Possessive Mr. Pen (Brutal Billionaire Bosses #4)

Chapter 1

Hilary Winthrop

Despite the hatred and adrenaline flooding my veins, I take a second drink off the nearest server’s tray and weave through the crowd of unfortunately familiar faces—Connor Pen, my tyrannical boss of eight years, would fire me on the spot if I ever failed to produce a full spiel on any of the members of elite society—toward the young girl.

At only sixteen years old, Destiny Koch, the newest and youngest member of high society eligible to attend this evening’s party, should be out having fun with friends her age, not standing alone in a room with the most disgusting men of New York City.

Power hungry and self-serving, no one here—not even the girl’s father—has her best interest at heart.

The sharks circling around her smell fresh blood in the water. My heart pounds in my ears as Eric Beaumonte, a cretin with dozens of buried assault cases, approaches her.

With red wine in one hand and champagne in the other, I trip over nothing, squeak in alarm, and make sure both glasses end up empty. Red wine drips down Mr. Beaumonte’s suit front. He curses and jumps back.

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” I step toward him. He jerks away without looking up as he accepts a fancy linen napkin from an alarmed server. “I knew wearing these heels was a mistake,” I gush like an airhead. “But they were custom made in Italy, and I just couldn’t resist.” I tilt my foot and simper.

His eyes latch onto my toes. Disgust worms through me, but I shift my weight and draw his gaze up my leg.

I’d rather walk into a raging fire than ever let him touch me, but every cell in my body demands I protect Ms. Koch. She’s too young. Too small. Too fragile. Putting myself between Ms. Koch and danger is second nature. It’s only right I help.

She may be much closer to adulthood than I was when I saved my sister from my stepfather, but Destiny is still too young to fend off the men around her.

She needs someone bigger and stronger to protect her, and I fit the bill.

Even flat-footed, at six-foot-one inch, I tower over most men, but with my high heels, there isn’t a single person in the room who doesn’t have to crane their necks to meet my face.

I wouldn’t be able to handle the guilt if I could’ve stopped someone from hurting her but didn’t.

Mr. Beaumonte clears his throat and lifts his eyes from my bosom to my face. His smarmy smile sends shivers of horror down my spine, but I lower my head in fake submission and shift my stance into a sheepish pose. Even though I expect his next words, I cringe in disgust.

“It seems I’m not the only one affected by your… accident,” he says with a pointed glance down at my chest.

My drenched chest. I look down, gasp as though I didn’t realize the chiffon layers were plastered to my curves by champagne, and cross my wrists in front of me. The glasses clink together. A tiny drop splatters on Destiny’s sleeve.

Halfway through my stumbled apology, Mr. Beaumonte smirks and reaches up to rest a hand on my shoulder. Queasiness grips me, but I calm my mind by imagining several dozen violent ways to end his ability to procreate.

“If you’re really that sorry, how about you help me change into something less… dirty?”

His suggestive tone and hungry expression curdle my stomach. When he rubs his thumb over the exposed flesh of my shoulder, I fight the urge to break the digit with a vicious twist. The snap of his joint dislocating would be so satisfying.

“Of course, sir, I’d love to help,” I lie. “I have several suits of the highest quality already on standby for Mr. Pen, and you’re welcome to whichever one you like most.”

His face sours at the mention of my boss. I use the distraction and gently elbow Ms. Koch further behind me. She takes my hint and shuffles closer to my back. Her warmth seeps into me. My heart cries out for her as her trembling transfers from her skirts to mine.

As a server offers me a stack of napkins on a tray, I use the act of placing the glasses down to dislodge Mr. Beaumonte’s grimy hand off my shoulder before bunching the napkins against my chest.

He reaches for me again. I dodge and knock into Destiny. After turning and apologizing to her, I gasp in feigned dismay.

“Oh no, Ms. Koch. Your sleeve!”

She glances down. Confusion, panic, and uncertainty flash across her features before understanding dawns. She lifts her chin, meets my gaze, and scowls.

“You ruined my dress! Just wait until I tell my dad—”

“I have extra dresses, too. Several from the same designer as the one you’re wearing now.

” I give the server a pointed look, tilt my head toward Mr. Beaumonte, and silently rejoice when he nods in understanding and turns to offer the socialite assistance.

“Please, Ms. Koch, let me take you to change before your father notices,” I mock beg.

When relief shines in her eyes despite her act of begrudging agreement, I cup her elbow and guide her toward the hall.

Despite the sticky mess on my front, I relax my shoulders and breathe a sigh of relief when we slip through the double doors without catching anyone’s attention.

Mr. Beaumonte’s disgruntled stare burns into my back, but I ignore him and rush Destiny around the corner.

I try not to notice how my head towers at least two feet above her, but I feel like an awkward, lumbering giant next to her petite frame.

As I lead her through the maze of halls to the suite I booked for my bosshole—because god forbid Connor Pen settle a deal without his every demand met—in case negotiations run long, Destiny stops, digs in her heels, and tugs me toward a side hall. I follow without resistance.

“I don’t really need to change my dress,” she says. “My sleeve is already dry and it didn’t stain and if—”

I put my hand over hers on my arm.

“It’s okay, Destiny,” her eyes widen as I say her name, “you don’t have to change if you don’t want to. We can take a break in my suite if you need a few minutes. I have snacks and—”

Fresh panic twists her delicate features.

“No! No, my father will lose his mind if he realizes I’m gone.”

Skepticism jangles through me, but I lean my weight onto my heels and use the pinch of my shoes to hold my tongue. I doubt her father will even think twice if she’s gone all evening. In fact, he probably already has a deal in place with her as the bargaining chip.

“Don’t leave his side again tonight,” I demand. “Or any night in the future, especially at big events like this. Not for any reason. It’s not safe for you to be alone. Understand?”

Her lower lip trembles as she nods. I squeeze the back of her hand and step back, but she dives forward and wraps her arms around me. My body moves on instinct. I return her hug and pat her back.

“Your dress is going to get sticky,” I murmur when her trembling no longer shakes us both.

With our height difference, my drenched breasts sit at the level of her face, so her dress isn’t in jeopardy, but I say the words in hopes of lightening the mood. She surprises me with her quiet yet adamant response.

“I don’t care. You saved me.” She squeezes me harder and takes a deep breath. “Can I come to you if I’m in danger again?” she whispers.

“Of course. Just find my head above the crowd and call out. I’ll come running as fast as I can,” I promise.

She takes another deep breath and pulls away. With impressive control for a teen, she gathers her composure and rolls her shoulders back before craning her neck to meet my eyes.

“Thank you, Mrs.…”

I chuckle and shake my head.

“I’m not married, but you can call me Ms. Winthrop, or Hilary, if you like.”

“Oh! You’re so pretty and poised and… I thought… I’m sorry. It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Winthrop… actually, that sounds too stuffy, but I feel rude calling you by your first name, and my mother said—”

“Don’t overthink it, honey. If you need—”

“Will you be my friend?”

I pause at her unexpected request.

“You don’t have to, like, actually hang out with me or anything, but if I say you’re my friend, then I won’t feel so weird calling you by your first name,” she explains.

Understanding flows through me. I chuckle and pat her shoulder.

“Then we’re definitely friends, but I don’t do anything halfway.” I reach into the pocket hidden in the waistline of my dress and pull out a business card. “Call or text anytime,” I say.

She takes the card. Her eyes widen.

“You’re a personal assistant? I thought… wait, I mean no offense, there’s nothing wrong with being a personal assistant, you’re just so gorgeous and elegant, I thought you were…”

“A trophy wife? Or maybe a mistress?” I supply.

Color floods her cheeks.

“I’m sorry! Those shoes and your dress and makeup and—”

I squeeze her shoulder.

“You’re fine, Destiny. I’m not offended.

It’s a logical assumption.” I cringe at the words—they sound too much like my heartless boss—but I push the thought aside and focus on the half-panicked teen.

“In a way, you’re flattering me. I’m undercover for my boss tonight.

I’m supposed to look like arm candy so I can catch up on all the gossip. ”

“Arm candy? You’re an entire ten-floor candy shop,” she blurts.

For a moment, ice congeals my insides as past voices echo in my mind, but then her appreciative tone and awed gaze break through my spiral.

She freezes halfway through her once-over and pins terrified eyes on my face.

Before she can open her mouth to apologize, I laugh and tug her into a brief embrace before holding her at arm’s length.

“Thanks, honey. I’ll take that as a compliment. Do you have a place to stash my card or do I need to add your number to my contacts?”

I don’t ask if she has her cell on her, since the designer of her gown never includes pockets. She turns toward the wall and wiggles the small piece of paper into her bodice.

“Thank you, Hilary. I’ll text you as soon as I get home,” she exclaims.