I can always tell what kind of morning Malachai Shaw is having by the way he enters the office.
It's not just a secretary's instinct or whatever folks say you develop when you work for someone for just long enough; it's that my boss is an asshole and knowing his mood is like knowing the weather. The sooner you learn to read the forecast, the easier it is to avoid getting caught in the rain with your pants down.
I had to find that out the hard way. And, in the three years that I've worked for Mr. Shaw, I've figured out that he operates on two axis; Good day Malachai and bad day Malachai.
On a good day, he'll saunter in, one hand tucked casually in the pocket of his five-thousand-dollar suit, the other swinging his briefcase with a barely perceptible looseness. He'll greet me with an enthusiastic, "Ms. Monroe! I hope you had a good night," his voice like warm whiskey.
When that happens, I know my job is, for the next eight hours at least, a safe one.
Bad Day Malachai? I learnt early on that breathing too loudly in his presence could be considered a fireable offense.
He shows up when Malachai storms in, dark eyes blazing, angry brows dipped low, offering me a short, guttural, "Miss Monroe," that was more a dismissal than a greeting.
The glasses were always a dead giveaway. He only wore them on bad days and I liked to think that they soured his mood. They made him uncomfortable— he constantly fiddled with them when they were on— but perversely I loved those glasses.
They were my warning siren, a bright red flag waving before the storm hit. The man terrifies everyone in our office, but those lenses make him look less scary and more… cute?
Malachai Shaw only wears his emotions on his sleeve for those first few minutes. It's as if he tries to leave the chaos of his personal life— a life I know terrifyingly little about— at the door, but the dregs still cling to him. The rest of the day, he's his usual perfect asshole self that has my coworkers wincing and looking at me with pity.
I've been working for him long enough to know he only needs a five-minute buffer to switch from home Malachai to work Malachai.
So, I give him those five minutes.
He walks into his office to find a fresh cup of double espresso, no sugar, no cream, steaming on the leathered corner of his desk. I wait by my desk before I go in to recite his schedule. It's a ritual we perform every week.
Today, at exactly 8:05 A.M, the glass doors to the executive suite blow open. Malachai Shaw stands there, silhouetted against the bright lights of the reception area. His dark hair, usually impeccably styled, is dishevelled, as if he's been running his hands through it repeatedly. His white shirt is only half-tucked into his trousers, and the top button is undone, his tie hanging loose. Those thick, black, and intimidating glasses are perched on his nose.
He grunts something that might have been "Miss Monroe" if you squinted and had a generous heart, and then he's gone, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that makes me flinch.
He's royally pissed. Catastrophically so.
My stomach, already a tangled nest of vipers, clenches tighter. This is a terrible idea. The worst idea in the long, illustrious history of my bad ideas. But I've already made up my mind. If I back out now, I'll never muster the courage again. Bad day or not, I'm going to do this.
I wait the requisite five minutes, my hands trembling as I unnecessarily rearrange the files I'd printed for his signature. I open my digital notebook to his schedule, the words blurring before my eyes.
8:15 AM: Morning briefing.
9:00 AM: Board meeting prep.
10:30 AM: Quarterly review call with Singapore office.
At exactly 8:10 AM, I stand up, smooth down my skirt and walk to his door. I deliver two swift, confident knocks. My knuckles sting with the force of it.
"Come in." His voice is a deep, raspy thing that vibrates right through the door and into my bones.
I push the door open and walk into the lion's den.
Malachai Shaw is leaning against his desk, sipping the espresso as he stares out at the rain-slicked Seattle skyline. This, too, is part of the ritual. His strong, broad back is to me, the expensive fabric of his suit jacket straining just slightly over his shoulders. He's already more put together; his shirt is neatly tucked, his hair combed back into its usual severe style. It's as if the feral version of him that had stormed in has been exorcised and replaced by the one everyone knows; billionaire bachelor, cut throat business man, no-nonsense boss Malachai Shaw. The morning sun, weak and filtered through grey clouds, somehow finds a way to kiss the tanned skin of his neck.
If I were having second, third, or fourth thoughts about my harebrained scheme, the sight of him like this reminds me why I have to do this. It has to be him. It can't be anyone but him.
I set the files down on the edge of his desk and step back, clutching my tablet in front of me. "Shall I begin?"
He hums a non-committal sound. It's permission enough.
I launch into the schedule, my voice surprisingly steady. I list his meetings, his calls, his lunch with the investors from Tokyo. The entire time, he stands there, drinking his coffee, his gaze fixed on the city he owns a significant piece of. By the time I finish, his cup is empty. He sets it down on the desk with a soft thump.
"Thank you, Miss Monroe. That will be all."
This is the part where I'm supposed to nod, return to my desk, and answer his calls until he needs something else. Where I become a little efficient and invisible ghost of a secretary.
I don't move.
Our eyes meet in the reflection of the floor-to-ceiling window. His, behind the glasses, are a chilling, impossible black. He raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
"Miss Monroe." My name is a warning.
I take a deep breath, sucking all the air I can from the room. My throat is dry, my palms damp, but the words still come out, clear and reckless: "Mr. Shaw. Let's get married."
For a long second, there is nothing. No sound except the faint hum of the central air and the frantic thudding of my own heart. If he's surprised, he doesn't show it. He doesn't even flinch.
Then, he lets out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. "I suppose you have been working too hard," he murmurs, more to himself than to me.
He turns around, sits in his imposing leather chair and opens a drawer. I watch him pull out a slip of paper and his chequebook. The scratch of his pen is obscenely loud in the silence. He fills out a cheque, tears it off, and slides it across the desk towards me, along with the slip of paper.
I stare at them. "What's that?"
"Five thousand dollars and the contact information for an excellent wellness centre in the San Juan Islands." His tone is flat. "Take the week. Paid. Get some rest."
My cheeks flame with a heat that's equal parts humiliation and fury. He thinks I've lost my mind! Fair. Maybe I have. But not in the way he thinks!
"I'm perfectly fine!" I snap.
He leans back, steepling his fingers. The glasses make his gaze unnervingly sharp. "Hm. Then I must have misheard you."
"You didn't," I say, squaring my shoulders. I meet his gaze head-on. "Let's. Get. Married."
Now that I've said it a second time, with more force, it finally registers. His lips— which I'll never allow myself to admit I'd spent an inappropriate amount of time looking at— parts into a tiny, shocked 'o'. A bizarre thrill shoots through me. Even if this all blows up in my face and I'm fired on the spot, it's satisfying, just for a second, to have been the one to put that expression on Malachai Shaw's face.
The building hums below us, forty-three floors of people who both fear and admire the man in front of me. Somewhere down there, my ex-fiancé's engagement invitations are being embossed with gold foil. I picture them stacked in neat little boxes like landmines waiting to explode. At least I hope they'll explode. Preferably in Liam's cheating face.
Malachai's lips shut quickly, the surprise replaced by a mask of cool indifference. He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking softly, and folds his arms. His gaze behind the glasses is unreadable, a black sea I could drown in if I wasn't careful.
"And why, Miss Monroe," he says at last, his voice low and precise, "should I marry you?"