Saved By the CEO (The Treatment #1)

Chapter 1

ONE

The world is… dying?

That’s the only thing running through my head as I watch the reporter on the screen. The world is dying, has been for a while, apparently, and I’ve missed it.

“Crazy, right? This new virus?”

“Hm?” I turn to Annie. “What virus?”

She gives me a look that tells me I just said something stupid, then gestures to the screen. “The virus they’re talking about in the news report we’ve been watching for the last few minutes. Does he lobotomize you, too? Is that part of the job description?”

I wish.

Being an executive assistant is not for the weak.

My boss’s expectations are through the roof.

No, scratch that. They’ve left the stratosphere and rounded the moon.

Cutting out a part of my brain so I can stop worrying about my performance and Mr. Bennett’s scrutiny sounds very tempting.

Just imagine: no Sunday Scaries, no dread every time he calls me into the office, no more restless nights spent turning in bed like a rotisserie chicken.

Heaven. Nirvana.

I turn to the news report again, trying to actually listen this time.

“It is believed to be a result of the ongoing fertility crisis…” The anchor keeps returning to that, the fertility crisis. I’ve been so preoccupied with being Mr. Bennett’s assistant that I’ve missed the fact that the world is literally dying.

Come to think of it, I can’t even remember the last time I saw a baby. I see toddlers every now and then, but a baby? Like a newborn, fresh out of the womb baby? Must have been years.

“You zoned out again, didn’t you?” Annie, my roommate and only friend, correctly points out. I nod as a grin spreads across her freckled face. “Then I get the honor of telling you about this lovely little virus that’s been going around.”

I wait as she pauses for dramatic effect.

“It’s a fucking virus.”

“Yeah, I got that. But like, what does it do?”

“No, you don’t get it. It’s a fucking virus. Like sex. Intercourse. Making love.”

I blink.

“People get sick and can only be cured by”—she waggles her fingers—“the big O.”

“Are you twelve?”

“I’m serious. Look.” She points to the screen.

The news anchor speaks over a generic video of scientists in lab coats.

“The virus has been spreading among women of childbearing age at a pace that has left scientists stumped. Over 30,000 cases have been reported in the U.S. so far, forcing hospitals across the country to prepare special rooms to administer the antidote.”

“The antidote is fucking,” Annie helpfully adds.

I frown, eyes still glued to the screen. “She hasn’t said anything about sex. Maybe you misunderstood because of all the talk about the fertility crisis—did you know that was going on, by the way?”

Annie once again looks at me like I’m the dumbest person who ever walked the earth. “Are you, like, sheltered? You seriously need to get a new job, Car. And I’m not misunderstanding anything. Look.” She pulls up her phone to show me a news article.

I grab the phone and start reading. The article says the virus causes symptoms such as fatigue, fever, and headaches.

The symptoms worsen over time and will eventually lead to hospitalization, then death.

Yikes. It’s spreading fast, yada yada yada.

Ah, there: The only known antidote is achieving orgasm with a biologically assigned partner.

“That sounds like something straight out of a porno.” I reread the sentence. “Wait, what do they mean by ‘biologically assigned partner’?”

Annie sits up straighter. “That’s the most fucked-up part.

The only way to make symptoms go away—temporarily, might I add—is to have an orgasm.

You think, ‘Great, I’ll just have a date with my vibrator, and I’ll be fine.

’ But no. This virus is a picky little bitch.

You have to be brought to orgasm by a specific person.

Someone you’re super compatible with, fertility-wise.

” She holds up a finger. “So it’s not only picky. It’s homophobic as well.”

She keeps ranting, and I want to listen to her. Truly, I do, because this is absolutely crazy and very fascinating. But I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket, and I know what that means. I shoot Annie an apologetic smile as I fish out my phone and stand to leave the room. “Gotta take this.”

“Tell him he sucks,” she shouts after me as I close the door to my bedroom.

I press the phone to my ear. “Hello—”

Mr. Bennett starts talking right away.

“I need you to review the environmental report for the Laker project and send me the bullet points for tomorrow’s board meeting. Focus on costs and public opinion. They don’t actually care about the environment.”

There goes my night.

“Absolutely. Anything else?”

“Yes, you’re coming in early tomorrow. The meeting has been moved up, and we’ll need a room set up at eight.”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Of course, sir. I’ll make sure the room is prepared for you.”

He hangs up. A minute later, my inbox pings, and I open the app to find ten ridiculously complicated coffee orders, all from different cafés. I flop onto the bed and scream into a pillow.

“Carly, wait up!”

I turn around and watch Josh from IT jog up to me. He’s holding something neon green in his right hand. “You forgot this in the cafeteria.”

I instinctively raise a hand to my neck and realize that yes, I absolutely forgot my ugly green lanyard in the cafeteria.

The lanyard that holds my keycard. You know, the keycard I use to get into the CEO’s office.

Mr. Bennett would fire me on the spot if he ever found out that I left a key to his office in the cafeteria.

My cheeks are on fire as I reach for the lanyard in his outstretched hand. Josh, the absolute rat, snatches it back. “Not so fast.”

“Josh, I need that back.”

He smiles at me. “You’ll get it in just a second.” He crosses his arms over his chest, which, to his credit, is fairly broad. “He’s really buried you in work lately, huh?” That’s an understatement. “You need a night out. You should come with us to the Fox on Friday, blow off some steam.”

“If I say that I’ll seriously consider it, can I have my lanyard back?”

He nods.

“I’ll seriously consider it.”

He hands me my lanyard. I hang it around my neck, where it belongs, and vow to never take it off again. Not even if it threatens to get in my soup. I just won’t eat soup. I’ll only have sandwiches for lunch from now on.

“Better head back before he sends out a search patrol,” he teases.

I thank him and head to the elevator, which takes me to the top floor.

The BenCo building is a gleaming high-rise, aptly named after the company that built it, which is also its current resident.

The first time I stepped out of the elevator and saw the view from the top floor, I felt like I had made it.

It was right before my interview with Mr. Bennett, and I remember thinking about what my mom had said when I told her about it.

“Just being invited to an interview at the top of BenCo is an accomplishment in itself. I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”

A minute later, I felt the building sway, making me a little queasy. I didn’t know it then, but it was a sign. A bad omen. The universe was telling me to go back into the elevator and look for another job. But I didn’t.

I nailed that interview, and now, three years later, here I am. Slaving away at a job I hate because I’ve gotten used to living in an apartment where you can trust the pipes. Rent is not cheap, and very few employers pay as well as Andrew Bennett.

My desk sits right outside his office door, which is always closed. Most offices have frosted glass doors or windows, a design choice meant to make the space feel airier. Not Mr. Bennett. His door is solid mahogany, and the only windows are those facing the outside.

I sit down at my desk and start going through my inbox.

One of my duties as the assistant to the CEO is to go through his email and sort everything by urgency.

It’s probably the only upside to the job, aside from the pay.

Going through someone else’s emails feels like snooping.

It’s especially fun when he’s recently been in the media for one reason or another, which is why I’m currently having a blast.

Yesterday, a picture of him was published alongside a story about BenCo’s latest project.

Today, his inbox looks like a casting call for The Bachelor.

Men and women of all ages flock to his corporate email to shoot their shot.

Some of the emails are the standard “I’m from X, I work in X, I like skiing,” but others get creative.

I’m in the middle of texting Annie an excerpt from one of the saucier ones when the dreaded ping from our internal chat system sounds, and a little blue box pops up in the corner of the screen.

Andrew Bennett: My office, now

I sigh and make my way to his door, knocking twice before stepping inside. His office is sleek and masculine: clean lines, minimal decor, and expensive-looking furniture. One wall is lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a breathtaking view of the city.

Mr. Bennett sits at his desk, back straight, eyebrows furrowed. He doesn’t look up from the screen as I enter.

“I need you to put together a PowerPoint presentation and an agenda for my two o’clock meeting. I’ll email you the details.”

I nod. “Anything else?”

His eyes finally meet mine. I say finally because it truly is a privilege to look into them.

Mr. Bennett is rigid, cynical, and mind-numbingly boring, but man, does he have pretty eyes.

Slightly slanted and deep green. They’re one of the reasons his inbox looks the way it does today. That, and his gym routine.

“Yes.” He picks up a stack of papers from his desk. “Did you rewrite the Laker memo?”

My stomach drops.

Ah.

So this is how I die.

“I edited it,” I say carefully.

“I asked you to format it.”

“Yes.”

“And you rewrote it.”

Technically, yes. But “technically” is a very dangerous word to use around Andrew Bennett. It’s the kind of word that gets people escorted out by security while clutching a sad little cardboard box of desk supplies.

“There were some sections that needed clarification,” I say.

His expression doesn’t change. “Clarification?”

“Some of the phrasing made it sound like we were trying to hide the parts people are going to be upset about.”

He leans back in his chair.

I should stop talking.

I do not stop talking.

“For example, ‘temporary adjustments to local access patterns’ sounds like something a politician says five minutes before they’re indicted.

We’re closing two streets, rerouting a bus line, and putting up a forty-story building in the middle of an otherwise quiet neighborhood.

” I swallow. “It’s better to acknowledge the inconvenience and then focus on what we’re doing to minimize it. ”

Silence.

Great. I am lecturing my boss about public trust five minutes after reading an email from a woman who wanted him to call her “his naughty little piglet.” This day is going incredibly well.

Mr. Bennett looks down at the papers again. “The board liked it.”

The words take a moment to register. “They did?”

“Yes.”

I wait for more.

There is no more.

“That’s… good?” I ask.

“It’s not bad.”

From Andrew Bennett, that’s basically a standing ovation. I press my lips together to stop myself from smiling, because smiling over the words “not bad” is embarrassing and I do still have some dignity left.

Very little, but some.

“Thank you,” I say.

He looks back at his computer, which is usually my cue to leave. I’m just about to turn around when he speaks again.

“You’ll do the press briefing on Friday.”

I freeze. “I’m sorry, did you say you wanted me to do the briefing? For the press?”

“I don’t like repeating myself, Miss Michaels.”

He starts typing, an obvious sign that he wants me to leave his office. But my feet are rooted to the ground. “I just—” I begin, trying to find a way to intelligently phrase the million questions floating around in my head. “Why?”

Give her a Pulitzer.

Mr. Bennett sighs and looks up again. “Because if I stand in front of the press and talk about construction phases, investment value, and long-term urban development, they’ll write the same article they always write.”

“Which is?”

“That BenCo is building another monument to corporate greed.”

My eyes drift to the printout of the rendering on his desk. The Laker Tower is all reflective glass, sharp angles, and dramatic height. Beautiful, yes, but also the kind of building that looks like it would raise rent within a five-mile radius.

“Well,” I say before I can stop myself, “it is a little monument-y.”

His gaze snaps to mine. A muscle ticks in his jaw, but I swear he’s almost amused. Almost. He pushes the memo toward me. “You understand the public angle.” He returns to the screen. “And I don’t need the briefing to become about me.”

I frown. “About you?”

He gives me a look.

My mind flashes to the emails currently filling his inbox.

“…Your picture has awoken something in me that I haven’t felt in thirty years…”

“…I dreamed about you last night. This is what we did:…”

“…I am a single mother, looking for a Daddy…”

Yeah, okay, I see his point.

“But I’ve never done a press briefing before,” I say.

“Then prepare.”

“What if I mess it up?”

“Don’t.”

Helpful. Truly inspiring leadership. Someone should put that on a poster and hang it in the break room.

“Are you planning on working as my assistant until you retire?” he asks.

I’d rather eat sixteen razor blades and a turd.

“No,” I say, but my voice goes up an octave at the end, making it sound like a question.

“Then you need to show that you are capable of more. This is an opportunity for you—don’t fuck it up.”