Chapter 8

Jonathan’s POV

I leaned on the chair watching Elena walk away with her head held high, and all I can fucking say is the woman was absolutely ridiculous.

No employee…and I mean no employee in my twenty-plus years of running companies…had ever given me conditions when accepting a job. They thanked me. They groveled. They practically kissed my feet for the opportunity to work under me.

But Elena Rivers? She’d stood there with her arms crossed, listing demands like she was the one doing me a favor. Who the hell does that?

I answer only to you. You tell me to my face. I can walk away whenever I want. The audacity was almost impressive.

And the fact that I’d agreed to all of it? That was even more ridiculous.

I should have shut her down immediately. I should have reminded her that I was Jonathan Hart, that people didn’t make demands of me, that she was lucky I was even offering her this position in the first place.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I’d shaken her hand and told her to start immediately, like some fool who’d just been outmaneuvered by a twenty-seven-year-old with a grudge and a plan.

And then there was the other thing, she called me Jonathan, like I was her equal. At this point I was almost certain she was going to make me lose my mind.

Patricia would have a heart attack if she knew. Hell, most of my executive team would probably faint from shock. In this company, in this world I’d built, people didn’t use my first name unless I explicitly gave them permission. It was a sign of respect, of understanding the hierarchy, of knowing your place.

But Elena had said it so naturally, so casually, that I hadn’t even corrected her.

What the hell was wrong with me?

The next morning, Elena arrived at exactly eight o’clock, carrying a leather portfolio and wearing another one of those sharp suits that made her look really smart.

“Good morning,” she said, walking in without knocking.

I looked up from my laptop. “You know, most people wait to be invited in.”

“Most people aren’t your Personal Manager,” she replied smoothly, setting her portfolio down on my desk and opening it. “We need to go over your schedule for today. There are some changes.”

“Changes?”

“Yes. Your eleven o’clock with the marketing team has been moved to two. Your lunch meeting with Senator Crawford has been rescheduled for next week because his assistant called yesterday to say he had a conflict. And I’ve added a conference call at four with the legal team about the Meridian acquisition.”

I stared at her. “You changed my entire schedule?”

“I optimized it,” she corrected. “You had three back-to-back meetings this morning with no buffer time in between. That’s inefficient. People run late, discussions go over, and then your whole day gets thrown off. This way, you have breathing room.”

“I’ve been managing my own schedule for thirty years.”

“And now you don’t have to,” she said simply. “That’s what I’m here for.”

I opened my mouth and closed it because she had a point, a very strong point in fact.

My days often ran over because I didn’t leave time for the unexpected, and I ended up staying late more often than not.

“Fine,” I said. “What else?”

“Your coffee,” she said, gesturing to the cup on my desk. “You drink it black, no sugar, but you have three cups before noon and then you’re irritable all afternoon because you’re over-caffeinated. From now on, you’re limited to two cups in the morning and herbal tea after lunch.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re limiting my coffee intake?”

“Yes.”

“Elena…”

“It’s not negotiable,” she said firmly. “You hired me to manage your life, and that includes making sure you don’t burn out from excessive caffeine.”

I opened my mouth to tell her exactly where she could shove her herbal tea, but she was already moving on, flipping through her notes like the matter was settled.

“Your dry cleaning will be picked up on Tuesdays and Thursdays instead of just Fridays. Your gym membership has been upgraded to include a personal trainer three times a week…you’re welcome, by the way. And I’ve subscribed you to a meal prep service because Patricia mentioned you usually skip lunch and then complain about being hungry at four.”

“Patricia told you that?”

“She was surprisingly helpful once I explained that my job was to make your life easier, not steal her position.”

I leaned back in my chair, studying her. “You’ve been here one day and you’ve already reorganized my entire existence.”

“That’s the job, isn’t it?” she said, meeting my gaze without flinching. “Unless you’d prefer I just sit around and look pretty.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Good. Because I don’t do pretty and useless.”

She was insufferable. Absolutely insufferable.And I couldn’t remember the last time someone had challenged me this much without getting fired.

The rest of the day was more of the same.

Elena attended every meeting with me, sitting quietly and taking notes, but occasionally interjecting with observations that were so spot-on it was irritating. She corrected Marcus…again…when he misquoted a figure during the board presentation. She politely but firmly told one of our senior executives that his proposal was “inefficient and borderline incompetent” when he suggested cutting costs by outsourcing our IT department.

The man had turned red and sputtered something about her being out of line, but I’d waved him off.

“She’s right,” I’d said simply. “Revise the proposal.”

By the time five o’clock rolled around, I was exhausted.

Not from work, but from Elena.

She was relentless, efficient, and completely unafraid to tell me…or anyone else…when something was wrong. It was refreshing and infuriating at the same time.

I thought I’d finally have some peace when she left my office, but twenty minutes after I got home, my phone rang.

Elena.

I answered. “What now?”

“Good evening to you too,” she said dryly. “I’m calling to remind you about your trip tomorrow morning.”

I frowned. “What trip?”

“Singapore. The international bid you’ve been waiting on? They sent approval this afternoon. The meeting is scheduled for tomorrow at nine AM, which means you need to leave tonight.”

“Tonight?” I sat up straighter. “Elena, I can’t just drop everything and fly to Singapore.”

“Yes, you can. I spent hours booking the flight.”

“I haven’t packed. I haven’t prepared…”

“I’ll come help you pack,” she said. “Your driver will pick me up in twenty minutes, and I’ll be there by seven. We’ll have you ready to leave by nine.”

“Elena…”

“This is non-negotiable, Jonathan. This deal is worth two hundred million dollars. You’re going.”

I wanted to argue, but she was right. Again.

“Fine,” I said. “But you’re not packing for me. I can do that myself.”

“Sure you can,” she said, clearly not believing me. “See you soon.”

She hung up before I could respond.

I sat there for a moment, staring at my phone, wondering when exactly I’d lost control of my own life.

Then I stood and walked into the living room, my eyes landing on a frame in the corner…one I’d tucked away months ago because looking at it hurt too much.

Daniel.

My son.

I picked up the frame, wiping the dust off the glass with my sleeve. He was smiling in the photo, young and carefree, back when we still spoke, back when he didn’t hate me for things I couldn’t change.

I stared at it for a long moment, then walked over to the wall and hung it up where it belonged.

This was Elena’s second trial.

Let’s see how she handles seeing the face of the man who broke her heart staring at her from my living room wall.