Abigail
"Abby, your phone won't stop ringing."
I looked up from the crossword puzzle to see Meemaw walking towards me, holding up my phone. The floral apron I'd bought her for Mother's Day three years ago was marked with oil and flour. Her reading glasses perched on her nose as she squinted at the screen.
"It's Drake again." Her dark eyes softened with concern. "Won't you answer? Maybe something's wrong."
My stomach clenched while I scrambled for words to say.
"I'll call him back later." I plucked the phone from her hands.
"That boy." Meemaw smiled, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening. "So attentive. You shouldn't take him for granted, sweetheart."
If only she knew.
The pencil I'd been using snapped between my fingers. Meemaw didn't notice, thankfully. She was already turning back to the kitchen, humming under her breath.
"Your grandfather and I are so excited for the wedding. Only three months now! Have you decided on the flowers yet?"
This was why I couldn't tell her. Yet.
"Not yet." I hadn't told her about catching Drake in a fucking orgy in our bed. Or that I'd lost my job. I'd lied and said I was on leave. If I told them the truth, they'd worry, and I didn't want that. I would fix this myself.
I glared at the phone screen with anger burning in my veins. Twelve missed calls. All from Drake, and that was just this morning. I'd been with my grandparents for four weeks, and he'd called me a thousand times since then.
That festering piece of shit. That walking biohazard. That absolute waste of oxygen.
I swiped away the call notifications and pushed away from the table.
"I'm going to take this in my room."
"Take your time, sweetheart. Breakfast will be ready when you're done."
I walked down the narrow hallway, past the photos on the walls. Me at every age from five to twenty four. School pictures with gap toothed smiles, dance recitals, high school graduation. The engagement photo with Drake. I glared at that one, resisting the urge to rip it off the wall.
My childhood bedroom waited at the end of the hall. I closed the door behind me, flopped on my bed, and opened the messages.
The screen was full of Drake's name. Message after message after message, the timestamps showing he'd been texting since five in the morning.
Drake: Baby please talk to me.
Drake: I'm so sorry. It wasn't what it looked like.
Drake: You're overreacting. We were just having fun.
Drake: Come on Abby, don't be like this.
Drake: You can't just disappear on me. Where are you?
Drake: WHERE ARE YOU?
Drake: This is ridiculous. Answer your fucking phone.
Drake: You know what? Maybe it's better this way. You were never that good in bed anyway.
My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached.
Never that good in bed?
The stranger from the plane would beg to differ. Oh god, I was thinking about him again. Whenever I wasn't stewing about Drake, I was thinking about the stranger.
The way he'd touched me. Those rough hands on my hips, my breasts, between my legs. The way his cock had stretched me, filled me, hit places inside me I didn't even know existed.
Heat pooled between my thighs. I shifted on the bed, pressing my thighs together. A week later and I could still feel him. I could still hear that thick, gravelly voice calling me Red, telling me what a good girl I was.
My hand drifted to my lap before I could stop it. I'd touched myself every night this week thinking about him. Nothing felt as good as that night.
I kept scrolling through Drake's messages.
Drake: I'm sorry I didn't mean that. Please baby just come home.
Drake: WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU? I'M LOSING MY MIND.
Drake: You need me. You won't find anyone better than me. No one else is going to want you.
His words would have stung a month ago. Now, they felt like dust settling on my skin.
My thumb hovered over the delete button. One by one, I watched his messages disappear when another message popped up on my screen.
Annette: Babe, Drake showed up at my apartment again. Demanding to know where you are. I told him to fuck off but he's getting scary. Block his number. Please.
Me: That asshole! I will. I'm sorry he's bothering you.
Annette: Don't apologize for that piece of garbage. Just take care of yourself. Love you.
Me: Love you too, Annie.
I went back to deleting Drake's messages, my mind drifting back to the plane bathroom.
I squeezed my thighs together again. God, I wanted to feel that again. I wanted those rough hands on me, that commanding voice telling me what to do, that thick cock stretching me and pounding me senseless.
I hadn't seen his face and he'd ruined me for anyone else. Another message notification slid down from the top of my screen, breaking through my reverie.
Sasha: Hey, babe! Hope you're doing okay? Listen, I heard about a job offer. Wolfe Group is looking for an Executive Assistant for their CEO. Apparently the last one quit suddenly and they need someone ASAP. I know you're dealing with a lot right now but this is HUGE. Great pay, amazing benefits, and an actual HR department that takes harassment seriously. Want me to send you the posting?
Me: Hell, yes! Thank you so much Sash!
Holy shit. If I could get a job there, I could wipe the floor with Mr. Morgan's face using my salary.
That night, I pulled up the Wolfe Group's website on my laptop. The company page was sleek, professional, impressive. The Leadership Team section showed photos of board members, executives, department heads.
But where Finnegan Wolfe photo should have been, there was just a gray silhouette and a brief bio: "Finnegan Wolfe, CEO. Mr. Wolfe founded the Wolfe Group of Companies and values privacy. He does not participate in public photography."
I frowned. That was unusual. Most CEOs loved plastering their faces everywhere.
I Googled "Finnegan Wolfe CEO photo."
Dozens of articles came up—Forbes, Fortune, Business Insider—but every single one used stock photos of buildings or the company logo. Not a single photo of the man himself.
Weird. But not my problem. I just needed to show up on time and not screw up.
My phone buzzed again.
Drake: I know you're reading these. I can see the receipts. Stop being a child and ANSWER ME.
That was it. I blocked his number.
Sasha sent me the posting and I submitted my resume immediately.
☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆ ☆☆
Two Weeks Later
"Congratulations, Ms. Kellerman. You performed excellently. You're hired."
That was exactly what I'd been hoping to hear since I walked into the gigantic Wolfe building an hour ago.
My heart did a backflip. I just got hired by the freaking Wolfe Group. On the outside, I pressed my lips together to hold back a scream and extended my hand across the polished desk.
"Thank you, Ms. Carlson. I'm excited for the opportunity."
Ms. Carlson, the head of Human Resources, shook my hand with a firm grip. Her blue eyes assessed me over the rims of her glasses.
"We're pleased to have you. Your references were glowing, and your interview responses demonstrated exactly the kind of competence we need for this position."
"When would you like me to start?"
"Tomorrow."
My eyebrows rose slightly. "Tomorrow?"
"Is that a problem?" Ms. Carlson's tone didn't change, but her eyes narrowed.
"Not at all." I straightened in my chair. "I'm ready to begin immediately."
"Good." She pulled a manila folder from the stack on her desk and slid it across to me.
"Mr. Wolfe has very specific expectations. You'll need to hit the ground running."
I opened the folder. Several pages of protocols, schedules, and contact lists.
"Mr. Wolfe arrives at his office at nine a.m. sharp every morning." Ms. Carlson's manicured nail tapped the first page. "Nine a.m. precisely."
I nodded, still reading.
"Which means you need to arrive no later than eight fifteen."
My eyes flicked up. "Eight fifteen?"
"His coffee needs to be on his desk at eight fifty, made exactly as specified on page three. There's an espresso machine in the executive suite."
I glanced at page three. Double shot espresso, one sugar, splash of cream, served at exactly 180 degrees Fahrenheit.
Who the hell measured coffee temperature?
"His morning briefing packet needs to be printed and organized on his desk by eight forty five. Financial reports on top, followed by departmental updates. His schedule for the day should be on his desk before he arrives. Mr. Wolfe does not tolerate interruptions during his morning review, which takes place from nine to nine thirty. No calls, no walk ins, no exceptions unless the building is literally on fire."
Did this man have an OCD complex?
"Understood."
"He takes exactly fifteen minutes for lunch, usually at his desk. You'll order from the restaurants listed on page seven. He rotates through them on a schedule. Monday is Italian, Tuesday is Japanese, Wednesday is—"
"I can follow a calendar, ma'am." I said without thinking, then almost smacked myself.
Ms. Carlson's lips twitched with amusement.
"I hope you know more than that. Mr. Wolfe doesn't tolerate incompetence, and he has very little patience for questions he believes you should already know the answer to."
I closed the folder. "Out of curiosity, how many assistants has he had in the past year?"
"Seven."
Seven in one year?
"Most quit within three months. One lasted six months. She left crying and we never saw her again."
Jesus Christ. What kind of monster was I signing up to work for?
But I'd dealt with Mr. Morgan. I could handle a demanding boss with control issues, as long as those issues didn't involve sexual harassment.
"One more thing." Ms. Carlson's tone turned stern. "Mr. Wolfe values discretion above almost everything else. What happens in his office, what you see, what you hear, it stays confidential. He's a very private man, and he expects that privacy to be protected absolutely."
"Of course."
Despite being one of America's most coveted billionaires, practically nothing was known about him. He was definitely very private.
Ms. Carlson studied me for a long moment. Then she rose, extending her hand again.
"Welcome to The Wolfe Group, Ms. Kellerman. I'll have security prepare your badge and send you the building access codes by this evening. The dress code is strictly professional. Any questions?"
I rose too, gathering the folder. "No questions. I'll see you tomorrow at eight fifteen."
"Eight a.m. would be better."
I met her gaze. "Eight a.m. it is."