Twelve Nights of Sin (Sins of the Season #1)

Chapter 1 Elizabeth

ELIZABETH

Just one more day and then it’s the weekend.

That thought is the only caffeine in my system as I shove open the glass doors of Clark M & A, supposedly the crown jewel of New York City trading firms.

I’ve been here a year, which is just long enough to realize I’m basically the office courier pigeon with better shoes.

Not that I hate it. I actually like the place. I just wish people noticed me for more than my ability to pick up a phone on the first ring or carry coffee without spilling it.

“Morning,” Jackie calls as I toss my bag and coat behind the front desk. She’s already stationed with a flock of other assistants, all of them nursing lattes and trading juicy office gossip like it’s insider stock information.

Every one of them works for a “big wig,” which is the term they use with a straight face, as if they’re mob wives instead of secretaries.

They’re nice enough to me. I’m not exiled from the tribe. I’m just not quite in it either.

Standing on the outside of their little circle, I feel like I’m at the high school cafeteria again, tray in hand, waiting to see if anyone will wave me over.

Maybe if I were louder. Sharper. The type who throws elbows and takes up space. But that’s never been me.

I smile too much, hold doors too long, and people mistake kindness for weakness.

My grand plan was that this job would give me a fresh start. Instead, it feels like I’ve just reset the game and picked the same character all over again.

I grab the coffeepot, pour steaming liquid into my dented travel mug, and paste on my best “everything’s fine” smile. “Happy Friday, ladies.”

They clink cups, lean closer, and lower their voices. I catch the words “maternity leave” and “Cancún” and “Jonathan Clark,” which makes their circle ripple with a laughter I’m not invited into. I sip my coffee, burn my tongue, and tell myself that today, something has to change.

Today’s hot topic? Which assistants aren’t coming back after the new year.

It’s practically a sport for them, whispering about who’s snagging a ring, who’s getting knocked up, and who’s jetting off to “find themselves” in Bali.

I’ve never understood the thrill of gossip. Maybe because nine times out of ten, I’m the one on the menu. But if nodding along keeps me from going invisible again, I’ll play.

I do love this job. The paycheck’s kept me in rent, heat, and the occasional Sephora splurge. But sometimes I wonder: when is it my turn? When do I stop fetching cups and start getting noticed for what I can actually do?

“Well,” I announce to no one in particular, sliding in like the awkward kid at a middle school dance, “time to get to work.”

They flash polite smiles before snapping their attention back to each other, all glossy lips and clinking bracelets. My contribution? A two-second cameo in the ongoing series of Women Who Matter Less.

Fine. If I can’t headline, I’ll at least cater.

I duck under the table and drag out the silver tray that’s almost as big as me. Every Friday, it’s the same ritual: carafes filled, donuts stacked, caffeine and sugar offered up like holy communion to the gods upstairs.

The spread today smells like heaven and dental bills—glazed crullers, chocolate frosted, and, my personal weakness, powdered jelly that will inevitably explode down the front of my blouse if I so much as breathe wrong.

It’s the coffee that warms my soul, though.

I brewed it myself so I can vouch it is good.

All of this is for Jonathan Clark’s sacred Friday meeting.

The big boss himself, plus his inner circle of suits, developers, and investment bankers with teeth so white they could guide planes to land.

They’ll sit around a polished table, talk about “deliverables,” and I’ll type up a summary later from the notes passed down like commandments.

Normally, someone else handles refreshments. But with half the assistants on maternity leave, honeymoon leave, or just “mental health in Miami” leave, guess who’s stuck playing hostess?

As I balance the carafes on the tray, I can’t help but wonder if this is it for me. Am I just a lifetime errand girl with better coffee skills than the average barista?

Then I think of my mother and grandmother hunched over sewing machines for decades, stitching until their fingers went numb, and I tell myself: nope. Anything’s better than that. Even if today, my biggest accomplishment is not dropping jelly on the floor.

“Careful with that tray, Lizzy,” one of the assistants sing-songs. “Don’t spill on Mr. Clark’s lap or you’ll be filing résumés by noon.”

Another leans in with a smirk. “She won’t. Coffee’s the only thing keeping her employed.”

I balance the carafe on the tray and give them my sweetest smile. “Exactly. Which means if I ever stop brewing it, you’ll all have to survive a meeting without caffeine. Imagine the carnage.”

That shuts them up long enough for me to glide past them and toward the conference room, heels clicking, the smell of roasted beans trailing behind me like a victory flag.

A woman standing near the conference room opens the door for me as my hands are preoccupied with trying not to drop the large tray, and as I enter, the table is full of men, all busy in conversation.

The harsh smell of many dueling colognes hits my nose the moment I lean down, sit the tray in the center of them, and begin filling each coffee cup before placing them in front of each man present.

With the last one set, I take the now-empty tray and head for the door once more, but a deep voice has me stalling.

“Morgan. Elizabeth Morgan, correct?” Turning swiftly, my eyes widen as I am surprised any of these men even know I exist.

Nodding silently, the man smiles. “My name is Chase Williams. I don’t believe we’ve ever formally introduced ourselves. You run the front desk, right?”

Once again, I nod without verbally answering him, still stunned in place by the front door.

“Please, take a seat.” He gestures to the seat at the far end of the table directly across from Jonathan Clark, the man everyone should recognize.

He is one of the most successful business owners, along with being one of the most eligible bachelors in the city.

Without an argument, I place the tray down on a side table and quickly take my seat. What could they possibly want with me?

“I’ve noticed all your hard work, and I want you to know that it hasn’t gone unnoticed,” Chase begins again. “How long have you worked for us now?”

“A little over a year,” I respond in a soft tone after clearing my throat.

Chase smiles and looks around at all the other men who are also staring at me. “Perfect. And are you familiar with the computer software we use here?”

“Yes, sir. I use it every day.” My stomach begins to churn as the nerves set in. “Am I in trouble?” The words blurt out before I can stop them, worrying that I am getting fired.

I never take a day off, and I’m never late. I can’t think of one thing I did that would justify them wanting to terminate my employment, but I can’t keep the thought away.

Chase laughs. “No. The exact opposite, actually.” His words cause my breath to hitch in my throat.

What does that mean? Am … am I getting promoted?

“I want to offer you a job as Jonathan’s assistant for the time being.

With everyone taking off for the holidays, we’re going to need someone as dedicated to their job as you to work directly with him. ”

Oh my God … I am being promoted! It’s a Christmas miracle.

After a few rapid blinks on my part, Chase speaks again as I remain quiet, unable to form a sentence. “It’s not too hard of a job, just be there to help him with whatever he may need. The holiday season is one of our busiest.”

My attention snags on Jonathan the way silk snags on a rough edge. He shifts in his chair, and suddenly his gaze collides with mine.

My stomach plummets, then flips, sparks licking down my spine until my thighs clench tight under my skirt.

I should look away. I can’t.

His stare pins me there, cool and unreadable, and the longer it holds, the more my skin hums.

A smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it. For a second, he’s stone, carved and untouchable. Then his mouth curves, slow and deliberate, and the air between us changes.

My body goes molten. My nipples pebble beneath my blouse, traitorous and obvious, and I shift my weight so no one notices.

If this is what a single glance does, then working this close to him is going to be brutal.

Every cell in me wants to lean closer, to imagine his hand sliding under the table and onto my thigh, his voice in my ear telling me not to move.

I drag in a breath, force myself to step back, and tell myself I’m here to prove my worth.

To get noticed for my work, not for how wet my boss can make me with a single smile.