by Marian Tee
Mr. Rochester takes a seat in front of me, and soon after the limousine starts to move. The silence between us is horrible, and I wonder gloomily if this is the aftermath before a storm, AKA the moment before I get fired.
But…surely Mr. Rochester can’t be that petty?
When I steal a look at my boss, I barely notice how hot and utterly British he is in his pinstriped suit and oxfords. All I can see right now is the hideous cast covering his right hand, and a sick feeling forms in the pit of my stomach as I recall the E.R. doctor saying how Mr. Rochester’s fracture requires two to three weeks of recovery period post surgery, and that’s only assuming no complication arises.
Mr. Rochester shifts slightly in his seat, and my gaze reluctantly moves up. I’m disconcerted and dismayed to find his sapphire eyes studying me, and I sit up self-consciously even as I prepare myself for the worst.
“So…”
Oh God. How can one word be so damn expressive? Is my imagination running wild or do I really detect fury, disdain, and a distinct need to extract revenge in that one word?
I wait for him to say something else, but he only gazes at me with narrow blue eyes that do nothing to keep my heartbeat from escalating.
Oh God, oh God.
What do I do if Mr. Rochester decides to press charges?
Several worst-scenarios occur to me, and I shove my hands under me, sitting on them so I don’t accidentally start pulling my hair.
Whatever happens, Reed, you are going to accept your fate with dignity.
Okay?
But when I hear Mr. Rochester speak again, saying, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to---”
Not okay.
And I hear myself snap, “You can’t blame me for what happened!”
Mr. Rochester stills. “I…can’t?”
I have a feeling I’ve said the wrong word, but I’m too far gone in a haze of anger and panic to pause and think about it. Instead, I hear myself say hotly, “No, you can’t.”
A smile starts to play on Mr. Rochester lips. “Perhaps you’d care to enlighten me, Ms. Reed--”
“Gladly,” I snarl.
“Why do you believe I require your permission to do anything?”
My mouth opens…and closes. He has a point there. Shit. But then Mr. Rochester raises a brow, and the sight infuriates me so, my mouth ends up running away from me again.
“Don’t twist my words,” I snap. “It’s so petty.”
“Petty?” Mr. Rochester echoes very softly.
Shut up now, Reed, my sensible side pleads. Please shut up and stop trying to commit verbal suicide.
But I can’t. I just can’t. There’s something about Mr. Rochester that makes me lose my head---
And so I lift my chin, saying, “Yes. Petty.”
Silence.
And then Mr. Rochester says with a sigh, “Now, you’ve done it.”
I start to tell him I don’t care, but Mr. Rochester shakes his head. “Enough.”
The word is laced with ice, and it startles me into silence.
I watch him cross his legs. It should have made him look gay but somehow Mr. Rochester makes it work. He still looks sophisticated, masculine, and scary as hell.
As the silence between us lengthens, my mind begins to replay all the words I had uttered in the past five minutes---
And the urge to puke comes back with a vengeance.
Wasn’t this exactly what Ms. Fairfax warned me about?
No sass.
And yet---
Numbers suddenly start running through my mind.
The thousands of dollars I still owe on my student loan---
The hundreds of dollars I spend every month for daily expenses---
And all of it will be gone in a blink of an eye, I realize sickly, if this man chooses to fire me.
In front of me, Mr. Rochester’s lips curve in a smile that’s dazzling and terrifying at the same time, and I gulp.
I’m dead. I’m so dead.
Mr. Rochester’s fingers begin to tap on the armrest, and my heart drops to the pit of my stomach.
I just know…I just know…whatever’s going to happen---
“Listen very carefully to me, Ms. Reed.”
And so I do---
“Because the next words I’ll speak will determine the course of your life.”
And so it does.
“You look horrible,” Virginia, the penthouse receptionist, declares as soon as I come in for work the next day.
“Do I?” I ask uninterestedly while writing my name on the logbook. Virginia’s always hated me for being chosen as Mr. Rochester’s PA, a job she apparently also applied for – and obviously failed to nab. Once in a while, the sting of her failure gets to her, and it’s in those instances she’d try to make these little digs, like now---
“Unfortunately,” she says sweetly, “I’m not lying.”
“Fortunately,” I say just as sweetly as I return the logbook to her, “I don’t care.”
There’s a pause, and then she says stiffly, “Ha.”
And so it ends like always, with Virginia always losing for lack of a proper comeback.
Virginia’s gaze narrows on me as I move on to the second half of our company’s two-step authentication process and I digitally clock in by placing my thumb on the scanner.
“You’re acting strange,” she says suspiciously.
She’s right. Normally, I’d be on a roll by now. In my book, all’s fair in bitch fights and if you start something with me, I’m going to damn well finish it.
Or at least that’s what I do, normally.
But right now, I’m far from feeling normal and it’s all because of---
The door to the CEO’s office suddenly opens, and everyone in the floor shuts up and sort of freezes.
Speak of the devil.
I’m equal parts fascinated and disgusted at Mr. Rochester’s effect on people, but one thing I’m not is surprised. It’s just further proof of my belief how much people who pay the bills can get away with, and I can’t help lifting my chin defiantly when my boss reaches the reception, stopping only a few inches from where I’m standing.
The scent of his aftershave teases my nostrils, and I involuntarily jerk. The telltale reaction causes Mr. Rochester’s blue eyes to glint, and my teeth gnash. Damn him.
A part of me has secretly hoped he’d be less imposing in daylight, but of course these hopes turn out to be foolish. Although Mr. Rochester is still as coldly handsome as ever, there’s something about the way sunlight pools around his feet that makes him seem even…ethereal.
Which is plain unfair, I think grumpily, considering how he’s a devil in disguise.
He inclines his head at me in greeting, murmuring, “Ms. Reed.”
Shit. It doesn’t escape me that I’m the only one he’s deigned to acknowledge – and neither has it escaped anyone else, considering how many eyebrows shot up at the special attention he’s giving me.
The realization has me squirming internally. Maybe other girls like being singled out this way, but not me and definitely not when this particular man is concerned.
But…he’s the one who pays the bills.
And so I swallow back my reservations and general dislike, and I force myself to smile politely. “Mr. Rochester.”
And let it please end with that, I wish fervently.
But of course it doesn’t.
Ever since I’ve started working in the penthouse floor, the one thing I always hear people say is how terrifyingly aloof and moody Mr. Rochester is, with a beast of a temper. I’m sure this is all true, which is why I’m just as sure that when Mr. Rochester’s lips curve into the most devilishly sexy smile…I know he’s doing it just to get a rise out of me.
Damn him.
Jaws drop all around us as the rest of the staff tries to adjust to the reality of our CEO knowing how to do something else besides brood. Some react more viciously – Virginia in particular – and I grit my teeth as I feel women’s
gazes shoot daggers at my back.
Like I said, I hate being singled out, especially if it makes people think it’s because I’m special when in reality I’m just being bullied.
I scowl at Mr. Rochester. Glad you’re having fun at my expense.
My boss’ smile becomes even more devastating. I am, thank you.
God, why can’t movies like The Purge be real? Because if it is, I just know who I’m going to kill---
Mr. Rochester makes an imperious gesture in my direction. “I’ve just remembered I need a private word with you, Ms. Reed.”
I open my mouth, intending to make up all kinds of excuses to refuse---
“And in case you’re in doubt,” Mr. Rochester drawls, “it’s not a request.”
Shit. I manage not to choke on my rage as I force out the only acceptable answer. “Yes, Mr. Rochester.”
The walk to his office as I follow behind my asshole of a boss is like heading down death’s row, and even worse I feel like I’m collecting enemies with every few seconds that pass. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, as the saying goes, and right now I’m definitely on every woman’s kill list.
I can feel them judging me, scorning me, all of them thinking I’ve somehow connived my way into a “special” place in Mr. Rochester’s life---
Which of course is exactly how Mr. Rochester wants it to be, damn him.
As I step inside of his office, Mr. Rochester says lazily, “Close the door, please.”
Asshole, I can’t help thinking even as I turn around to do as bid. Reaching for the knob, I catch sight of Virginia glaring at me murderously all the way from the reception counter---
Shit. I have a nasty feeling my attendance sheet’s going to suffer after this. I close the door with grimly, feeling like I’m hammering down on the last nail of my own coffin. Turning around, I see Mr. Rochester smirking still, and my temper can no longer take it.
“Congratulations,” I snarl. “You’ve succeeded in ruining my reputation. Everyone thinks I’ve become your mistress overnight now so I hope you’re happy.”
“I didn’t think you were the type to care about what others think.”
“And I don’t, but only when it’s something I’m really guilty about. But this is---”
“Not anyone else’s business except ours, don’t you think?” Mr. Rochester’s broad shoulders move under his perfectly tailored jacket in a dismissive shrug. “Like you, I have never been bothered by other people’s opinions, Ms. Reed. But unlike you, mine isn’t selective. I simply feel that letting yourself affected by how other people see you is a sheer waste of time. Hopefully you’ll come to realize this for yourself as well.”
Before I can tell him that only rich people can afford such “realizations”, Mr. Rochester gestures to one of the leather seats across his desk, saying, “Please sit---”
I raise my chin again, saying proudly, “I prefer---”
Perching himself on the edge of his desk, Mr. Rochester pats his lap, drawling, “Sitting here, perhaps?”
Again, my mouth opens and closes, and my mind has a mini breakdown as I find myself envisioning Mr. Rochester placing me on his lap---
Aaaah.
Fire slithers its way down my body, making every inch of it burn.
Shit.
But no matter how hard I try to fight against it, my body just keeps getting hotter.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
How is it that this man arouses me so easily?
“Well, Ms. Reed?”
“I’ll take a seat,” I mutter.
Mr. Rochester sighs. “A pity.”
Pretending I don’t feel his amused gaze following my every movement, I make my way to the leather seat and plop down ungracefully. In the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Mr. Rochester reach for a pen on his desk and start twirling it between his fingers---
Every movement is picture-perfect, and for some reason I find myself reluctantly enthralled by the sight.
“Now.” Mr. Rochester’s tone is musing. “Where were we?”
Where were we indeed, I wonder vaguely as the movements of his fingers continue to mesmerize me. Will those fingers be just as skillful when they’re caressing a woman’s flesh---
SHIT.
I jerk in my seat, face flaming as the fire in my blood burns hotter. Oh God. Why is it that every little thing Mr. Rochester does is capable of sending my mind to the gutters?
The pen in his fingers suddenly stills.
And then I hear him say, “You’re blushing.”
Shit.
His words are infinitely embarrassing, but there’s something in his voice that’s even more worrying, and I blink in bemusement even as my heart starts to race. I feel like I’ve forgotten something…but what?
Our eyes meet again…and Mr. Rochester starts to smile. “Oh, Ms. Reed.” His voice is filled with mock disappointment. “Have you somehow convinced yourself that last night was a mere whim of mine? Or an empty threat perhaps?”
Oh.
OH.
I’m unable to answer, dismay and shock turning me into a statue in my seat as I realize he’s right. I have made myself forgotten---
But not anymore.
Now, I remember very clearly how Mr. Rochester looked at me when he said, Listen very carefully, Ms. Reed. Because the next words I’ll be speaking will determine the course of your life.
The memory makes me cringe, and the knowledge that the worse is yet to come more so.
“Earlier, I had a bit of time to myself before the surgery, so I thought I’d make use of it by asking security to send me everything they have on you.”
His voice might be deceptively casual, but I knew a threat when I heard one. Infuriated that he thought I could be so easily intimidated, I lifted my chin, saying proudly, “I have nothing to hide.”
“I’m glad you think that.” Mr. Rochester paused. “But if you’re thinking I’m referring to the fact that you were a runaway in your childhood, it’s not what I’m talking about.”
Since that was exactly what I thought he meant, his words left me annoyingly stumped, and all I could do was glare at him, asking ungraciously, “Then what?”
“Can you truly think of nothing you’d want to hide from me?” Mr. Rochester’s voice is taunting.
“Not a single thing,” I answered coolly.
“Are you certain?”
“Hundred ten percent,” I snapped.
But instead of enraging him – which a part of myself foolishly wanted to happen – Mr. Rochester only smiled. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said softly, “since it means you want me to fuck you that much.”
My jaw dropped. What was he---
And then Mr. Rochester took his phone out, saying, “Security sent me CCTV footage, Ms. Reed. You were in the staff kitchen, enjoying what I assumed was a very late dinner.” Mr. Rochester paused. “But then I looked closely and I realized that it wasn’t the only thing you were enjoying.”
I looked at his phone and saw myself on the screen, staring at his photo, a look of undeniable arousal on my face.
Oh God.
“I was actually prepared to let everything go, Ms. Reed. If you had simply apologized, we could have put the incident behind us and things could have gone back to normal.” Mr. Rochester gazed at me contemplatively. “Sorry. That was all you had to say, Ms. Reed.”
I couldn’t answer right away…because he was right. Why hadn’t just I said ‘sorry’? Why?
“But you didn’t apologize.” Mr. Rochester leaned back against his seat. “Instead you did the opposite. Rather than keeping your mouth shut, you kept provoking me at every turn. It was as if you were begging to be punished---”
“T-that’s insane.” But my voice was faint, and a large part of me was terrified that what he said was true. Hadn’t I been wondering myself why I kept saying and doing the most outrageous things in his presence?
“It was clear enough you wanted me to be furious,” Mr. Rochester went on as if I had
n’t said a word, “but what frankly puzzled me was why. Why would you court trouble so deliberately? I read your background report, so I knew you couldn’t afford to lose the job. I considered the media angle: perhaps you were a paid snoop by the paparazzi, but it didn’t fit your profile---”
“It’s none of that,” I finally blurted out. “And you’re right I’m sorry---”
“Please, Ms. Reed. There’s no need of that.”
I blinked.
Mr. Rochester flashed another smile. “After all, it’s already too late.”
What?
“When I saw the video everything became clear.”
It did?
“This tiny glimpse into your private world was enough to explain everything.” As he spoke, Mr. Rochester glanced down at his phone, and I flinched when I saw him running his thumb down the screen.
Oh God.
My body started trembling almost as if his hands were caressing the real me, and not just a captured image of myself---
SHIT.
How could I be so aroused with just the knowledge that he was watching me stare at his almost-naked photo?
It didn’t make any sense, I thought numbly.
Mr. Rochester chuckled, and when my gaze jerked towards him, he said calmly, “Of course it does.”
My eyes widened. I hadn’t realized that anxiety had me unconsciously speaking my thoughts out loud.
“The photo was the mere trigger, but the desire was there all along.”
His words stunned me, and I said automatically, “No.” I shook my head. “It’s not like that.” And it couldn’t be.
But it was as if he hadn’t heard me.
“It was why you started acting out the moment you saw me,” Mr. Rochester murmured. “You were like a child who wanted my fucking attention---”
“NO.” This time, I cried the word out. “It’s not---”
“It’s exactly like that,” Mr. Rochester crooned, “and you’ll be glad to know that it worked.”
I froze.
“You have my fucking attention.” Mr. Rochester paused. “The question is…what do you want to do about it?”
“Do you remember everything now?” Mr. Rochester’s words, spoken in a dulcet tone, snap me back to the present, and I nod jerkily in answer, accepting that there’s no point lying.
