Mister Morgan (CEOs of Kink #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

CONSTANCE

It’s been one year, ten months and three weeks of being invisible. That’s how long I’ve managed to keep my head down, do my job and go home to my son.

It’s also exactly how long I’ve been working at Nocturne Enterprise.

Morgan Creed doesn’t know my name. I’m sure of it. He doesn’t need to. Men like him don’t remember the people who move around the edges of their orbit, making sure things happen smoothly without ever being seen.

The thought ought to comfort me. It doesn’t.

There isn’t a single person in this building who doesn’t know who he is. His presence moves ahead of him, bending the air, tightening conversations. When Morgan Creed walks through the halls, people straighten. Voices lower. Doors close a little faster than necessary.

Nocturne doesn’t advertise what it does. That’s the point.

Private security for the rich and famous. Crisis response. Threat mitigation. Missing persons. The kind of work that requires discretion, sealed files, and silence baked into every contract.

I’m part of the silence. I don’t want to be noticed. I don’t want to be remembered. I’m here to do my job, not impress anyone, not make friends, and definitely not draw the attention of a man who replaces people as easily as office furniture.

That’s how you last here.

The mailroom isn’t glamorous work. It doesn’t come with any special perks, prestige or catered lunches like on the executive floor.

But it pays decently. And more importantly, it’s reliable work.

It’s what pays for Chance’s therapies—occupational and speech twice a week, physical therapy on Fridays.

That's the one that always leaves him exhausted, but he loves Mrs. Brenda and has so much fun with her.

In addition to ensuring Chance gets all his medical care, it also keeps the lights on.

It guarantees the fridge is stocked with the specific brand of yogurt Chance will eat without causing a fuss and keeps us well nourished.

So every weekday morning at six forty-five, I drop my son at school, come into this building, and disappear on purpose.

Dark hair pulled into a practical knot at the base of my neck, a few stubborn strands always escaping despite my effort.

Average height, soft curves I hide beneath loose blouses chosen specifically not to draw attention.

Nothing about me stands out …intentionally.

But stepping inside the building today, a shiver runs down my spine.

It has my body shaking, my heart racing as to what it could mean.

My grandmother used to tell me it’s our body's way of preparing us for something unexpected happening.

She never told me if it was something good or bad. I guess it just depends.

Then I see him. Standing at the elevator. The very one I’m heading straight for.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of solid build that looks earned rather than maintained.

A tailored charcoal suit molds to his frame, emphasizing strength instead of wealth.

Blond hair sits slightly disordered, like he runs a hand through it when thinking, and sharp pale eyes scan everything without lingering long enough to invite familiarity.

The kind of face people instinctively listen to before he ever speaks.

Which is exactly why I stop moving and wait for the elevator doors to open before stepping forward. I don’t belong in the orbit of men like Morgan Creed.

I've seen him exactly three times in nearly two years.

Once from behind as he exited the elevator on the executive floor, while I waited inside behind the others, eyes fixed stubbornly on the floor numbers.

Once reflected in the mirrored glass of a conference room door, where he had the air of being unmistakably authoritative.

And once—very briefly—across the lobby as we crossed paths. None of those times did he look at me.

The outcome of each of those times was ideal. Exactly how I wanted it to end if I were to be in the same space as him.

I knew his schedule the way sailors knew their way on the wide open sea.

Lunch: one to one forty-five p.m.. Every day. No exceptions. Short and sweet. No long drawn-out meals for him.

Which was why I always deliver his mail during that time frame.

Never before. Never after.

And never directly to him.

I sort all the mail for the company and deliver each and every letter and package myself.

Morgan Creed’s envelopes—thick, heavy stock, embossed logos, occasionally hand-addressed—are placed neatly in a separate folder.

I make sure to never make a mistake. I triple-check each and every envelope to ensure he never gets mail that isn’t his.

That would require me to come face to face with his wrath.

Then I deliver his folder of mail to his assistant of the month.

The phrase wasn’t official. It was just what people called them. The revolving door of assistants.

The turnover is legendary. No one knows exactly why they cycle through so quickly. Impossible standards, his temper. Both. Neither. It doesn’t matter.

If a man can replace his assistant every few weeks, then the mailroom girl is disposable.

That’s why I learned to be invisible.

The only reason there was even an opening in the mailroom—the only reason I have this job at all—is because the last woman made a mistake.

That’s what the gossip says.

I heard it my first week here, sitting in the employee lounge with a styrofoam cup of burnt coffee warming my hands.

“They say she dropped a letter right at his feet,” one woman whispered, eyes bright with excitement. “Like, it just slipped out of her hands.”

“And when she bent to pick it up,” another added, lips curling, “she knocked his water bottle over. All over his suit.”

“Water everywhere,” the first said. “He lost it. Fired her right there in the lobby.”

“For an accident?” I asked.

“For carelessness,” came the reply.

It was then I developed my whole invisible mantra. Because this job is the reason my son’s in the therapy that he needs to succeed. It’s the reason I didn’t lose everything when I was already standing on the edge.

I learned valuable lessons without ever meeting the man.

Don’t drop things. Don’t bump into him. Don’t exist in his line of sight.