Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
CASSY
My mind buzzes with relentless urgency as I mentally tick off the seemingly endless items on my to-do list for my insufferable boss.
Each reminder tightens my anxiety. Dread creeps in as I envision myself dashing through city streets under the blazing sun, sweat trickling down my back as I gather his freshly pressed suits from the dry cleaner, wait at the pharmacy to collect his prescriptions, and tackle the myriad tasks he invents, all before I can even start on the mounds of paperwork piling up on my desk.
God, how I wish I could stay home all day in my pink fuzzy pajamas with the little cartoon cupcakes, curled under my soft teal throw blanket with a bowl of buttery popcorn, watching children’s movies until my eyes grow heavy.
I know I’m twenty-four and should probably stream some acclaimed drama or a foreign film with subtitles and long, meaningful silences.
Yet there’s something magical about watching the girl lose her glass slipper in the moonlight as she flees the palace or seeing fiery red hair billow like flame as she explores shipwrecks in her secret grotto.
But I can’t pay the rent on fairy tales.
I love my job, truly. Solving problems gives me a rush, especially when I click through a solution. But despite this, my boss makes coming to work unbearable. My colleagues approach me instead of Chad when they have issues, knowing I’ll see things through until a solution is found.
In my most private daydreams, I imagine coming home to someone who’d massage my aching shoulders, run me a hot bubble bath with little rubber duckies floating amongst the bubbles, and listen to all about my day.
He would make all the decisions and handle all aspects of my life, like the electric bill, and remember to water the plants I keep killing.
Today, the weight of responsibility presses on me.
I am under immense pressure to complete the quarterly report and presentation for Chad so he can present it to his father at the meeting.
Resentment simmers as I brace myself for him basking in all the glory, taking credit for every ounce of my hard work.
After the last meeting, that annoyance turned to shock when I stumbled upon the report I’d painstakingly compiled for him and discovered, to my horror, that he had tampered with the numbers.
The massive expenditures had been conveniently erased, vanished without a trace.
Since my first day as Chad’s assistant, he has degraded my appearance.
I’m not one of his skinny bitches he fucks in his office.
I have curves, and I’m damn proud of them.
My title is COO executive assistant, though Chad refuses to call me that.
He instead calls me his chubby secretary or, on special days, fatty.
However, he never says it in front of his father, because his father won’t stand for it.
Mr. Bowers has always been kind and appreciative of my hard work.
All of a sudden, a chill runs down my spine, as a sense of anticipation and nervousness engulfs me.
The tingling of static electricity dances across every inch of my skin.
It reminds me of the premonitions that have plagued me since childhood.
They have been a mix of good and evil, but always accurate.
I inherited these premonitions from my mother. I can remember Mom sitting at the kitchen table when, suddenly, her eyes would become distant yet focused, and she would speak of things to come. Never once was she wrong, even with the last prediction. The one that changed my life forever.
Today, my feelings were no different—anticipation morphs quickly into uncertainty.
The premonitions start with a looming sense of dread that clings to me like a shadow, before shifting into an almost euphoric excitement that makes my heart race.
These swings leave me tense but hopeful: something big is going to happen.
I can feel it in my bones, but I can’t quite grasp what it is yet.
The jarring screech of the subway car’s brakes echoes through the tunnel, jolting me out of my thoughts. I lift my head to see that we have arrived at my stop.
As I stand, I’m joined by the throngs of passengers getting off.
I can’t help but notice the stark contrast between locals and tourists.
While we New Yorkers move with purpose, swiftly making our way towards the exit without a second glance, the tourists move at a leisurely pace, taking in every detail.
Hell, they even stop and snap pictures of the graffiti on every inch of wall space.
For us, it was just another mundane aspect of city life.
Graffiti is everywhere in New York City.
If they genuinely wanted to see art, there were countless museums and galleries just waiting to be explored.
I maneuver around two women who are posing for selfies in front of a colorful abstract of a man’s dick.
I wonder what their family will think when they see the images.
As I step out of the subway, the world bursts into vivid detail, shaking off my routine numbness with a jolt of sensory overload.
The bright sunlight momentarily blinds me, and the cacophony of honking cars and bustling crowds fills my ears.
The air carries the mingling scents of street food, exhaust, and something uniquely New York, and my feelings shift to gratitude for the city’s intensity.
Adjusting my overstuffed bag on my shoulder, I make my way down the street.
Everything I needed to get through the day is in this bag.
The blistering spring sun beats down on my skin, making me feel like a lobster in a boiling pot.
However, there was nowhere else I would want to live. New York is my home.
The city is a melting pot of cultures and people seeking their own versions of the American dream.
As a native New Yorker, born and bred, I take pride in knowing that my roots run deep in this city.
For generations, my family has called New York home.
My parents had been my biggest supporters.
They encouraged me to chase my dreams and never be afraid to stand out.
Even when my body bloomed into womanhood, they stood by me and showed me that there was nothing wrong with having curves.
Their unwavering love and acceptance filled me with confidence and gratitude.
I refuse to let anyone make me feel any less about myself.
No two people are alike, and if everyone stopped and thought about that for a moment, the world would be a better place to live in.
Looking ahead, I see my favorite boutique.
Curve Culture is owned by a kickass woman whom I have the pleasure of calling a friend.
Slowing my pace, I stop in front of the large window and wave at Charlotte.
She is putting a sexy dress on the plus-size mannequin.
If those tourists hadn’t held me up, I would have had a few moments to go in, but being late is something I never do.
Unlike almost seventy-five percent of the people working at Bower Holdings, I never spent a day in college.
It was something I didn’t feel like I needed to do for a job I felt fulfilled in.
Blessed with a strong work ethic and common sense, I have consistently excelled in every job I have held.
I began my career in the mailroom at Bower Holdings and progressed to become an executive assistant to the company’s COO.
Chip Bower, the son of the company’s CEO, is a complete idiot. He spends most of his days watching porn or having sex with different women in the building. While he is doing this, I handle his job. His father has no clue what his son is doing all day.
Before opening the door, I take a deep breath and chant to myself. “Please let it be a good feeling, please, please.” Pulling the door open, I step inside and make my way towards the security guard.
“Demetri, good morning.”
“Hey, sexy Cassy. You are looking hot today.”
“Maybe because it is already seventy-five degrees out,” I say with a laugh, knowing what he meant. Demetri is a great guy, but he hits on anything in a skirt. I didn’t have time for that foolishness. “Got to get to my desk. See you later, Demetri.”
I rush over to the bank of elevators and duck in before the door closes.
“Wow, that was close,” I say before looking around.
Instead of a full elevator, there was only one guy.
No, this was not just a guy. This was a man.
No, this is a fucking hot man. He was at least six feet three, with broad shoulders encased in an expensive navy-blue suit jacket.
He wore a crisp white shirt, blue silk tie, silver cufflinks, and expensive Italian leather shoes.
Over the years, spending time with Charlotte has allowed me to appreciate the intricacies of high fashion.
Every piece he wore was meticulously tailored and oozed sophistication, from the sleek lapel of his designer suit to the polished leather of his Italian shoes.
As I glance up, I notice the distinguished streaks of gray threading through his dark hair at the temples and the subtle crow’s feet that crinkle at the corners of his eyes.
Amidst my ogling, he turns his face, and I’m captivated by the most striking pair of emerald green eyes.
Their intensity is like a magnet pulling me in.
A shiver ripples through me, starting at my head and traveling inward to my core.
Just as I open my mouth to speak, the elevator doors glide open.
The man shifts his gaze away, stepping out with a confident stride, leaving me in his wake without a backward glance.
With a resigned shrug, I trail behind, heading toward my desk.
A man like that surely has a stunning wife or a supermodel girlfriend.
Either choice would be lucky, because, damn, he is breathtaking.
I mentally bookmark the memory of him, knowing it would serve me well later when I reach for my trusty vibrator.
Note to self: Change the batteries before starting.
Settling into my cushioned office chair, I tug off my worn sneakers and slip on a pair of polished black heels, feeling the shift from comfort to corporate.
I tuck my bag neatly into the empty desk drawer and then press the power button on my computer.
As the hum of the machine fills the quiet room, I enter my login and password, fingers flying over the keyboard with practiced ease.
I lean back, anticipating the familiar sight of the sun-drenched Italian countryside that usually greets me on the screen.
But instead, I am met with a stark, jarring message in bold letters that makes my heart skip a beat: ACCESS DENIED.
“What the hell,” I growl. Entering the login and password once again, but still the same message appears. Just as I am about to call the IT department, my phone rings.
“Cassandra Lincoln.”
“Cassy, we have a major problem. No one can log in to their computers,” Ben says.
“No one?”
“Yeah. It is as if someone has altered the entire system entry codes. Even my login doesn’t work.”
“Let me see what I can find out, and I will call you back.”
For the next hour, I methodically reach out to the other departments, hoping someone has stumbled upon a solution.
Leaving my desk, I head down the corridor to the IT department, the fluorescent lights flickering above me.
Inside, the room hums with the low sound of computers, and Ben, hunched over his keyboard, looks up as I approach.
“Any updates?” I ask, but he shakes his head, his eyes weary from hours of troubleshooting.
Disappointed, I make a quick stop in the restroom.
The cool water briefly refreshes me before I head back.
As I settle into my chair, a sudden, sharp sound pierces the air.
The unmistakable sound of screaming came from Chip’s office down the hall.
“DAD, YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS!” Chip screams, his voice echoing through the hallway.
Suddenly, the door swings open with a bang, and Mr. Bowers strides out, his shoulders slumped as if carrying a heavy burden.
He pauses when his eyes meet mine. He attempts a smile, but it barely lifts the corners of his mouth.
There is also a flicker of weariness in his eyes.
“Cassy, I need you to send a message to all the managers and have them meet me in the conference room immediately,” he instructs, his voice heavy with urgency.
Deep lines crease his forehead, and his eyes are shadowed with a weariness that makes him look as if he’s aged twenty years overnight.
A sense of unease settles over the room like a thick fog. What was going on?
“Mr. Bowers, is everything alright?”
“Cassy, I’m sorry,” he murmurs, before turning on his heel and walking away, leaving a trail of tension in his wake.