New York Billionaires Series

My keycard unlocks the door with the gold-rimmed sign of CEO and it swings open on automatic hinges. I put his lunch and coffee on his desk. Keyboard to the left. Lunch to the right. His neat stack of papers to read for the day are well out of the way of any potential food stains.

Perfect. Just like every other lunch I’ve prepared for Victor St. Clair over the past couple of months.

I make it back to my desk in the knick of time. The elevator dings and I look up at Mason. “Showtime,” I mouth.

They sweep through the hallway a few seconds later, side-by-side, two conquerors returning from the battlefield. Eleanor, the COO, nods a cordial hello to Mason before entering her office.

My boss does no such thing. The sharp cut of St. Clair’s jaw is all I catch before he’s gone, unlocking the door to his palatial office. It clicks closed behind him.

The corridor is silent once again.

I drop my shoulders and meet Mason’s gaze again. This time, he’s grinning and pretends to wipe sweat off his forehead.

He’s Eleanor’s assistant and I’m Victor St. Clair’s.

I know Mason would never agree to switch jobs, despite the pay gap between us. And I understand.

It’s been a year since Tristan Conway left and Victor St. Clair took over the position as CEO of Exciteur. As the major shareholders of the company, Acture Capital can appoint leadership at will.

But did it have to be St. Clair?

Working for Conway had been a breeze. A pleasure, even. He’d throw an occasional joke my way and I’d done the same to him, always with a hum of courteousness running beneath the surface. I got stuff done. He appreciated that.

Victor St. Clair is nothing like that.

He speaks as if there’s ice in his throat, chilling the words on the way out. The glacial blue of his eyes is devastating when they’re turned on you in disapproval.Ccontent © exclusive by Nô/vel(D)ra/ma.Org.

I fear that above all else.

I’ve been his assistant for eleven months, three weeks, and two days. I know that because I have a timer on my computer counting the days. I’d sat here, eleven months, three weeks and two days ago, and overheard a conversation between St. Clair and Conway.

Conway recommended me.

St. Clair doubted I’d last the month, let alone a year, but he’d give me a shot. He’d made it sound like he was doing me a favor.

Well, I’d lasted the month, and in eight days, I will have lasted an entire year. Take that, St. Clair.

When that year is done, when I’ve won my one-sided bet with my devil boss, I’m out of here. I’ve been polishing my resume for weeks and I have the latest version right here on my desk. It needs more fine-tuning before I can send it out to companies across the city. Anything and anywhere away from St. Clair’s orders. A job with normal hours and free weekends, with enough time to spend on my own business.

The one I’ve wanted to start for years.

Mason clears his throat across the hallway. He’s gesturing toward the elevators, a smile on his lips.

“Oh!” I half-whisper. “Thank you!”

“Go!”

I put my computer to sleep and hurry down the corridor to the elevators. The staff kitchen a few floors down is busy, but most people give me space.

“Hey, Cecilia,” Barry calls out. “How are things up at the ice palace?”

“Chilly,” I say.

The others laugh, and I grin back, sticking my falafel wrap in the microwave. Do I have two minutes? I decrease the timer to one and a half.

“Do you have time to stay down here with us?” Amy asks. “Susan brought in cookies for the sales department and we swiped a few.”

“You guys are the best, but I have to head back up.”

“He can’t force you to eat at your desk.”

“Oh, he hasn’t,” I say. “I doubt he thinks I eat at all.”

The others laugh again and I look at the microwave. Twenty seconds. Nineteen. Eighteen…

I’m walking so fast I’m almost running toward the elevators with my half-heated wrap in hand. It’s a risk, but St. Clair should be busy with his lunch. He always takes at least ten minutes to finish…

My heart is pounding when the elevator doors finally open to the thirty-fourth floor.

The sight at the end of the corridor makes it stop dead.

St. Clair is not in his office. He’s standing next to my empty desk, his face frozen in harsh lines, inspecting a piece of paper.

I force myself to take the steps forward. My heels echo with each painful step, and it doesn’t sound smart or fierce. It sounds ominous.

When I reach the desk, St. Clair looks over at me. His eyes are flat blue. “You weren’t at your desk.”

“I was heating my lunch.” I raise my falafel wrap up as proof. Here, Judge. Exhibit A.

His gaze drops to it and he frowns.

“Is there anything you need, sir?” I ask, because the best defense is a good offense.

“There is no lettuce on my sandwich.” He flips the paper he’s holding over. A copy of my newly minted resume, swiped from my desk. “What is this, Miss Myers?”

The backs of my thighs hit the hard edge of my desk. “My resume.”

“I can see that. Are you planning on leaving Exciteur?”

It’s been a while since I was on the receiving end of his gaze. That much intensity isn’t meant to be directed at one person. Ever.

“I’m considering it,” I murmur, and brace for the worst.

It doesn’t come.

St. Clair’s eyes narrow in thought and he sweeps his gaze over me, from head to toe, in a way he never has before. He puts my resume down on my desk and gives me a long, final look. It sends a shiver down my spine.

“Interesting,” he says.