Chapter 5
“Queen” - Loren Gray
Pierce
Then it hits me. What if she’s with him?
That dipshit, Preston Ansley. He’s been stringing her along for the better part of a year, pretending he’s going to divorce his wife, but everyone knows it will be a cold day in hell before he leaves the heiress of one of the largest oil empires in the country.
I reread my message. Is tomorrow a good day to start the challenge?
Regret creeps in, and I frown. There’s nothing wrong with what I said, but the feeling is there all the same. I’m about to toss my phone aside and go to bed when the three dots appear, showing that she’s responding. I settle back into my chair, my heart picking up speed as I wait.
Maeve: Autocorrect: Is tomorrow a good day to die?
Me: I wasn’t aware you planned to die tomorrow. What should I wear to the funeral?
Maeve: Since you’ll be the one in the casket, I suggest something that makes your skin less . . . sallow. A catsuit, perhaps?
The corner of my mouth twitches.
Me: Do you have one I can borrow?
Shit. Am I flirting with her? Time for damage control.
Me: I thought I could go first doing the assistant shit.
Maeve: So you DO intend on dying tomorrow. Why would you go first?
Me: Because I’m a gentleman.
Maeve: If you were a gentleman, you would’ve admitted the truth by now.
I pause to consider. I could end this whole thing by telling everyone I was wrong, that the agreement was for Maeve to run up the bidding on the hot-air balloon. So why can’t I? Is it pride holding me back? Or something else?
Me: Which truth? That you need to relax?
The dots appear on my screen again, and I picture her typing away furiously, eyebrows drawn together in anger. The thought makes my smile grow wider.
Maeve: Tomorrow. 9 am. Wilson Foundation HQ.
* * *
If Maeve thinks I’ll be easy to break, she’s in for a surprise. Instead of showing up at nine, I’m already in her office when she gets there at 8:45. The look on her face is worth every single second I spent waiting.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, setting her purse down rather violently. “I said 9 a.m.”
“I know.” I slowly straighten from where I’ve been leaning against her desk. “But a good assistant always shows up early.”
She gives me a withering look. “A good assistant does what they’re told. I’ll be docking points for that.”
“Ahh.” I wag an admonishing finger at her. “But you’re not the one keeping score.”
Her nostrils flare as she moves around the desk to take a seat on the other side.
She’s dressed in a black twill jacket cardigan thing with buttons down the front and a matching skirt, both of which I would very much like to divest her of.
I could bend her over the desk and have her begging for me within seconds.
“I hope you’re wearing good shoes,” she says, breaking through my thoughts like a hammer through glass. “Because you’ve got a busy day ahead of you.”
“Perfect. I could use the workout.”
Her eyes flick up from her planner for just a second, checking out my midsection, before quickly returning to a list I can’t make out.
I’m pretty sure she knows it was a joke—I haven’t missed my daily gym session for the past six years—but I could swear there was the tiniest hint of curiosity on her face. Interesting.
“Your first task is to make copies,” she says, not looking up, as though I actually am an assistant, not one of her oldest friends. Although “friends” may not be the right term for us anymore.
I hold out my hand. “If you just give me the list, I can tackle everything without bothering you.”
Slowly, she lifts her head to give me the wickedest smile in the history of mankind.
“No, no.” She flicks the planner shut, and the sound echoes through the room.
Then, like a cat satisfied with the meal she just made of a songbird, she leans back in her chair.
“You’ll report back to me after each and every task so I can ensure you did a good job and give you your next assignment. ”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I prop my hands on the edge of the desk and lean toward her. “And will one of my tasks be helping you relax?”
It has the desired effect. Her face goes crimson, nearly matching her lipstick, and she sits up so fast the chair lets out a loud crack. “I expect you to be done in fifteen minutes.” She pushes a large stack of files toward me.
“That’s ridiculous.” It will easily take half an hour to copy everything.
She gives me a smug smile before turning to her computer. “Then you’re welcome to forfeit.”
And so begins the day from hell.
* * *
My dad would be appalled if he could see me right now, standing at a copy machine, interns all around, making copies like I’m fresh out of uni and don’t have any strings to pull at the company.
After looking at some of this stuff, I’m pretty sure Maeve doesn’t actually need copies of it.
She just gave me the most humiliating task she could think of.
I’d be worried scrubbing toilets is next, but I’m not confident Maeve even realizes there are people who clean them.
She probably assumes they never get dirty.
I’ve been chief executive officer at Luminara Tech for four years.
When I graduated from Oxford, my dad said it was time for me to take over.
And before you think it was just a handout, I had already been proving myself for years.
I’ve been on the board since I was eighteen, and I’ve played a role in some way, shape, or form since I was in prep school.
Since the company’s creation, the plan has always been for Luminara to be my first acquisition.
My parents are both still investors and members of the board, but for all intents and purposes, she is mine.
Eventually, I’ll take over the rest of the St. James companies—Vireon Systems, our ultra-secure encrypted cloud storage and the backbone of all the rest of the companies; Solena Earth and Axis Bloom, my mother’s two “green luxury” passion projects focused on eco-friendly environmental design; and Mirae Press, our digital arm, which shapes the narrative around climate and technology.
I’m an investor in all of them, in addition to curating a sizable real-estate portfolio of properties all over the city.
And yet, here I am, listening to the drone of the machine as it scans page after page. Fortunately, this particular challenge will only last twenty-four hours, because I’m already dreading whatever else Maeve has in store for me.
It takes twenty-eight minutes to make all the copies and return to Maeve’s office. I knock on her door, and when there is no answer, I push it open. She’s sitting at her desk, glaring at her computer screen. She startles when she sees me.
“All done.” I drop the stack of papers on her desk.
She frowns, then swipes her arm and dumps them into the rubbish bin at the end.
I bite the inside of my cheek and nod. “What next, then?”
“Get my coffee,” she orders.
I snap my fingers. “Be right on that. Where is it?”
Some of the life returns to her eyes. “At the shop, I’m assuming.” She says the words slowly, as though I need time to absorb them fully.
“You placed an order already?”
A smile that some might mistake as sweet spreads across her lips—bright red lips just begging to be bitten. “Of course not. That’s the job of an assistant.”
I press a fist to my mouth. “And I’m just supposed to know how you like your coffee?”
“Any good assistant would keep track of such things.”
I want to point out that it would be unreasonable to expect that of anyone on their first day, but I’m not dealing with a reasonable person. “Fucking terrific.”
Tightening my hands into balls, I head to the coffee shop across the street. I ought to give Maeve something better to do with her mouth than talk. I could take her in that chair and drive every thought from her mind but me.
“Good morning.” I smile at the perky blond behind the register, and her face brightens.
She straightens her spine and returns my smile with a blinding one of her own. “What can I get for you?” she says, her voice at least an octave higher than what must be her normal.
I lean over the counter like I’m about to share a secret with her. “There’s a girl who comes in here, about this tall”—with my hand, I indicate a height just below my shoulder—“black hair, red lips, looks like she eats small children for breakfast?”
The barista’s face falls, either because she thinks I’m describing my girlfriend and or because Maeve terrifies her like she does the rest of the city’s inhabitants. Maybe both. She swallows, then gives a tiny nod. “I know who you mean.”
My instincts have paid off. “Do you happen to know her usual coffee order?” I give her my most encouraging grin, as though she and I are in cahoots together. “I really don’t want to die today.”
Realization dawns in her eyes, and a small smile reappears on her face. “It’s a very complicated one. We have it written down so we don’t get it wrong.”
“Ahh,” I say, nodding. “Very smart.” I toss in a wink for good measure and am satisfied to see the blush staining her cheeks.
“I’ll get it ready for you.” She turns away quickly, ponytail swishing.
She’s cute. Not exactly my type, though, even if I was single.
Good-looking enough, but I tend to date women from my own circles.
Makes things a lot easier. Date someone who doesn’t come from money, and they start thinking it means a future together.
At first they balk at you paying for anything, but it usually doesn’t take long for entitlement to sink its teeth in.
I’ve tried it, and each time it ended after only a few weeks.
The barista hands me the cup containing Maeve’s coffee. “I hope this helps.” That’s definitely hope in her eyes, and it’s not for my well-being. I recognize eagerness when I see it.
“Thanks,” I say. “You saved my life.” I reward her with another tiny wink, and she turns a lovely shade of pink.
My hand is already on the door handle when something occurs to me.
I return to the counter, and the blond perks up, probably thinking I’m back to ask her out.
Instead, I hold up the cup, all traces of camaraderie wiped from my face.
“I just want to confirm, this was made with dairy-free milk, right?”
She nods. “Almond milk, yes.”
“Perfect.” The last thing I need is for Maeve to get sick from ingesting lactose.
As I return to the office and ride the lift up to the fifth floor where my dictator awaits, I’m not thinking about the cute girl at the coffee shop.
I’m not even thinking about my girlfriend.
I’m thinking about a black-haired vixen and the look of shock that’ll cross her face when she realizes I got her coffee order right.