Chapter 18
Lucia
Like a thief, I snuck out of his office and made my way downstairs from the staircase nobody used. I cursed him under my breath when I felt his come trickle down my thighs.
Note to self: bring spare underwear to work tomorrow.
I rubbed a hand over my face.
What was he thinking, trying to get me pregnant?
I know he doesn’t have children, but is this really the way to go about it? I’d racked my brains trying to figure him out and only given myself a migraine.
But that video… I watched it several times last night. I don’t know if he’s infected me, but we looked hot together. His broad chest, the smattering of dark hair, the way he moved his—God, I almost slapped myself.
Focus. You’re at work.
I rushed into the ladies’ room to clean up before grabbing a coffee. At least I was early enough to work through my emails.
?? ?? ??
I sighed in relief. I’d managed to avoid seeing Allison and Evelyn today. I sent vague emails, brushing off their teasing.
We acquired the Furutachi contract, although I had no involvement with it.
I’d only just loaded my fork up with hot, cheesy pasta when I saw them approach. My mouth watered at the scent of Italian herbs and mixed peppers. I shoved the food into my mouth as they sat down.
I couldn't speak if I were eating, right?
“There she is,” Evelyn sing-songed, sliding her tray onto the table.
Allison followed, setting her coffee down with unnecessary force. “You’ve been avoiding us.”
I pointed to my mouth, still full, and nodded enthusiastically. Chew, swallow, avoid interrogation.
“She’s pretending she didn’t hear us,” Evelyn said.
“She’s pretending she doesn’t have a pulse,” Allison countered.
I swallowed and reached for my water. “I’ve been busy.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Evelyn leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Busy with the Furutachi contract, or busy with a certain CEO who’s been walking around like he owns the air?”
My fork clattered against the plate, so much for the pasta defence.
“You guys,” I said, shaking my head. “What makes you think the man is even human?”
“Hmm. She makes a valid point,” Allison said, sipping her coffee.
“Should you be having caffeine in your delicate condition?” Evelyn asked, and Allison scowled.
“Leave me alone. My pipe dream of stealing Lucia’s job is dead. I almost wish you were shagging him. If you got married, then I could dump him and move down here.”
I choked on a piece of pasta.
Evelyn rubbed her chin with narrowed eyes, but she wasn't looking at me, more like through me.
“No. I reckon he would make her work,” she finally said. “Honestly, the man is miserable.”
“Oooh,” I squealed, desperate to change the subject. “I got you both some souvenirs.”
?? ?? ??
I wrapped the scarf over my head and kept it tight around my face as I slipped out of the office. The last thing I needed was to be seen getting into Laurent’s car. Evelyn hadn’t mentioned my new hours—HR had handled that—but still.
Garrett spotted me immediately, so much for camouflage.
“Nice day for a disguise,” he said, opening the door.
“I liked it better when you didn’t speak,” I muttered, diving into the car.
He shut the door, but I could still hear his laughter.
The car hummed through the early evening traffic. Garrett didn’t speak again, which somehow made it worse. Every time I risked a glance at him, he had that faint smirk like he was sitting on the world’s funniest secret.
I fixed my eyes on the passing streets. Professional, I reminded myself. Detached. Easier said than done when my driver had witnessed enough to write a memoir.
When we finally turned down a quiet row of terraced mansions, Garrett eased the car to a stop.
“Mr Dubois said to give you these,” he said, holding out a set of keys. They glinted against his palm.
I stared at them. “You’re joking.”
He shrugged. “I’m not paid to joke.”
I took the keys and climbed out. The door clicked shut behind me, cutting off the sound of traffic. The house in front of me was all glass and shadow—polished edges, no warmth.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of cedar and something expensive I couldn’t name. My footsteps echoed over marble. The place was immaculate, impersonal, and him.
I stopped in the middle of the foyer, keys still in hand.
“Right,” I whispered to the silence. “Home sweet… whatever the fuck this is.”
The first room I wandered into could have housed a small restaurant.
Polished granite counters, chrome fixtures, everything arranged with surgical precision.
Not a crumb in sight. Typical. I opened the refrigerator—rows of bottled water, a single lemon, and something in a crystal jar that might have been caviar.
The living room was worse. Minimalist furniture, a muted grey rug, and walls of glass overlooking the city. It was beautiful in that sterile, nobody actually lives here kind of way. I could almost hear him criticising me for leaving fingerprints on the glass.
The dining room table could seat twelve. Twelve what, I wasn’t sure—twelve terrified employees? Twelve ex-girlfriends?
Upstairs, the atmosphere shifted. The air smelled faintly of his cologne—clean, dark, and unnervingly familiar. His bedroom looked like something out of a design magazine: black sheets, white walls, not a thing out of place.
Then I opened the closet door.
Rows of tailored suits, perfectly spaced. Drawers of watches, each resting in its own little velvet cradle. Shoes aligned by colour and, no doubt, designer season. Belts and ties coiled like obedient soldiers. It was both impressive and alarming; this was a man who planned his neuroses.
Curiosity tugged me toward the nightstand. A single book sat there, black and red, the title stamped in silver: Dark Psychology & Manipulation. On the cover, puppet strings dangled from a human brain.
I let out a quiet, mirthless laugh.
No wonder the man was a menace.
If this wasn't a red flag, I didn't know what was.