Chapter 6 Emmaleen #2
I swallow hard, trying to figure out what exactly I’ve signed up for. The desk looms between us, a sleek chrome and glass monstrosity that feels more like an altar than office furniture. I resist the urge to take a step back.
“Begin what, exactly?” I ask, aiming for professional detachment but landing somewhere closer to wary confusion.
Giovanni walks around the desk, trailing his fingers along its surface like he’s introducing two old friends. “Your job, Miss Take.”
I stiffen, my spine going rigid. “My name is Emmaleen Rourke.”
He stops. Looks up at me. And then—he laughs. Not the controlled, calculated sound I’d expect, but something full and genuine. Low and dangerous, like thunder rolling in from miles away.
“Mistakes,” he says, green eyes gleaming. “That’s all you’ve been making. Little Miss Take.”
The nickname burns into me like a branding iron. It’s not just the casual cruelty of it that stings, but the potential for public humiliation. I can already hear it echoing through the restaurant, following me like a shadow. His private ownership stamped on me for everyone to see.
I open my mouth to object, but he continues speaking as if the matter is settled.
“To burn your ten demerits for being late this morning, you will not have a chair today.” He gestures to the empty space beneath the desk where the chair should be. “You will stand at the desk and complete the tasks I assign you.”
His tone is clinical. Dismissive. Like he’s reading nutritional information off a cereal box. Not even worth negotiating.
“You’re serious?” I say, but the words lack conviction. We both know I have no leverage here.
“I’m always serious about business, Miss Take.” The nickname slides off his tongue with practiced ease now, like he’s been using it for years. “And this is business.”
The rational part of my brain knows that my irritation is absurd—standing for a few hours isn’t exactly torture. Cashiers do it all the time. Waitresses. Catering staff. I’d say half the population stands all day at work. It’s not unusual.
It’s just... the context.
The control.
The casual way he’s established dominance over something as basic as whether I get to sit down.
“And if I refuse?” I ask, though we both know it’s an empty question.
Giovanni doesn’t even bother answering. He simply raises an eyebrow and glances toward the door, reminding me without words that I’m replaceable. That the temp is just a phone call away.
I think about Sister Margaret and the shelter. About my three-week deadline. About my empty bank account and the impossible math of finding an apartment with no job and no references.
I look at the desk again. Standing for a day won’t kill me.
My pride, on the other hand, feels like it’s bleeding out on his expensive hardwood floor.
“Fine,” I say, the word tasting like surrender.
Giovanni’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes shifts. Satisfaction, maybe. Or disappointment that I didn’t fight harder.
Giovanni disappears into his bedroom without another word, leaving me standing alone beside the ridiculous desk.
I stare at the gleaming glass surface, trying to figure out if there’s some way to lean against it without looking like I’m leaning.
Some way to maintain my dignity while still giving my legs a break during what’s apparently going to be a very long day.
I’m so absorbed in this problem that I don’t notice he’s returned until I hear the sharp click of something hard against the floor.
I look down.
At a pair of shoes.
Not just any shoes— stilettos. The kind that make your ankles scream and your toes curl. The kind with the glossy red bottoms that practically coined the phrase, ‘fuck-me heels’.
Louboutins.
The text message. Did you steal my shoes? My red ‘So Kates’ are missing. Call me.
“You really did steal someone’s shoes!” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
“What? What are you talking about?”
Oops. I read his text message. The one he doesn’t even know about yet. How many demerits will that cost?
I actually hear his voice in my head saying, Invasion of privacy, one-hundred demerits.
“Borrowed,” he corrects, as if the distinction matters. “Lucia won’t miss them.”
Oh, how wrong he is. She noticed. Whoever she is to him. And he’s going to put this all together the moment he checks his texts or sees her in person. God, with my luck, she’ll call while I’m still here and the whole thing will play out before lunch.
I stare at the heels. Iconic silhouette. Ultra-thin stiletto, steep arch, red leather. The kind of shoes you buy when you want the whole world to know you don’t take a single step without making it hurt. The kind of shoes that announce your arrival before you even enter a room.
“What are these for?” I ask, though I’m already piecing it together, the sick realization crawling up my spine.
Giovanni looks at me with that flat, clinical gaze. “For standing, of course.”
My stomach drops.
I glance from the shoes to the desk to his impassive face, and suddenly everything clicks into horrible focus.
A standing desk.
A pair of stolen high heels.
Punishment.
It’s not just about making me stand all day. It’s about making me stand in those. Impossibly high heels that will have my feet screaming within an hour. That will force my posture into an exaggerated feminine arch. That will make every minute a conscious exercise in discomfort and compliance.
The humiliation burns hot in my chest. This isn’t just about being late. This is about control. About breaking me down in the most gendered, deliberate way possible.
And I signed up for it. I literally signed a contract allowing for “appropriate corrective measures at employer’s discretion.”
I want to throw the shoes at his head. I want to walk out. I want to tell him exactly what kind of man steals women’s shoes for his power games.
But I don’t have anywhere to go.