Chapter 8
Matteo Ricco
I close the doors behind me as softly as my frustration will allow.
Brook Simons won. Again.
I drop into my chair and filter through the camera feeds as my little rabbit follows Ms. Lynn to the filing room.
I have a full schedule today, as always, but I resign myself to monitoring her movements on my rightmost screen, knowing I won’t focus on work at all if I deny myself the pleasure.
With Brook only a glance away, I reach for my mouse to start my official work week but pause with my palm an inch away.
After the Sunday morning meeting yesterday, my mother called and demanded I visit, so I spent the rest of the day with my parents.
It was a much-needed break. They’ve always respected my decisions, even when I refused to use their money for investments, and now that my business is thriving, they no longer feel like an obligation, but a privilege.
Four years ago, my father burst his appendix in a car accident and scared the entire family, but he’s healthy now.
I regret taking my parents for granted in my teens.
When I returned home late last night, I spread Brook’s background check papers over my coffee table and promptly fell asleep on my couch. I woke to my alarm and began my morning routine on autopilot, completely forgetting about the papers until I pulled out of the parking deck.
I watched the security footage from the reunion on my phone during my commute, but the quality was too grainy and the restaurant too crowded to tell if anyone spiked Brook’s drink.
With a sigh, I email Mr. Brunswick my request. He responds within a few seconds, so I tuck my curiosity into the back corner of my mind and dive into my official work.
A little more than an hour later, Mr. Brunswick knocks on my door. I call him in.
“Here are the papers you requested,” he says before he’s even halfway across the floor.
I appreciate his efficiency more than I can say. I rise and take the folder from his outstretched hand.
“Your classmates have posted hundreds of photos and videos from your reunion. It’ll help immensely if you tell me what you’re looking for,” he says.
Exasperation runs through me, but I replay our short phone call—which I made while in a hotel room with my little rabbit distracting me as she freshened up in the bathroom—and realize his request is fully warranted. My terse get the restaurant security footage explained nothing.
“I suspect someone spiked Ms. Simons’s drink,” I say.
I watch his eyes widen in my periphery as I open the folder. As he pieces the puzzle together—the reunion, my sudden request for a hotel room, our new assistant aide—understanding and resolution harden his eyes.
“I can form a team—”
“No,” I interrupt. “My brother may be involved. This stays between you and I.”
His carefully controlled expression proves I’m right to trust him.
“It will take time,” he warns.
I smirk.
“That’s why you have an aide now, Mr. Brunswick. Use her wisely.”
I dismiss him with a nod and turn my attention to Brook’s background check. It speaks volumes without answering any of my questions.
She only attended the university she’d earned a full scholarship to for a semester, then changed her name and began taking classes at a community college two years later.
The investigator found no marriage certificate or other paper trail in New York, but that proves nothing.
Her name change occurred outside of our state, and digging through the proper channels will take time.
I sigh in frustration and turn the page only to stare in shock at the long history of her employment record. Her credit score is atrocious as well.
My little rabbit’s family was as loaded as mine in high school, so she must have had a falling out with them in college.
I wonder which of her morals or eccentricities sent her to such extremes.
We rarely spoke of family matters, but I met her father in passing a few times and instinctually avoided a deeper connection.
Whatever caused her to pull away was serious enough she remained independent despite dire financial circumstances over the past decade.
Annoyed at the lack of answers, I flip through the rest of the pages and snap the folder closed.
What the papers can’t tell me, I’ll learn from Brook. I’ll pull the answers from her one by one, if I must. For now, I console myself with the knowledge that she’s under my control. As long as she remains in my sphere, I can ensure she ends up writhing in pleasure underneath me.
I shove the folder in my desk drawer and settle in my chair.
For a few hours, I focus on the most pressing matters, priding myself in checking her whereabouts only between tasks.
Every time I glance toward the screen, she’s in a different part of the office.
All morning long, my assistant and secretary keep her on her feet, ensuring she knows her way around the entire executive floor as they task her with fetching paperwork, sorting files, and making copies.
When I finish signing the stack of documents on the corner of my desk, I toss my pen onto the gleaming surface and rise from my chair.
I take a water bottle from my personal mini fridge and down half on my way back to my desk.
Worms wriggle in my gut when I check on my little rabbit.
With her chair crowding his and their bodies an inch apart, Mr. Brunswick and Ms. Simons lean over his desk to study his computer.
He points to his screen as he speaks. When he reaches for his mouse, his arm brushes against hers.
She leans back, but not before his elbow nudges her breast.
Red hazes my vision.
I guzzle the rest of my water, but the icy liquid does nothing to cool my rage. When I turn back to the monitor, they stare at each other as though at a crossroads. My fury turns white-hot when she gives him her entire attention, leans forward again, and points to the screen.
My little rabbit is openly flirting with my right-hand man a few feet outside my office doors. She has no shame.
Murderous rage clouds my vision. I crush the empty water bottle in my fist and toss it in the trash bin as I stalk to the doors.
I swing them wide and crash into a soft, feminine body.
I instinctually grab her to stop her rebound, but I recoil at the thick perfume and cloying blonde hair.
Ms. Lynn’s exaggerated gasp and shriek as she grabs for my shoulders cools my ardor.
I grit my teeth and lower my hands at my sides while she presses her front against mine.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Ricco!”
Her breathy apology ghosts over my chin and curdles my stomach. She doesn’t step back. I clench my hands into fists and fight the urge to shove her away.
When she finally shuffles backward, I ignore her interested glance at my chest and adjust my suit front.
“Why were you at my door?” I ask.
“Oh, right. Excuse me, I’m a little flustered,” she giggles.
When she sends a furtive glance over her shoulder at the duo in the glass office, discomfort arrows down my back, but with the interruption resolved, Mr. Brunswick resumes his lesson.
“The marketing department sent their reports early, so I printed a copy for you,” Ms. Lynn says.
I have never required printed marketing reports. In fact, I prefer digital reports wherever possible, and I never review them until the afternoon, so her gesture is useless.
When she thrusts a stack of papers and her breasts at me, I slip my hands into my pockets.
“Ensure those are properly shredded before your lunch break. Don’t waste paper in the future.”
My patience wanes as she bats her fake lashes at me. When I don’t respond, she drops her arms and pouts as she says, “Yes, sir,” and walks away.
I check my watch.
“Mr. Brunswick,” I manage in a cool tone.
He looks up from his computer.
“Yes, Mr. Ricco?” he responds.
“Have lunch delivered to my office. You’ll join me,” I instruct.
“Of course, sir.”
I shift my gaze to my little rabbit.
“Ms. Simons, this is an office. Please maintain a professional distance from your male colleagues,” I warn.
She has the audacity to raise an eyebrow in challenge and glance toward the reception area before responding in a dry tone, “Of course, Mr. Ricco.”
Afraid I’ll cross too many lines if I stay in the same room with her, I retreat into my office and chug another bottle of water before closing myself into my private bathroom.
After relieving myself and washing my hands, I splash cold water on my face and let it drip off my chin as I study my reflection in the mirror.
Brook Simons makes me lose control. I hate it.
I crave more.
When my anger fades and my introspections become too indulgent, I dry my face and exit the bathroom, ready to tackle the rest of the workday.
I sit at my desk and complete the last of my morning requirements as the other executive officers leave for lunch. When one holds Brook’s handshake a little too long, my pen snaps in my fist and ink spills over my knuckles.
I clean the mess with paper towels from the bathroom, narrowly avoiding staining my suit, and toss the broken pen into the trash.
By the time I return to my chair, Ms. Simons is nowhere on the floor.
Assuming she left for lunch, I switch to the camera in the cafeteria and scan the crowd but don’t find her, so I check for the last place she scanned her badge.
I pull up the feed from the lobby and launch back into the heights of fury as she greets a man I’ve never seen before.
About our age with a decent build and preppy clothes, the man presents her with a bouquet and kisses her on the cheek before slinging an arm over her shoulder and leading her out onto the street.
If I were a scrupulous man, I’d kill him. Instead, my mind supplies dozens of legal ways to make his life miserable. All I need is a name.
Mr. Brunswick announces himself with a knock. We settle at the smaller table for lunch and schedule review.