Fourr

Hillary

The first time I met Rhiannon was at my interview for this job. Luckily, she was in Utah for business, and we scheduled the meeting. She described Bentley Brown in three words: arrogant, rude, insufferable. She warned me that if I wanted to work with him, I had to absorb his excesses without taking offense.

So, for him, I learned three things.

Grace under fire—staying calm and professional even when treated poorly.

Professional detachment—keeping emotions out of it and focusing on the work.

Selective tolerance—knowing someone’s flaws but choosing to overlook them.

Even though he was worse than I expected, I kept my head up. Nothing dragged me down. Not even the ankle I almost broke that morning, which still hurt like hell.

I was in the passenger seat of my dad’s car when I was thirteen and we crashed. I saw him dying in that seat. That was why being a passenger now gave me so much PTSD.

“Are you doing okay?” Rhia asks, walking up to my table.

I nod with a smile. “Ben is tough, but I’m tougher.”

“He’s like that to everyone. Don’t worry, just don’t get mad. It gets better. And he’ll definitely say worse things,” she smiles.

She is beautiful, though years of working with Ben had made her uptight and strict.

“When are you completely relieved of your duties?” I ask.

“Friday. From Monday, it’s all you, Hillary.”

Of course.

“Congratulations on your wedding in advance,” I say.

“Thank you,” she replies before walking away.

I returned to work, planning Bentley’s week just like Rhia instructed. I took a few appointment calls, including blind dates set up by his mother—which, for some reason, made me laugh.

My phone buzzed. It was my step-sister, Laurel. After my dad passed, Mom remarried. Her new husband was awful, did nasty things to me. When Mom found out, she divorced him, got custody of Laurel, his daughter and we filed a restraining order. I hadn’t seen him since.

“Hi, Lary!” Laurel squeals over the phone. She’s fifteen now.

“Hi, my love. How are you?” I smile.

“I’m fine. I miss you so much. How’s Boston?”

“Boston is amazing, love. I miss you too.”

“New York is close to Boston, right? Could you visit and take pictures for me?”

“Of course.” I laugh. “Say hi to Mom. I’ve got to go back to work. Love you.”

“Love you.”

I hung up and started packing up. Work ended in ten minutes, and I didn’t want to piss him off again today.

I headed to his office anyway, to see if he needed anything. I pushed the door open. “Director—”

My words died.

Rhiannon and Bentley were making out roughly. His hands were everywhere, squeezing.

Wait, what? Wasn’t she supposed to be getting married in a few weeks? Moving to London with her husband?

Ben’s face turned red with fury.

“Ah—I’m sorry—”

I turned to leave, but he barks “Did you grow up without a father, or were you never taught to knock before entering spaces that don’t belong to you?”

Fuck. That one hit.

“Ben!” Rhia snaps, clearly realizing he’s gone too far.

My eyes stung, fingers tightening on the doorknob. But I sucked it up.

“Go home!” he snaps.

I hurried out, packed my things, and grabbed a cab. The city blurred past the window.

Were they having an affair? If they wanted each other so badly, why wouldn’t they just be together instead of her marrying someone else?

Oh well. I shoved it out of my head.

At home, I showered, changed, then headed downstairs to help Isabel make dinner. My stomach growled—I hadn’t eaten all day.

“Hi, Isabel,” I stride into the kitchen.

“Hey, beautiful. How was your first day?” she asks.

I sucked in air through clenched teeth. “Not great.”

She laughs, like she gets it.

“Is he like that to you too?” I ask.

She is old enough to be his mom. Surely he wouldn’t disrespect her.

“Sometimes,” she says.

I got distracted by the fridge I opened—full of lemon ice cream, all the same size.

“He loves lemon ice cream,” Isabel says.

“Loves? More like obsessed. Why would anyone need a giant freezer filled with lemon ice cream? How many refrigerators does he have?”

“Four. Well, five including the one upstairs.”

My jaw drops. “Why does anyone need five refrigerators?”

She points to the corner. “The walk-in fridge is for fruits, vegetables—”

I barely heard the rest. Walk-in fridge? I hadn’t known those existed.

“How long have you worked for him?” I ask, taking the juice she pours from another fridge.

“Ten years,” she says with a small laugh.

“What?! Has he always been this insufferable?”

She laughs. “Zesty and self-absorbed, yes. But he grew colder over the years.”

I nodded. “He told me today: ‘Did you grow up without a father or weren’t you taught to knock?’” I mimicked his voice. “That one hurt. My dad died in a car accident when I was thirteen.” I lifted my blouse, showing the scar. “But I let myself breathe because I need the money more than he needs—”

I choked on my words. He was standing in the doorway, staring like a stalker.

Did he hear me mocking him?

God. Hillary, at least keep this job for a few months.

“Director, nice to see you. Dinner will be ready soon, right Isabel?” I say nervously.

She smiles.

I try to smile too, but it vanishes when I see the animal beside him. A guttural scream escapes as I jump down from the island and hide behind Isabel.

“What the fuck is that?” I’m shaking.

“A cat,” he says casually.

“Yeah, a wild one.”

“She’s my pet. She doesn’t bite, I promise.”

That was a fucking black panther. Or jaguar. Or Whatever.

“You can’t just own murder mittens, isn’t it like illegal?” The beast rubs against Ben like a housecat.

“What are you going to do, call the cops?” he says, reaching into the freezer for his lemon ice cream.

No wonder the whole house smelled like expensive lemons.

“She wouldn’t bite you,” Isabel whispers, trying not to laugh at my fear.

I don’t move.

“Excuse me,” Isabel leaves, but I stayed glued in place, far from Ben and his murder cat.

Except he came closer. Thankfully, the beast sat like a good girl, licking ice cream.

Ben towered over me, caging me against the island with his arms. His shadow swallowed me.

“What’s going on, sir?” I ask, inching back.

“What you saw today—if you tell anyone—”

“I’m good at minding my business. That’s my best trait. What I saw isn’t my business.”

He arches a brow, scanning me, then rolls his eyes.

“Don’t walk around my house in that flimsy outfit. Your nipples are begging for attention,” he says.

I gasp, hands shooting up to cover my chest. I’m not a whore—it was fear of the murder mitten.

Urgh.

My cheeks burned with embarrassment. I slid out from under his arm and ran.