4. Ophelia
OPHELIA
My alarm blares the following morning, being a real pain in the ass.
Reaching across to my nightstand, I switch it off, collapsing back into bed.
I spend ten more minutes bed rotting, contemplating my life, and tear away the covers when the hand on my clock veers dangerously close to me being late for work.
The uneventful weekend was needed. Dynamics between me and Mr. Moretti are going to be awkward as fuck, this week jam packed with drama as we navigate our professional relationship after the intimate moment we shared on Friday.
I shower, dress, eat two mouthfuls of Greek yogurt and lock up, saying a silent prayer to myself in the elevator, wishing myself a good week.
I rush over to the subway, heels clopping on the sidewalk as I grab onto the railing and throw myself down the stairs.
After ten minutes of me clutching onto the railing, holding my breath inside of a very crowded subway carriage, I take my stop and head back onto the street, heart thumping in my chest, nerves binding together in my stomach.
Working as Mr. Moretti’s executive assistant comes with many perks as I have access to rooms most people don’t, and in those rooms are important filing cabinets. If I can stick my nose into them enough, I may uncover something related to the crow tattoo.
Glancing at the time on my watch, I make a quick diversion and grab a cappuccino from the coffee shop first.
“Please tell me why you’re wearing a blue satin button up and matching heels.”
“Yeah,” I cringe, slamming my palms on the counter. Oh, where to begin. “I decided to rebuke the letter of resignation…”
“After Mr. Moretti bent you over his desk on Friday.”
“First up,” I say, glancing over my shoulder. “Please whisper if you’re going to mention desk and Mr. Moretti in one sentence. Secondly, the resignation letter was nowhere to be found in my purse.”
“What?” asks Sapphire, reading my face. “You think Mr. Moretti took it?”
“Well, I was in the process of handing him the envelope when I spilled the coffee…”
Lines appear between Sapphire’s brow as she studies me across the counter.
“You’re like a closed book today with a lock on it.
Sleeping with your boss is bad, even if you’re planning to resign.
I’m afraid you’ve entered very dangerous territory, Phee, by going back on your word and being his assistant even after you ruined the professional boundary,” she says, making coffee, the espresso machine roaring between us.
“No matter how much attention Mr. Moretti may have given you, this man does not—”
“Love is a Disney gimmick. I’m not delusional.”
“I know,” says Sapphire. “But we’re talking about Mr. Moretti, billionaire CEO and founder of Moretti Global. Not only does this man have all the money in the world at his fingertips, he uses his good looks and charms as valuable assets. It would be easy to fall in love with him.”
“Perhaps, but I’m not falling for any of it.”
Sapphire hands me the takeaway cup of coffee, looking at me pensively. “Why else are you risking your career, walking back into a building full of gossips who already have their theories on you and Mr. Moretti? Love creeps up on you without warning and can cause people to act recklessly.”
“So does curiosity," I say, winking at Sapphire as I go, thanking her for the coffee.
I exhale deeply, staring up at the tower of doom ahead. Morning light catches the glass-tipped edges, turning one side of the building golden.
I cross the road, coffee in hand, and straighten my shoulders as I walk in through reception.
People turn their heads as I walk in, which is nothing out of the ordinary.
Relief swims through me as they look away.
People only stare for a few seconds as they assess my outfit, seeing if I’m dressed according to their theories, which are now very much true.
Mr. Moretti has the board meeting this morning, which he wants me to attend. I step into the elevator, wondering if this is still the case, since he’s requested to meet me an hour before the meeting begins.
My pulse spikes as the elevator dings, spitting me out at the top floor, which is much quieter than the ones below.
Open workspaces are all fun and games until you’re hearing people whisper your name on different floors.
Echoes carry for miles in this building, but nothing reaches the top floor, since it is fully secluded.
Glancing through the window as I walk down the corridor, I feel like I’m flying.
Being this high up in the Manhattan skyline is peaceful, anxiety draining my body as I exhale a deep breath and compose myself.
Buildings stretch as far as the naked eye can see.
I’m not alone. Other employees are probably walking around other high-rises, overthinking similar issues, enduring their own quarter-life crisis, wondering if they’re about to fuck up their lives, too.
Living in New York can be reassuring. Eight million people live in this city, which means the chances of you being alone in your thoughts is slim to none.
My thoughts drift as I approach Mr. Moretti’s office—the scene of the crime. Looking down into the city, I notice entire streets hidden in darkness, untouched by the sun. People are too busy admiring the high rises that they dismiss gaps between the buildings.
I roll my shoulders back, composing myself as I knock on Mr. Moretti’s door.
“Come in,” is the words I think I hear him say.
I open the door, take one step through the threshold and stall. The alarmed look on Mr. Moretti’s face suggests I misheard him.
“I thought I told you to wait, Miss Bennett.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I must have been mistaken.”
“Yes,” he says, clenching his jaw.
We’re five minutes into the working day and I have already thrown my career down the drain. My body’s playing tricks on me, my pulse thumping too loud for me to hear the rest of the world.
But I don’t need to hear the world speak. I can see the truth with my very own eyes.
I gasp, stumbling back, my heart now thumping in my chest for an entirely different reason
Mr. Moretti sighs, exchanging a look with his colleague, like they’re both seeing an entirely different reality to me. A man’s sitting on top of the desk dripping blood onto the floor, his nose broken, his shirt more red than white.
“What the…?”
“Shut the door, Miss Bennett.”
“S-sure,” I stutter, backtracking, ready to get the fuck out of this office. A bloodied man is sitting on the same bit of desk I was bent over not two days before.
“No, Miss Bennett,” says Mr. Moretti. “Please stay. We have the board meeting to discuss, among other things.”
I gulp, shutting the door, making eye contact with the injured man. His face is unfamiliar, but he watches me carefully, staring right into my soul like he’s trying to understand my motives, like I even have any right now...
“We’re finished here,” says Mr. Moretti to the man. “You may leave. Please use the bathroom on this floor to clean up before taking the elevator down. I want you out of this building immediately.”
“That man was a fucking—”
“Less of the profanities,” says Mr. Moretti, standing in front of the man, swiping his hand under his jaw in contemplation, like a man covered in blood is an inconvenience to him, not a concern. “You’re dripping blood onto my floor,” he observes.
“I can clean it—”
“No,” he barks. “That won’t be necessary, thank you. Please rinse yourself off in the bathroom and head straight to the hospital. I will make sure your medical bills are taken care of.”
“Thank you, sir,” says the man, stumbling down from the desk, hobbling past me.
I scramble for the door handle in a panic, holding it open for the man to prevent any more blood from transferring. My heart stopped when Mr. Moretti raised his voice, and his anger wasn’t even directed toward me.
“Go and check on him, Rob,” says Mr. Moretti, gesturing his Vice President out of the office. “Make sure he follows all instructions.”
Robert Moretti nods, disappearing out of the room.
A tense silence extends between us, my breath catching as his gaze wanders over to mine. Multiple questions fly through my mind, but the words die on my tongue the second I try to speak. My mouth closes on its own accord.
Speaking could get me in trouble.
Mr. Moretti’s emerald eyes cut across the room at me, and now I’m seriously in trouble, wet between my legs at the thought of us repeating our Friday morning antics. He looks like he could use a bit of fun. His jaw might break if he clenches it any tighter.
I glance at the blood streaked across the floor, the red marks across the desk.
My gaze snags over Mr. Moretti’s muscles, visible through the tight shirt he always wears. The blood slashed over his collar is new.
Mr. Moretti usually prides himself on being a very put together man, tie always straight, hair always styled back into relatively neat locks.
“Is there a problem, Miss Bennett?” he says, clearing his throat.
Multiple, but I keep my lips pressed together and go with the flow.
“N-no, sir,” I stutter. “No problem at all.”
“Are you sure about that?” he says, his voice dropping an octave, his brow arched as he continues to stare.
I refuse to break eye contact, to show signs of weakness, but the blood streaked across his shirt is making me lose the will to live as I picture him breaking that man’s nose, enforcing discipline the most brutal way imaginable.
Breaking someone’s nose for insider trading seems like fair punishment, but it may still cause unnecessary lawsuits.
Mr. Moretti appears to have a good hold on the law, staring deep into my soul instead of dismissing me for walking in on something that could get him in trouble.
But the way he’s arching his brow, challenging me, suggests he already knows I’ll keep this a secret.
“If there is no problem, Miss Bennett,” he continues, stepping forward. “Why are you planning to resign?”
Busted.
“Um,” I mutter, my mind going completely blank. Admitting the cold hard truth that I find my boss attractive, to the point where I’m struggling to focus, is much harder than simply bending over his desk.
These green eyes have seen me naked, seen my literal asshole wink between my ass cheeks as he fucked me doggy style, and yet I’m struggling to tell him why I want to quit.
“You read the letter?” I cringe.
“Yes,” he says, silence stretching between us. The blood is no longer an issue. Nothing is when I’m alone in a room with him.
“I was going to hand it to you before…”
“Before you spilled hot coffee all over me.”
“Yes,” I admit. “And then we got distracted.”
“Hm,” grunts Mr. Moretti, stepping closer.
“‘Distracted’ is an interesting word for it. I was simply giving you an opportunity, Miss Bennett, to be yourself. But I see here in your resignation letter”—he produces it from his pocket—“that you would like to leave to seek new opportunities.
" He sets the letter aside on the desk, right where some blood has been spilled.
I frown, thinking he did this by accident.
But there are no accidents with Mr. Moretti, no mistakes.
He smears the letter in blood, using the paper to mop up the mess.
I watch his hand work over the paper, veins bulging as he flips it over, making sure the letter is fully coated.
By the end of it, his hands are the same color, drenched in blood, like he plunged them in red paint.
“Do I not give you enough opportunities here to grow, Miss Bennett?”
“Yes, but…”
“But what?” he says, stepping closer, blood dripping from his hands as he approaches me.
“Your beauty will have people turning heads wherever you go. Your face will buy you any opportunity, big or small, but you’ll be overlooked as a result.
Is that what you want? For your brain to be the least interesting part about you? ”
I frown, unsure where he is going with this.
“Miss Bennett?”
“No, sir,” I cough. “I would like to think I earned my place here because of my brain.”
“Indeed, you did,” he says while dragging his eyes up and down my body.
Despite the dirty looks this man keeps giving me, I believe him.
Mr. Moretti, unlike most billionaires who have too much time on their hands, is straight to the point, not one for playing games and messing people around.
Meetings are wrapped up promptly because he always has somewhere more important to be, another crisis to avert.
I never know the details, but I do know that Mr. Moretti hires people for their brains, not for their faces.
The entire cast of Victoria’s Secret would be strutting the halls otherwise.
I nibble my lip, staring at the blood-soaked resignation letter. “Sir, about Friday.”
“I would like us to come to an arrangement,” he says, his thick Italian accent sending shivers across my skin. “If you are on board, of course.”
“An arrangement?”
“Oh, Miss Bennett, you were doing so well,” he tuts.
“Use that brain of yours and think about what arrangement I could be referring to. Playing dumb is not a good look for you.” He steps even closer, his hot breath bristling my neck, sending countless shivers down my spine.
“I want to fuck my pretty little assistant’s pussy as many times as she will let me. ”
My breath catches in my throat as I look up into his dangerous eyes. I am so fucking deep in the trouble.
“Have a think about my offer,” he says, murmuring in the shell of my ear. “I want to make sure you are all hands on deck before we move things to the next level.”