CHAPTER 5 #3
"See? I know you know good food, child," Naomi said, satisfaction softening her features as the toast popped up with a clean ding. "But your secretary is something else entirely. You set her straight for me today, Helisa. You tell her Naomi is ready to show her what a real kitchen looks like."
"Will do," I said, a soft smile lingering on my face as I grabbed my towel and turned toward the long hallway leading to the master suite. "I’m going to go wash the pavement off my feet."
***
The master bathroom was a cathedral of white Calacatta marble, heated floors, and polished chrome fixtures that looked more like modern sculpture than plumbing.
I walked over to the massive glass shower enclosure, which was large enough to fit an entire boardroom table, and turned the digital dial, activating the multi-tiered jet system.
Within seconds, the room began to fill with a thick, heavy, luxurious cloud of eucalyptus-scented steam that blurred the edges of the room.
I peeled off my damp workout clothes, leaving myself bare before the massive, backlit vanity mirror that never lied about the passage of time.
I looked at my reflection through the faint mist. At thirty-four, my body was in peak physical condition—a testament to absolute discipline, immense wealth, and an unyielding refusal to let corporate stress dictate my form.
My skin was smooth, dark, and taut, my collarbones sharp, my chest lifted from years of athletic conditioning.
I possessed everything the modern world defined as supreme success.
A multi-billion-dollar company valuation, a penthouse in the clouds, a name that made politicians and tech founders clear their schedules just to get fifteen minutes on my calendar.
But as I stared into my own dark brown eyes through the glass, a profound, heavy wave of loneliness settled into my throat, thick and suffocating.
I had so much... but in this quiet space, I felt so incredibly little.
The world knew me as the Ice Queen. They knew me as Helisa Smith, the cold, calculating tech prodigy who broke markets, terminated contracts, and didn't look back.
But standing here, stripped of the designer suits, the diamonds, and the corporate titles, I was just a fragile, aching heart that yearned to be seen.
Really seen. Not for the bank account, not for the prestige, but for the woman beneath the armor who still remembered what it felt like to be held.
I wondered... did Miley Palmer have it in her? Not just to be an intern who memorized E-Tech’s software architecture, but to be the one who actually fixed the broken, isolated machinery of my personal life?
The thought felt dangerous. Irresponsible.
I was her boss. I was the CEO of the company she was interning for.
Should I even be harboring a faint romantic interest in someone I barely knew?
Someone whose world was so entirely different from mine, rooted in the pavement of Harlem while I floated in the clouds of midtown?
And how would Ciara feel about it? I knew Ciara loved me—she had been by my side for three years, her loyalty unquestioned, and I knew she would take me in a heartbeat if I ever gave her the slightest green light.
But every time Ciara got too close, there was this strange, repulsive energy there.
A professional boundary that felt like lead.
She was too familiar, too calculated. But with Miley...
just from that brief interaction yesterday morning, it felt natural. It felt magnetic.
"Maybe I should really bring her over for dinner," I whispered to the empty room, my voice swallowed by the steam. "Just shoot my shot lowkey... see where her head is at."
I shook my head violently, a wave of professional shame hitting me.
No. That would be completely unbecoming of a woman in my position.
So incredibly unprofessional. If the tech blogs or the tabloids got a hold of a story about the CEO of E-Tech hunting after a twenty-something intern from Harlem, they would crucify me on the front page of the financial times.
The board would have an absolute stroke, and the stock price would plummet before lunch.
I stepped into the shower, the powerful, scalding-hot jets hitting my shoulders and back with a violent, delicious pressure. I let the water cascade down my frame, closing my eyes as the heat melted the lingering tension in my muscles.
My hands followed the path of the water, sliding down my ribs, over the flat slope of my stomach, and drifting down between my thighs.
I slid two fingers over my clit, my touch light at first, then firm, a soft, ragged sigh escaping my lips as the contact sent a sudden, electric jolt straight to my core.
I checked myself, making sure there were no "cobwebs" as Naomi had so crudely put it, even though I knew her old-school rhetoric was complete rubbish.
As my fingers moved against my wet skin, the rhythm matching the heavy beat of the shower, Miley’s face flashed behind my eyelids with terrifying clarity.
I wondered if she was into women. If those full, glossy lips had ever tasted another girl.
If she was, I would definitely have to find a way to lowkey feel her out first—professionally, of course.
A casual comment here, an extra assignment there...
just to see if the spark was mutual or if I was losing my mind.
But then the anxiety returned. If Ciara found out I was giving special attention to the new intern, she would be absolutely furious. She would turn the entire executive floor into a reality TV set, dropping hints and creating drama that I didn't have the bandwidth to manage.
I pulled my hand away from my body, letting out a frustrated groan as I leaned my head against the wet marble wall.
The water kept running, but the ache inside me remained untouched.
I was sexually frustrated, completely bound by my own rules and my own status, and I knew deep down that no toy, no matter how advanced its engineering, and no amount of my own fingers could ever cure this specific type of pent-up, soul-deep frustration.
I needed a real touch. I needed a real connection with someone who wasn't afraid of the ice.
An hour later, the frustration was locked back behind a wall of slate-blue silk and tailored wool. I walked into the dining area, fully dressed in a stunning, razor-sharp corporate suit, my hair slicked back into a flawless, low chignon that didn't have a single strand out of place.
Naomi had the table set beautifully. The tuna sandwich was cut diagonally, the crusts removed with mathematical precision, and the bowl of Frosted Flakes sat in a heavy crystal dish, the milk perfectly chilled.
I ate in silence, savoring every bite of the home-cooked comfort, while Naomi moved around the kitchen tidying up the workspace.
When it was finally time for me to grab my leather briefcase, Naomi walked me to the penthouse door, her eyes looking at me with that deep, maternal affection that always disarmed me.
"Now remember, child," Naomi said, pointing a finger at me as she held the door open. "You invite that new little intern over for dinner tomorrow night. Don't be shy about it. And you better bring that loudmouth Ciara too, so I can properly cuss her out about my oxtail. You hear me?"
"Alright, will do, Naomi," I smiled, my heart softening as I looked at her.
"I’ll make sure they both get the memo before noon.
Oh, and by the way... I was watching that Netflix series you left logged in on the media room TV last night.
The Residence. I hope you don't mind that I started it without you? "
"Nah, that’s completely fine, child," Naomi waved her hand dismissively, her Bronx accent thick and comforting.
"I’ll just pick up right from where I left off tonight.
But listen to me, Helisa... just remember to don't stress yourself out too much today.
I know that Tokyo shipping deal is quite tedious and got you all twisted up, but you just pray about it, girl.
Nothing in this whole world beats a good prayer. You hear me?"
I looked at her, the mask completely dropping for one final second. "Thank you, Naomi. I love you always." I leaned in and blew a soft, genuine kiss toward her.
"Love you too, baby," Naomi said, her voice warm as she began to slide the heavy oak door shut. "Now go out there and be the absolute best version of yourself. Show them tech boys who owns the sky."
The heavy lock clicked into place, and the penthouse returned to its silent, expensive peace.
The minute the private elevator dropped me into the secured underground garage, the atmosphere shifted back to high-velocity execution.
One of my personal security guards, an imposing man named Marcus clad in a flawless black suit, stepped forward instantly.
He rolled up in the custom, midnight-black Nissan Patrol Nismo, the engine letting out a deep, throaty rumble that vibrated against the concrete floor.
He held the rear door open for me with absolute military precision. I stepped into the leather-scented, high-tech interior, the door clicking shut with a heavy, airtight seal that isolated me from the world.
As the luxury SUV accelerated out of the garage and hit the bustling, aggressive morning traffic of Manhattan, I leaned my head back against the headrest, looking out at the towering structures of the city.
The E-Tech towers awaited their queen, and as the steel structures drew closer, my mind narrowed down to a single, sharp, intoxicating focus.
Miley Palmer was going to be at her desk in exactly forty minutes, and I was going to find out exactly what she was made of.