Chapter 2: Rules

I did what he asked.

 I arrived at his office at exactly eight in the morning.

 The building stood tall in the center of the city, all glass and steel, reflecting the early sunlight like it was carved from something untouchable. The moment I stepped inside, I felt like a pebble thrown into a place built for giants.

 The lobby alone could swallow my entire apartment. Marble floors. Crystal lighting. A scent of polished wood and something expensive lingering in the air. Men in tailored suits walked with purpose. Women in sharp heels moved like they had somewhere important to be.

 I could hear keyboards clicking in synchronized rhythm. Phones ringing softly. Heels tapping against tile.

 Everything felt expensive.

 Everything felt heavy.

 And I felt small.

 I expected someone from human resources to approach me. Maybe a polite assistant to guide me through the orientation process.

 Instead, the elevator doors at the center of the lobby slid open.

 And he stepped out.

 Lucien Moreau.

 He didn’t rush. He didn’t look around.

 He simply walked forward as if the entire building adjusted itself to his presence.

 Black suit. Perfectly fitted. No tie today just the top button of his shirt undone, revealing a small glimpse of skin that somehow made him look even more dangerous.

 His eyes found mine instantly.

 Cold.

 Unapologetic.

 “Time is gold, Venice,” he said calmly. “Follow me.”

 No greeting. No welcome.

 Just an order.

 I raised my eyebrows slightly, my only silent protest, but I followed him anyway. That was what a personal assistant did, wasn’t it? Follow orders.

 The elevator doors closed behind us with a quiet chime.

 The space suddenly felt too small.

 Too intimate.

 I stood beside him, careful not to let my shoulder brush against his. The silence inside the elevator was suffocating. I could hear my own breathing.

 He didn’t look at me.

 But I could feel his awareness.

 “You’re on time,” he said after a moment.

 “I don’t like being late,” I replied.

 A faint smirk touched his lips. “That’s new.”

 The words stung more than they should have.

 University flashed through my mind without permission crowded hallways, loud laughter, and him sitting alone at the back of the classroom while my friends whispered cruel jokes.

 I swallowed the memory down.

 The elevator opened to the top floor.

 His office occupied the entire level.

 Glass walls overlooking the skyline. A long hallway leading to double doors engraved with his name. Assistants outside his office stood immediately when he passed.

 “Good morning, Mr. Moreau.”

 He acknowledged them with a small nod.

 Authority didn’t need volume. It followed him naturally.

 We entered his office.

 The doors shut behind us.

 His desk was massive, carved from dark wood. Shelves lined with awards and framed certificates stood behind him like proof of every silent promise he once made to himself.

 He walked to his chair and sat down slowly, the leather creasing under his weight.

 “I’ve never expected this day to come, Venice.”

 My throat dried instantly.

 There was no anger in his tone.

 That made it worse.

 I remained standing.

 Nervous.

 Frozen.

 He folded his hands together on the desk, studying me like I was something fragile and breakable.

 “First rule,” he said calmly, “you will do whatever I ask without questioning my authority.”

 I clenched my jaw but said nothing.

 “Second,” he continued, “do not interfere with matters I do not assign to you. You are not here to think for me.”

 The words were deliberate.

 Measured.

 Sharp.

 “Third…”

 He paused.

 His eyes darkened slightly.

 “You will visit my wife once a week.”

 The word hit me harder than anything else he had said.

 Wife.

 I felt my stomach drop.

 “I don’t have the patience to deal with her,” he added casually. “You will handle that responsibility.”

 I stared at him.

 Married?

 Lucien Moreau was married?

 He noticed the shift in my expression.

 “Don’t ask why I’m married,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “It was never my choice.”

 My heart pounded.

 So this wasn’t love.

 This was obligation.

 “Lastly,” he finished, his gaze traveling over me slowly, “you will dress the way I instruct you to. You represent me. You will not embarrass me.”

 The air felt thin.

 With every rule, it became clearer.

 This wasn’t just employment.

 This was control.

 “You bought the company,” I said quietly. “For this?”

 He didn’t answer immediately.

 Instead, he stood up and walked around the desk, stopping in front of me.

 Too close.

 “You think I built an empire just for revenge?” he asked softly.

 His voice was calm, but something flickered in his eyes.

 “No,” he continued before I could speak. “I built it so no one would ever look down on me again.”

 His presence towered over me now.

 “I was invisible once,” he said. “Do you remember?”

 University.

 The classroom.

 The spilled coffee.

 The laughter.

 I remembered.

 “I was young,” I whispered.

 “So was I.”

 Silence stretched between us.

 He stepped even closer, lowering his voice.

 “I’ve been waiting for this day, Venice.”

 Not shouting.

 Not threatening.

 Just stating a fact.

 “I wanted to see what you would look like standing in front of me… without an audience.”

 My breath caught.

 This wasn’t just revenge.

 This was something deeper.

 Something he had carried for years.

 “Don’t disappoint me,” he murmured.

 There was something dangerous in the way he said it.

 Not just anger.

 Expectation.

 “If you fail,” he continued, his eyes locking onto mine, “you will forget the day you stepped into this building.”

 A chill ran down my spine.

 Not because he raised his voice.

 But because he didn’t.

 This man didn’t need to scream to destroy someone.

 He stepped back, restoring distance as if he hadn’t just shaken the ground beneath me.

 “Your desk is outside my office,” he said calmly. “We begin now.”

 Just like that.

 No dramatic dismissal.

 No emotional explosion.

 Just work.

 Lucien Moreau returned to his seat, already opening a file as if I were nothing more than an appointment scheduled at eight in the morning.

 But I knew better.

 This wasn’t random.

 This wasn’t coincidence.

 This was years in the making.

 And as I turned to leave his office, one thought echoed louder than fear.

 He said he was waiting for this day.

 But I couldn’t tell if he was waiting to break me.

 Or to prove something else entirely.