14. Lauren
14
Lauren
Someone just mentioned my name.
Usually, that’s not enough for me to come to an abrupt stop in the middle of the hallway on my department floor. I’m the acting CEO of a multi-million-dollar company—my name has already been called about a dozen times since the workday started, and it’s not even 10 am.
Hearing the word ‘cunt’ right after my name, though, that’s quite unusual. Then, someone else mutters, “Who the fuck does she think she is?”
Doubling back, I enter the door I’d just walked past. Two pairs of eyes turn to me, no sign of caution or fear that they’d just been overheard. No, they’re staring at me like I just invaded their private space.
“It’s nine-forty-five, gentlemen,” I say brusquely, pointing to my watch. “You should be at your desks, not gossiping beside the coffee maker.”
The taller one, Dane Evans, flashes a sneer while reaching for his coffee cup. “Whatever you say, Madam CEO .” His shoulder narrowly misses mine as he walks by me.
“Coming, Max?” he calls to the other guy .
“Nah.” Maxwell Carter leans against the kitchen counter and folds his arms. “I’m not quite done with my break. Besides, there’s only one boss I answer to.”
His hard grey eyes pose a challenge, one I won’t rise to. Trying to rule these senior managers with an iron fist will only backfire. They have strength in numbers, and although I’m Samuel Cain’s daughter, I’m still an outsider.
An outsider who knows how to pick her battles.
As I turn, Maxwell snorts. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Dane is still standing by the door, and I inch past him. They burst out in laughter, and I stop, curling my hands into fists. How long can I let this continue? If I don’t stand my ground, how will they have respect for me?
“Come on, gentlemen. Get to your stations. Now .”
The firm, deep command comes from behind me, his expression just as firm when I turn to face him. Only, he’s not looking at me. Dane and Maxwell shuffle past me like humble little lambs, their eyes cast down. I shake my head and walk off. His footsteps follow me.
“Your entitlement is showing, Lauren,” he says in a sing-song voice. It’s unpleasant, creepy, just like him.
“I don’t know what you mean.” I hasten my steps toward my office.
“You owe me a thank you.” Oliver swings in front of me, blocking the door. “I just saved your ass. Those boys were ready to eat you alive.”
“I owe you nothing,” I snap, trying to get around him, but he just shifts and blocks my way again. “It’s your fault that they have no respect for me.”
Oliver scoff-laughs. “My fault? Please. Don’t blame me for being weak. Those boys smelled blood in the water your first day, and they won’t stop until they take you down.”
“Oh, and I bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you? Someone else doing your dirty work and getting rid of me. ”
“I don’t need anyone doing my dirty work, princess,” he snarls, leaning in. “You’re going to fuck things up without anyone lifting a finger. We both know you’re not cut out for this.”
“Get out of my way.”
To my surprise, he complies, standing aside. Yet, I should’ve known it was too good to be true. His fingers grip the door as I attempt to close it. He pushes it forward, making me stumble.
“What are you doing? Back off!” I hiss, thankful my office is tucked away from the rest of the floor.
“I’m not done talking to you,” he hisses back, lifting the folder. “Why the hell did you leave this on my desk?”
With a sigh, I slacken my hold on the door. “Why does everything have to be a fight with you?”
“What was this doing on my desk?” he repeats more firmly as I enter my office.
“You’ve been working here for five years. You know exactly what it is.” I plop heavily in my chair, my daily planner landing in the center of my cluttered desk as I drop it. It’s almost ten o’clock, and I’m already drained from an early morning meeting. I have no time for Oliver’s tantrums. Not today.
“I know what it is. Tell me what gave you the audacity to leave it on my desk.”
“You’re a part of the executive team, aren’t you?” I point to the folder. “That’s your job.”
“No, it’s yours. Check your job description sweetheart,” he snaps, dropping the folder in front of me.
I glare at it, then at him. “I’m not your sweetheart, and I don’t need to check my job description. I know what’s required of me. ”
“Apparently not, since you’re unaware that the Operations team falls under your portfolio until the new VP gets here.” He smirks. “Unless you feel that managing them is beneath you.”
His opinion that I act like I’m better than everyone is getting quite old.
“I mean, when I was acting CEO, I knew what my job functions were. There was no tasks too trivial for me ,” he brags.
Hardening my expression, I drop the folder in front of him. “And as your boss, I’m instructing you to chair the Operations meeting, Oliver .”
“Or what? Are you going to fire me?” He tsks, spinning toward the exit. “Let’s see you try. We both know these boys will eat you alive if I’m not around. You can’t steer this ship without me.”
The door slams before I get a response out. Resisting the urge to scream, I reach for the folder. Oliver’s right; I can’t fire him, though not because of the assholes in the office. After Gabriel left Cain Industries, and with my dad’s legal troubles, Oliver was the glue that kept the company together. I can’t stand his ass, but I’ll give him his laurels. Oliver’s a natural at running this business. I’m not.
Yet.
I open the folder and skim through the agenda for the Operations meeting being held at eleven. It’s a simple meeting, but it’s going to eat an hour of my valuable time.
Ugh. Can the new VP get here already?
Unlocking my laptop, I check the new-hire email HR sends every week. I scroll through the photos all the way down to the end then groan.
Great. Another guy.
With my luck, it’s another misogynistic asshole who feels he shouldn’t be working under a woman. My entire executive team feels this way. I’m going to keep letting them eat their words with those record-breaking profits. At the end of the financial year, my dad will have no other choice but to make this official.
My cellphone chirps as I’m done with a report. The incoming text message makes me smile for the first time today.
Marcus: I just filed a police report for that T-shirt you stole.
Me: Seriously?
Marcus: I’ll reverse the charges on one condition.
Me: Which is?
Marcus: You bring my shirt back and let me whoop your ass at Mortal Combat.
Me: Oh, please. You still couldn’t beat me if I let you.
Marcus: Well then, I hope you like getting handcuffed.
My thumb lingers over the keys as I remember Marcus dashing up the stairs last night. Before then, I’d never interpret these words as subtle flirting, but after what I saw, it’s making me wonder…
Mhm. Let’s test that theory.
Me: I’ve never been handcuffed before, but I’m open to trying anything at least once.
The bubbles float as he types a reply, then they stop. I gape as he goes offline. Way to leave me hanging, dude.
He doesn’t come back online, so I give up after waiting a minute. I stare at the computer screen, running my fingers through my ponytail, thinking back to last night. A sweet ache settles between my thighs from the memory of Marcus’ erection tenting his pants. I rock myself, my lower lip caught between my teeth. Focus, focus.
Shaking my head clear, I reach for the laptop and open my next task. Prompting from my bladder makes me pause, and I hurry to the adjoining bathroom. As I relieve myself, I hear the creak of my office door as it opens. The faint thud of footsteps tells me someone just entered.
I wait for a voice, but there’s just silence. I finish my business and leave the stall. Despite my team’s opinion of me, there’s only one person who would enter my office without permission.
“Asshole,” I mutter, wiping my hands with a napkin. “What the hell does he want now?”
I turn the knob, ready to give him a piece of my mind. We literally just talked about him invading my space.
My body lurches forward, and a grunt flies from my throat as I bump into the door.
“What the—?”
Pulling back, I twist the knob again then push. There’s no mistake. I’m locked in here.
I beat against the wood. “Oliver, I know you’re hearing me. Open the door!”
No response. Of course. He’s not going to bend so easily.
Dropping to my knees, I peer through the crack beneath the door. Movement catches my attention. I see the reflection of his feet moving back and forth. He’s up to something. Whatever it is, it’s definitely not good.
“Oliver! This isn’t funny, you hear me?”
As his feet move toward the door, something whiffs past my nose.
Oh, God. No.
I fly to my feet, banging on the door, panic making my chest tight. My office is soundproof, so there’s no chance someone will hear if I scream. I can only hope this is a cruel prank to scare me. The alternative is too terrifying to consider.
There’s no way Oliver wants to kill me. He’s not that hateful. No way.
When a whiff of smoke flies past my nostrils, I choke out a sob, banging harder. I don’t want to die like this. I can’t. Smoke fills my lungs as I collapse to my knees, choking and gasping for breath .
Right before I lose consciousness, the door flies open, and a pair of arms scoop me up. My body gets thrown over a hard shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and we dash through the smoke-filled room. My eyes burn, forcing me to close them. When I open them again, I feel my body being lowered, and I hit the carpeted floor.
He stoops down, his watery eyes bearing down on me. “You okay?”
I can’t answer. The response gets lodged in my throat—not only from shock, but from what I see in Oliver’s eyes. Is that regret from saving me? Or is it guilt from setting my office on fire?