Chapter 2

Later that night, the bass from the TV screen was vibrating through the floorboards of Jane’s cozy apartment. It was past 10:00 PM, and the living room had descended into a full-blown karaoke lounge. 

Jane and two girls from HR were screaming the lyrics to a throwback pop hit while Allan stood by the kitchen counter, pouting dramatically into his wine glass.

Earlier, on their way out of the Reynold building, a half-dazed, intoxicated Jane had realized with a jolt of panic that she had left her gift bag in the backseat of the yellow taxi. She had whined about losing the gag gift, promising Allan she would buy him an even better, more scandalous present over the weekend. 

What she didn't realize, through her alcohol-induced fog, was that she hadn't lost Allan's gift in a cab—she had left it squarely on the mahogany desk of the most dangerous man in New York.

Monday arrived under the cover of a brutal, torrential downpour.

Jane stepped out of the subway station thirty minutes earlier than usual, her black umbrella barely holding up against the gusting Manhattan winds. She had never been late in two full years. Punctuality was a core pillar of her survival strategy.

By the time she reached the executive floor, her gray suit jacket was buttoned tightly to her neck, her hair scraped back into its usual severe bun, and her neutral mask firmly in place. 

She offered a crisp, polite nod to the reception desk and a few fellow assistants, humming a quiet tune in her head as she marched toward her station.

Then she froze.

Through the frosted glass doors of the corner suite, a dark silhouette was already pacing the floorboards.

Damn it! Jane cursed internally, her eyes widening. The beast never comes in before 8:00 AM. What crawled up his expensive tail and made him sour this early?

Suppressing a sigh, she immediately pivoted toward the executive breakroom to prepare his morning coffee. She measured the beans with mathematical precision, ensuring the water temperature hit his exacting standards. Balancing the tray, she pushed open his office door a few minutes later, ready to absorb the usual morning barrage of complaints.

William was seated behind his massive desk, his dark hair impeccably styled, his long fingers tapping rhythmically against his phone screen.

"Your coffee, Mr. Reynold," Jane said, setting the porcelain cup down on a leather coaster with practiced efficiency.

Without looking up, William softly replied, "Thank you, Jane."

Her hands almost slipped on the tray. She blinked, staring at the crown of his head. Did I just hallucinate?

For two straight years, she had strictly been "Miss Pascual." Worse, his voice hadn't carried its usual sharp, razor-thin edge. It sounded low. Smooth. Almost... intimately velvet?

Get a grip, Pascual, she warned herself, mentally shaking her head. The man probably just closed a ten-figure deal over the weekend and forgot to be a monster for five seconds.

Meanwhile, behind his calm facade, William was dissecting her every move. He watched her closely out of the corner of his eye, noting the tight bun, and the flat, completely blank expression in her eyes.

Look at her, William thought, a dark, ego-fueled smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Playing the dutiful, indifferent assistant again. It’s almost impressive how fast she slipped back into her shell after dropping her confession on my desk. She’s terrified. She’s sitting on two years of burning passion, waiting for me to make the first move.

Jane cleared her throat, pulling a leather-bound tablet from under her arm to break the unsettling silence. "Here is your schedule for today, sir. You have the quarterly budget review at nine, followed by a lun—"

"Cancel the lunch," William interrupted smoothly, leaning back in his leather chair and steepling his fingers. 

He locked his piercing blue eyes onto hers, letting the silence stretch between them until the air in the room felt thick enough to cut with a knife. "Clear my afternoon after two o'clock, Miss Pascual. You and I have a private performance review to conduct."

Jane’s eyebrow twitched. A performance review? In August?

"Is there an issue with my work, Mr. Reynold?" she asked, her voice locked in a careful, professional register, though her mind was wildly racing. Did I miss a zero on the Q3 projections? Did he catch me taking an extra ten minutes on lunch last Thursday?

"An issue?" William murmured, his gaze dropping lingeringly to her high-collared white blouse before rising back to her face. A slow, predatory smile spread across his features. 

"No, Jane. In fact... your recent contributions have been surprisingly eye-opening. I just think it's time we finally discuss what’s going on behind the scenes."

WHAT THE FUCK? Jane swallowed hard, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. Why is he looking at me like I'm a three-course meal? And why does he keep saying my first name?!

"Understood, sir," she said stiffly, taking a cautious step backward toward the exit. "I’ll clear your afternoon."

"Good," William said, his voice dropping an octave as he picked up his coffee cup, taking a slow sip without breaking eye contact. "And Jane? Loose clothes don't suit you as well as you think they do. Wear something... flexible for our meeting."

Jane practically sprinted out of his office, shutting the door behind her with a sharp click. She pressed her back against the cool glass, her chest heaving as her mind reeled in absolute terror.

Flexible?! Performance review?! Is the tyrant planning to fire me by making me do manual labor?! What the hell is going on in that corner office?!

*****

Was he firing me? I mean, okay, this was not good.

Jane sank into her chair, her fingers flying across her keyboard as she opened a private chat window to Allan.

Jane: ALLAN. CODE RED. The beast has lost his mind.

Allan: Did he find out you drink the expensive sparkling water from his fridge?

Jane: Worse. He called me 'Jane' twice. In a sexy voice. Then he canceled his afternoon meetings for a 'private performance review' and told me to wear 'flexible clothes.' Is he dying? Is he depressed? IS HE GOING TO SACRIFICE ME TO THE WALL STREET GODS?!

Allan: Wait... flexible clothes? Are you sure he didn't say 'suitable'? Maybe he's forcing you into team-building yoga. Either way, RIP. Can I have your potted fern if you get axed?

Jane: I’m deleting your number.

Jane closed the window, her brain spiraling. Flexible clothes? She didn't have flexible clothes. Her wardrobe consisted entirely of rigid, heavy-duty polyester wool designed to withstand armored combat. 

The best she could do was shed her oversized gray blazer, leaving her in a plain white button-down shirt. It felt wildly scandalous just showing two inches of forearm, but if the man wanted flexibility for whatever torture ritual he was planning, this was all he was getting.

Lunchtime arrived, and Jane was furiously typing away, updating schedules and returning calls to distract herself from her impending doom.

"Are you ready?"

A low, gravelly voice echoed right behind her left ear, his warm breath fanning against the tiny hairs on her neck.

HOLY SHIT!

Jane nearly jumped out of her skin, her hands flying off the keyboard as her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped wild animal. She spun her chair around so fast the wheels squeaked in protest.

William was standing impossibly close, looming over her desk with one hand resting casually on her cubicle wall. His jacket was unbuttoned, his tie slightly loosened, and his dark blue eyes were locked onto hers with a terrifying, heavy intensity.

Why does it feel like I’m about to get butchered? Jane panicked internally, squeezing her hands into tight fists on her lap. Is he trying to give me a heart attack so the company doesn't have to pay my severance package?!

"M-Mr. Reynold," Jane stammered, instantly cursing herself for showing weakness. She cleared her throat, trying to force her voice back into its usual flat tone. "I’ve cleared your afternoon. I’m ready for the... review."

William’s eyes slowly dropped to her bare arms, taking in the missing blazer. A slow, deeply smug smile curved his lips.

Look at her, William thought, his ego expanding to critical mass. She took off her jacket just for me. She’s shedding her armor. She’s practically trembling with anticipation, trying so hard to play the professional while her heart beats out of her chest. She can barely breathe just having me this close.

"Good," William purred, leaning down a fraction of an inch closer until she could smell his lethal combination of expensive sandalwood and dark coffee. "Follow me, Jane. No need to bring a notepad. Where we're going... you won't be writing."