to walk out.
But his hand shot out, catching her wrist.
"Don't walk out on me, Sunshine." His voice dropped, low and commanding, sending a shiver down her spine.
Her cheeks flushed, betraying her.
"You're already falling," he said, pulling her closer.
"Gross," she snapped, jerking her hand free.
Xavier straightened, mask sliding back into place. "You start tomorrow."
Before she could argue, she shoved a folder at him.
He flipped it open. "What's this?"
"My terms and conditions."
His eyes skimmed the pages, pausing at the first line. "'Chelsea Brown's duties do not include bringing coffee.'" He glanced up, and she was beaming like a child who had just won a prize.
For the first time, he laughed. Not a smirk, not a cruel chuckle, but a real laugh, rich and full. It filled the office, startling her. He looked devastatingly human at that moment.
But as he read further, his amusement shifted. Signing this would tie his hands.
"Tell you what," he said finally, voice smooth. "When you start tomorrow, we'll draft a better contract."
---
The following day, they sat across from each other, each sliding their "revised" terms across the table.
Chelsea skimmed his notes, her voice rising. "Lunch with you? That's an actual condition?"
"It happens everywhere," he countered.
"No, it doesn't!"
"You don't work Fridays?" His brow lifted.
"I don't," she said flatly.
"And why's that?"
"It's my spa day."
He leaned back, intrigued. "Tell me how you spend your weekends, Sunshine. Do you have a boyfriend?" His tone carried disapproval, like he already hated the idea.
Before she could answer, a knock came at the door.
"Boss, the plane's ready," Salvatore said.
Xavier rose without hesitation. "Get ready. We're leaving for Spain."
Chelsea blinked. "When?"
"Now."
"What do you mean now? I didn't pack anything!"
"My debit card isn't for decoration, Sunshine," he said, walking out.
---
On the plane, Chelsea's bravado collapsed. She hated heights. By the time they were in the air, her nails dug so deep into Xavier's arm that blood welled up beneath her grip. But he said nothing. He welcomed the pain. It was the first time she had clung to him willingly.
"If I don't make it," she cried, half-sobbing, "tell Mr. Whiskers I love him."
Jealousy flared across Xavier's face. He signaled Salvatore, voice low so she wouldn't hear. "Find out who the hell Mr. Whiskers is."
When the plane landed, Chelsea spotted the bruises her nails had left. Guilt washed over her. She rushed for her bag and pulled out bandages, but Xavier's men stepped forward to stop her.
"I'm his assistant," she snapped. "Move."
With careful hands, she cleaned and wrapped his arm. Each touch sent sparks running through him, but he didn't let it show.
Outside, a convoy of black SUVs waited. Xavier's guards surrounded him like a fortress.
"I have business," he said, slipping into a car. "Marco will take you shopping. We leave tomorrow morning."
Chelsea crossed her arms. "What kind of business?"
But he was gone before she got an answer.
---
Marco proved to be easy company. He helped her pick dresses at one of Spain's most exclusive boutiques, offering opinions without overstepping.
"I love this one," Chelsea said, holding a dress against her frame. "I'm going to try it on."
She disappeared into the dressing room. Minutes passed. Marco's instincts prickled. He called her name, no response.
Hand tightening on his pistol, he pushed the door open.
The sight froze him.
A pool of blood spread across the floor. A body lay crumpled, lifeless.