WebNovels

Chapter 6 - A Hurricane Named Alex

Natalie Pov

My head is about to explode.

Like—**boom**—everywhere.

And the culprit? A certain charming, infuriating, soul-sucking jerknamed Alex.

I've spent the past forty-eight hours overthinking every breath, every word, every eyebrow raise. My emotions are on a roller coaster with no brakes—thrilling, but mostly nauseating. It feels like being waterboarded while counting milliseconds until I can breathe again. My pulse is living rent-free in my throat, preparing for the next verbal punch he'll throw my way.

I know it's coming. Oh, I know.

Alex always finds a reason. Chew me out. Threaten to fire me. Remind me who's the boss and who's the disposable assistant.

It's basically his love language.

After the initial shock of seeing him again wore off, I did what any sane woman would do.

I googled him.

What? I needed to know my enemy.

Apparently, Alex turned his back on his family's ridiculous fortune and ran off to the States. I already know this.

He studied law. Passed the bar. Became one of the youngest hotshot attorneys out there. And not just any attorney—oh no—he's the golden boy of Pierce Holdings and Titans Capital Law Firm. A legal shark with a perfectly tailored suit and the kind of smirk that makes judges nervous.

Then there's the cherry on top: some European sovereignty recently appointed him as their official attorney. Of course they did. Everyone loves Alex Pierce. The media calls him "a prodigy with a jawline sculpted by angels." Gross.

But no one knows the Alex I know.

The real one.

The heartless, egomaniac, control-freak jerk with a talent for making me want to commit elegant, flawless crimes.

My gaze flickers to his office. He's in there with Aiden, probably plotting new ways to shorten my lifespan. If I don't get him what he wants on time, he'll raise the "wanker" parameter to critical.

I open my texts, grind my teeth, and stare at the message chain from this morning—because of course His Royal Painness sent each order at three-second intervalsjust to mess with me.

I type:

**Me:** *I finished the report.*

He replies instantly. Because why not.

**Bloody Fool:** *What are you waiting for then? Email it.*

Me: *If you checked your inbox, you'd find it there.*

Bloody Fool: *Drop the fucking attitude, Ms. Brooks.*

Me: *It wasn't an attitude, just a piece of information.*

Bloody Fool: *Let me be the one to decide that. I need my lunch in exactly thirty-seven minutes.*

Thirty-seven minutes. Not thirty-five. Not forty. Thirty-seven. Because he's that guy.

I swallow my pride and type: On it, sir.

God, I hate the way my chest squeezes whenever I type "sir". I hate the flutter. I hate the way it makes me feel like I'm teetering on a wire between loathing and… whatever the hell this is.

But most of all, I hate "him".

Grabbing my bag, I march out of the office like my heels are on fire. They're medium height today—because yesterday's shoes nearly killed my legs.

Once in the taxi, I call home.

Zade picks up immediately, his voice full of trouble. "What's up?"

I gasp dramatically. That's how you greet your loving mother? I didn't see you guys last night or this morning, and that's what I got?"

"That's okay. We'll wait for you tonight if you make fish."

I roll my eyes. "You greedy little rascal."

He laughs. "Just being honest."

"Fine. I'll bring fish. But I want hugs in return."

"Deal."

"Give the phone to your partners in crime."

Tiny shuffling noises, then—

"Hi, Mum," Aaron whispers, as if we're on some top-secret spy mission.

"Mum, I missed you!" Hayley practically shouts into the phone, making the driver glance at me like I'm running a daycare.

"Hi, love. I miss you guys too. How's my little chaos trio doing?"

"Perfect," Hayley says. "But guess what! Aaron fell off his skateboard and cried like a baby."

"I did not cry," Aaron argues. "There were just… tears of strategy.

"Strategy?" I laugh. "That's new."

Zade snorts in the background. "He also said he's suing the pavement for emotional damage."

"Smart boy," I tease. "Make sure your lawyer's fees are reasonable."

Hayley cuts in. "Mum, we have gist! Real gist. But you have to promise not to scream."

"Oh, I already want to scream. But go ahead."

"Later," she singsongs. "It's too juicy for a phone call."

"Suspicious," I mumble. "Don't forget your meds and vitamins, okay?"

"Yes, Mum," they chorus.

"You're moaning again," Aaron says with the smugness of a mini genius.

"I am not moaning."

"You do that a lot. I'm a child genius, remember?"

Zade chuckles. "He's not wrong."

"Fine. I'm just reminding you, not moaning. Big difference."

"Yeah, yeah. Shouldn't you be working?" Zade says.

"Unfortunately, yes. But I'll see you later. And fish is happening."

"'Kay. Oh, by the way, Mum," Zade adds, his voice suddenly shifting. "A letter came in this morning. And… I kind of opened it."

I sigh. "Zade."

"Sorry. I'll send it to you. Gotta run."

And just like that—click.

I stare at the phone. "Great. Mysterious letter. Perfect timing."

The taxi pulls up in front of Caterina's, the overpriced temple of pesto. I step inside, practically jogging to the counter.

John, the cashier, gives me his polite smile. "Menu du jour?"

"Yes." I'm panting. "Wait, is that… parmesan?"

"And pesto," he confirms cheerfully.

"Of course it is."

"I'll just take a steak," I say.

He blinks. "Are you sure? Mr. Pierce always takes the menu du jour."

"Not when it has parmesan and pesto."

His smile falters. "You're new, huh? The chef's a close friend of his."

He says "close" like it comes with benefits.

I lean closer. "Listen, John. If I give him something he hates, he'll drag me over hot coals—metaphorically. And then I'll have to make up the lost time, and I've got three kids waiting for me at home and fish to cook. So how about you just… get me the steak?"

His lips twitch. "Right away, miss."

But the universe clearly has a sense of humor, because before I can breathe, someone behind me says,

"I assume you're Alex's new assistant."

I turn around to face a woman in a chef's coat. Her brown eyes judge me like I kicked a puppy.

"Yes," I say cautiously.

She thrusts a takeout bag into my hand. "Give Alex the pasta and tell him Caterina sends her love. Next time, don't mess with our routine, sweetheart."

I press my teeth together so hard I'm sure my molars file a complaint. "As his assistant, it's my job to get him something he actually eats. Since you're his chef, shouldn't you know he hates parmesan and pesto?"

"And what makes you an expert on his eating habits?"

Oh, if you only knew.*

"Can I just get the steak?"

She smiles sweetly. "No. Tell Alex I sent him my menu du jour."

I exhale the way people do before committing crimes. "You know what? Fine."

I grab the bag and stomp out.

By the time traffic turns into a parking lot, I ditch the taxi and walk—well, stomp—back to the office like an angry flamingo in heels.

The moment I knock on his door, Alex's voice slices through. "You're five minutes and thirty seconds late, Ms. Brooks."

I close my eyes. "Breathe".

"There was traffic."

"I don't give a fuck about traffic. When I say twelve-thirty, do I mean twelve-thirty-five?"

"No."

"No, what?"

"No, sir," I grit out.

His eyes lift, pinning me in place like I'm a butterfly on a board.

"Are you glaring at me, Ms. Brooks?"

I shake my head.

"Then lose your attitude and lower your eyes."

My fists curl at my sides. This is for the triplets. You need this job. You can't throw the food at his stupid gorgeous face.

I march forward, nearly tripping but catching myself. His eyes narrow with the kind of impatience that could set the room on fire.

"For your information," I snapped, setting the bag on his desk, "your precious Caterina refused to give me steak and insisted on her menu du jour, even though I told her—twice—that you hate parmesan and pesto. So before you throw one of your tantrums, know that it's not my fault. Oh, and she sends her love. Now, if you don't need anything else—"

"Stop," he says, voice low and sharp like a blade. "Turn around."

I freeze. Slowly face him. My heart is pounding like it's trying to file for early retirement.

He leans back in his chair, studying me like I'm a puzzle he doesn't like but can't throw away. "How do you know I don't eat parmesan and pesto?"

"Excuse me?"

"I never shared that with you." He stands up, the air shifting as he approaches. "So how did you know?"

"I… must've overheard one of the other assistants say it."

"Liar."

The word slides between us like silk dipped in poison.

He moves closer, and my lungs forget their job. His scent hits me—pine, lime, bergamot, and bad decisions. My knees consider giving out.

When he speaks again, his breath brushes my ear. "Even my best friend doesn't know that detail about me. So how do you?"

I swallow. "I don't remember."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. I… forget things."

I turn, but his hand clamps around my elbow, pulling me back against him.

"No, you can't go."

And just like that, I'm standing in the middle of a hurricane.

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