Chapter 1
Lily
If you ask me how it’s been being Ares Greco’s personal secretary for the past two years, I’d say it’s fine. A dream, even.
But if you ask me properly, I’d puncture a barrel of liquor, rig a hose to it, lift it to my mouth, and talk while sipping, until there’s nothing left but my voice echoing in the empty drum.
I play secretary, PA, human weather app. I answer emails and calls at hours that don’t count as morning or night, juggle back-to-back meetings with clients who think time is theirs alone, and think three steps ahead for the next crisis that hasn’t even happened yet.
I book flights, rearrange schedules, remember birthdays, anticipate moods, while running tomorrow’s schedule in my head, lining up client calls, deciding which tie belongs to which suit before he’s even thought to ask.
I carry his files, digital and paper, even when he doesn’t need them. I translate cryptic notes, proofread speeches, and make calls he should make but doesn’t. I answer questions he hasn’t asked yet. I think things he hasn’t thought of, in case he decides he did.
Yeah. That’s my life. Two years of it. Exhaustion stitched into every minute, a constant bite under my skin.
And the last two weeks?
They’ve been hell.
“Make time for four tomorrow. I need to stop by Santos Inc.” Ares’ dark voice fills the car.
Instant alarm bells go off in my head. My chest folds, my fingers clenching the files in my lap.
Because that means reshuffling every single meeting. Every single call. Every single plan. And tomorrow is weekend! Weekend!
“You have golf with Dr. Rash at four,” I enunciate, already knowing it’s wasted breath.
“Move it.” He doesn’t look at me or even blink.
I picture my schedule exploding in my head, boxes and lines bending, colors shifting, alarms screaming.
“To when?” My brain twitches.
“That’s your job to know.”
“On it.” I nod, swallow, already calculating: calls to reschedule, assistants to text, and confirmations to chase.
Queue…cue. Knead…need. Ledge…ledge.
I start to roll the words over and over in my head, a rhythm that keeps me tethered to the present, keeps me from losing my shit.
I adjust on the stiff leather seat, turning my gaze to the early-morning city dragging past in gray streaks as we drive by.
The streets are almost empty, the city still half-asleep. Glass towers glint in the pale morning light, catching reflections of traffic lights that haven’t yet started blinking for the rush hour.
We’re in the SUV, black and tinted, silent but for the soft hum of Alonso the driver. In the passenger seat, a bodyguard sits like a sculpture with broad shoulders, alert eyes, and ears tuned to the faintest disturbance.
And beside me, as always, sits Ares Greco. My boss. The man I’ve spent years orbiting like a satellite I can’t escape.
I press my pump heels into the floor, already regretting that I wore them.
Two weeks of back-to-back meetings stacked with no room to catch my breath. Two weeks of arranging every little detail for Ares, for the company, for the expansion into the Chinese market. The so-called “breakthrough” deal that could make or break everything.
I’m coordinating flights, translators, coffee orders, seating charts, and his schedule down to the second.
Two weeks of being the cog in a machine I barely signed up to run.
It’s my job, but I’m also human. I’m overwhelmed, over-stimulated, over-indulged, and over the top losing my shit.
I flex my fingers against the tablet in my lap, swiping through schedules, memos, and confirmations. I recheck the coffee order in my head. Lift my heels off the floor, let them rest briefly, then press them down again. My toes burn. My calves ache. My brain threatens to shut down.
Yeah, that’s me, running on fumes.
And the man I’m doing this for? He looks nothing like stress.
Tailored navy suit, brown leather accessories, signet ring on his pinky.
His raven hair is cut in a modern wolf style.
Crystal-blue eyes that pierce before he even says a word, icy enough to make you question why you thought you could ever look him in the eye without trembling.
Tall, muscular, broad shoulders, strong hands, imposing, with a presence that fills any room and makes you aware of how small you are in comparison.
Ares Greco is a blend of perfection and arrogance.
The CEO of Greco LTD, a multinational textile empire, luxury fabrics, high fashion, wealth stacked on wealth.
And when you add the Greco family’s other…
interests, let’s call it what it is, he’s also the alpha of their private affairs, the kind that don’t make it into glossy business magazines.
Mafia by association, business by public face.
Either way, he’s impossible. He’s exhausting. He’s…him.
He doesn’t sweat. He doesn’t fumble. He doesn’t…exist in the chaos the way I do.
And I hate him for it. Hate that he makes exhaustion feel like weakness. Hate that I’m tethered to him, bound by loyalty, skill, routine, and some damn part of me that’s far too stubborn to walk away.
Plus, I need this job. The pay is too good, too absurdly generous for the kind of stress he piles on.
That should have been my first clue: the money is compensation for putting up with him, for surviving him, for swallowing my frustration while keeping him on schedule.
I shift slightly, adjust my gray skirt, smooth my white blouse, smooth the tablet against my thighs again, tilt my feet in heels that are still burning, and try to keep my eyes forward.
Queue…cue. Knead…need. Ledge…ledge.
I continue with my coping mechanism because it’s all I’ve got some mornings. My brain latches onto the sounds, the letters, the tiny shifts between meaning and spelling, and for a few seconds, I’m not spinning. I’m not a ball of nerves pressed against stiff leather, trying to survive.
It’s dumb. It’s childish. Maybe it wouldn’t work for anyone else. But for me? It keeps me present. Keeps me from losing it in front of him.
I glance sideways at Ares. His fingers tap lightly on his phone.
I hate the way he’s always so impeccably composed, so untouchable, so impossible to call human. And yet, I am aware of every subtle shift, of how his shoulder tilts, the faint lift of his jaw, the micro-movements that speak volumes like the side of his lips twitching.
Presence is a language. And Ares Greco speaks it fluently, whether I want to understand it or not.
Peak…peek. Knead…need. Queue…cue.
I continue to remind myself that I’m still sane.
But then I feel something shift in the space between us. I can’t put a name to it, can’t measure it, but it prickles along my skin and strains my muscles.
I turn, and he’s staring.
My heart plops to the pit of my stomach. I gulp, feeling the heat creeping up the back of my neck.
Every tiny adjustment, every little shift I’ve been making to survive this morning feels exposed under his gaze. So crystal blue. So unnervingly handsome. So unreal, like someone who dropped from the sky. And yet, so obnoxious.
“What’s your problem?” His croaky voice slips through the air like black smoke, curling, leaving a trail of unease in its wake.
“Huh…” I blink, scrambling. Words stumble over themselves in my head. “I…I’m fine,” I answer, forcing a smile I know doesn’t reach my eyes. “Only…thinking through…uh…the meetings. In my head.”
“Meetings?” He tilts his head slightly, a brow lifted, lips pursed like he doesn’t believe me.
I bite the inside of my cheek, try to gather my composure, and the lie comes out faster than I thought.
“Yes... I’m going… through all the presentations…making mental notes…reviewing the schedules…” My fingers clench against the tablet.
He watches me, unblinking. I can feel the judgment in the tilt of his shoulder, the slithering of his gaze.
“I didn’t sleep much last night,” I add, almost too quietly, more to myself than to him. “And…and the new supplier emails kept coming in…so I stayed up...” I realize, halfway through my carefully rehearsed excuse, that I’ve said too much, or maybe the wrong thing.
His eyes flick down briefly, like he wants to say something, then back up. But he doesn’t comment.
And just as my tongue is about to betray me further, maybe a groan of frustration, maybe a sigh that lets the fatigue pour out, Alonso eases the car into the small curb outside the coffee shop.
I glance at the rear-view mirror, and he catches my eye. He’s a man in his mid-thirties, lean, professional, with features softened by the kind of patience that comes with working for a man like Ares.
“Coffee stop,” I announce to no one, relief washing over me like ice water.
I sit back, adjust my skirt, and let the tension slide into something manageable. His glance remains in my peripheral vision but I don’t meet it.
The car stops, the engine idling softly, tires vibrating against the asphalt.
I throw the door open before I can fully think about it, my heels clicking against the curb as I step down. Then I relax and go through his order in my head, as I always do.
“Double espresso with no sugar. Extra shot, two-thirds strength, stirred counterclockwise. Cream on the side, poured only after the sugar dissolves, but with a twist of caramel. A subtle…spook,” I murmur, more to myself than to anyone.
It took me six weeks to get this order right when I first started working for him. Six weeks of trial, error, rewrites, tiny adjustments, and now it’s perfect.
But the twist with the caramel is mine, a tiny rebellion against the rigidity of the order, a little signature I added long ago, barely perceptible, just enough to make it mine while keeping it his.
I walk toward The Golden Bean, its small brick facade tucked neatly between glass-fronted offices. The windows are fogged with early-morning steam, warm breath against the cold air, the kind of place that always looks awake even when the city isn’t.
I catch my reflection in the glass before I go in. It’s faint, warped by steam and early light, but familiar. A petite frame wrapped in a gray skirt that hugs more than it should.