~Rebecca~
I scrambled to my feet like a malfunctioning baby giraffe, heat flooding my cheeks. "Mr. Martinez—I—sir—I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—well, obviously I didn't mean to faceplant in the lobby, that would be ridiculous, I just—"
My words tumbled out like a broken vending machine spewing soda cans.
Cassian Martinez didn't respond. He just looked at me, his expression carved from the ice in my wonky refrigerator, then inclined his head ever so slightly toward the elevators.
And God, even mid-humiliation, I couldn't help but notice how unfairly handsome he was. Black hair that looked like it had been styled by angels with a grudge. Vibrant blue eyes that rivaled the beauty of the ocean, and frequently cut through my soul.
But his face? It was permanently locked in a scowl. Like someone had personally offended him by letting him be born.
"Follow me."
Two words.
Oh shit.
My palms stung from where they had kissed the marble floor, my knees ached, and my pride was already rotting in the corner like roadkill. But I gathered my scattered things, yes, including the tragic granola bar that had almost made physical contact with his Italian leather, and scurried after him.
The lobby security guards looked at me like they were already drafting my obituary. One receptionist winced sympathetically, like she had just witnessed a toddler run headfirst into a wall.
I didn't dare meet anyone's gaze as I hurried into the elevator behind Cassian Martinez.
The doors slid shut.
And suddenly it was just the two of us.
Trapped.
In a chrome coffin of silence.
My chest tightened. The air in the elevator felt thin, like he had sucked out all the oxygen with his aura of doom. I fiddled with the strap of my bag, trying not to fidget, trying not to breathe too loudly, trying not to exist too loudly.
He stood at the front, hands clasped behind his back, eyes forward, posture so perfect it could've been used to balance fine china. Not a wrinkle in sight. Meanwhile, I was sweating like a guilty raccoon sneaking into a dumpster.
"Sir, I—" I began weakly.
"I wasn't talking yet."
I snapped my mouth shut so fast my teeth clicked. Lowering my head, I studied the floor buttons like they were suddenly fascinating. Level 72 glowed ominously. His floor. His lair. The place careers went to die.
The elevator dinged.
When the doors opened, the top floor of Martinez Tower sprawled before us, sleek and expensive in every detail. Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed everything in blinding morning light. The kind of light that exposed every wrinkle in my skirt and every sweat patch under my blazer.
Employees scattered through the open office space looked up as we passed. Conversations halted mid-sentence. Fingers froze on keyboards.
Eyes widened.
Their gazes flicked from Martinez to me, and I could practically hear their collective thought: Uh oh.
I swallowed again. At this rate, I was going to dehydrate from sheer terror.
Martinez didn't slow, didn't look at anyone, didn't even acknowledge the atmosphere of dread he carried with him. He simply opened the glass door to his office and walked inside.
I followed like a condemned prisoner.
The door clicked shut behind me, and the silence inside his office was suffocating. The city skyline stretched endlessly outside his window, skyscrapers glittering in the sun. His desk was a minimalist war zone of organization, no clutter, no mess, no personality. Just like him.
I stood in front of it, clutching my bag like a shield, my throat dry.
"Mr. Martinez, about this morning, I really am sorry—"
"I said," his voice was cold steel, "I wasn't talking yet. Don't speak unless I tell you to."
I froze again, cheeks burning, my apology shriveling to ash in my mouth. I lowered my head, focusing on the grain of the polished floor.
The silence stretched.
Finally, he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. His eyes pinned me like a butterfly in a display case.
"Tell me, Miss Hart," he said softly, which was definitely more terrifying than shouting, "are you tired of being a personal assistant?"
My heart stopped.
Am I tired? Oh, absolutely. This job was eating my soul like Pac-Man on steroids. But if he wanted honesty, then honesty was a fast track to unemployment, homelessness, and possibly living under a bridge with beavers as my only friends.
So I said nothing.
I bit my tongue and stared at the floor, praying silence would be safer than truth.
He studied me, face unreadable. Then, with a sigh that sounded almost like disappointment, he leaned forward.
"Pathetic," he murmured. "You show up late, again. You trip in my lobby like some kind of circus act. You can't even defend yourself when asked a simple question." He paused, letting each word sink in. "Do you have any redeeming qualities whatsoever, Miss Hart? Or are you simply wasting my time and my money?"
My jaw clenched. Heat crawled up my neck, and it was not embarrassment this time, but anger. But I swallowed it. Because rent. Because student loans. Because my mom's medical bills and my brothers' tuition.
"No, sir," I said quietly.
"No?" He raised an eyebrow. "You're agreeing that you're worthless?"
I wanted to scream, I wanted to throw something, wanted to tell him exactly where he could shove his condescending attitude and his stupid perfect suits.
Instead, I whispered, "I'll do better, sir."
He stared at me for a long moment, then waved a dismissive hand. "Get to work. Fetch my coffee. Black. No sugar. And if you spill it, don't bother coming back."
"Yes, sir."
I turned and walked out, my hands shaking, my vision blurring with unshed tears.
I hate him. I hate him so much.
~
By the time I got home that evening, I was a husk of a human being.
Maya was in the kitchen, humming softly to herself as she chopped vegetables for dinner.
Her boyfriend Dre was sprawled lazily on the couch in the living room, scrolling endlessly through his phone. He wore his signature black hoodie, pulled up comfortably, along with a sleek gaming headset perched on his head, even though he wasn't playing anything right now. His thick afro puffed out wildly, the curls falling forward just enough to partially cover his eyes.
The smell of something delicious filled the apartment.
I dragged myself to the bathroom and brushed my teeth with the aggression of someone trying to scrub away their entire existence.
How can I make more money?
The question had been circling my brain all day like a vulture. My paycheck from Martinez Corp was decent, sure. But "decent" didn't cover my mom's prescriptions and my brothers' school supplies and my student loans and rent and the fact that I apparently needed therapy now because my boss was a soul-sucking demon.
I stared at myself in the mirror, toothpaste foam dripping down my chin.
Stripper.