Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 22067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 110(@200wpm)___ 88(@250wpm)___ 74(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 110(@200wpm)___ 88(@250wpm)___ 74(@300wpm)
Prosecutor Shit.
He walks around to the passenger side, opening the door with a flourish. Well, that's good news at least. If he's with a woman, then he won't be sniffing around my—no.
My entire world crashes at seeing Shayla—my Shayla—stepping out of his car. She's smiling and bright-eyed, her hair damp from what can only be a morning shower, and still wearing last night's clothes.
She laughs at something he says, and I want to kill somebody. Something inside of me turns ugly, and then it devolves into something vicious when they start walking on the sidewalk, and I hear my secretary say, "You just wait. I'll have him eating from the palm of my hand soon."
Prosecutor Shit answers her, but I've stopped listening.
Because I've heard all I need to hear.
Shayla watches the other man drive away, and I can feel my blood turning colder by the second as I watch her watch him. She turns toward the building, her face lighting up when she sees me. But all I do is stare back, and her smile falters.
Damn her.
I push off from the pillar and walk toward her. And with every step I take, the thing inside of me grows more vicious.
"Adriano?"
She sounds so uncertain. So damn innocent. And yet I know this time it's all for show.
I look at her coldly. "It's Mr. Kontides." My tone is low and glacial, but people passing by still turn to look. A bike messenger even slows down in his shock while two paralegals from the third floor stop mid-walk.
Shayla pales, but I'm not buying it.
She's just a damn good actress, and I can't let myself forget this.
"I've been trying to call you since last night," I say flatly.
"I'm s-sorry," she stammers. "I left my phone in a cab, and I still haven't—"
"It doesn't matter." I cut her off. "I'd rather not have to tell you this in person, but perhaps it's for the better."
Fear flickers in her eyes. "Tell me what?" she asks shakily. "If this is about last night, I..."
"I wanted to tell you you're fired."
"W-What?"
"I was hoping to keep you around until I'd had a taste of your body." The words make her flinch, but it's not enough. Not even close. "But last night changed everything." I want to kill her the way she's killed me. "Bumping into Therese made me realize you're not all that—"
The slap comes fast and hard, cracking across my cheek.
But when you look at her face, it's as if she's the one who's hurting more.
Good.
But it still isn't enough. The viciousness inside of me has turned into a monster, and it's insatiable.
"Why are you saying these things?" she chokes out.
The tears spilling down her cheeks feed the monster inside of me, but these, too, aren't enough.
"HR will make sure you're duly compensated."
The light in her eyes dies completely, but I remind myself all of this is just an act.
"You are no longer authorized to enter the premises of this building."
As I walk away, I hear her choke back a sob, as if doing her best not to break down in public.
But this, too, I tell myself, is just another performance.
This is how it should end.
If I don't want history to repeat itself and have the world laughing at me—
I can't allow myself to follow in my father's footsteps.
Chapter Eleven
ADRIANO
TWO WEEKS.
It's been two weeks since I fired Shayla.
And those two weeks have been hell.
The East Coast Financial Conference buzzes around me, a monotonous hum of corporate jargon and networking. I've given my keynote speech on corporate litigation strategies, shaken the necessary hands, made the expected small talk.
And felt nothing. Nothing but a hollowness that seems to grow by the day.
Everyone at the office walks on eggshells around me. Three associates have requested transfers. My new executive assistant—I can't even remember her name, dammit—lasted four days before quitting in tears. The replacement is competent, efficient, and completely forgettable.
None of them are Shayla.
"Adriano."
I turn to find my father approaching, champagne flute in hand. Pietro Kontides still commands attention at sixty-five, his silver hair and tailored suit projecting an image of success and vitality.
"Father."
"You look like hell," he remarks.
Pietro actually sounds gleeful when saying this.
"Is it because you're starting to realize you were an ass for firing the best legal secretary in the world?"
What the—
Pietro looks at me in surprise. "Everyone in our world knows, son. Do you not know how many have attempted but failed to steal your secretary from you?"
And for him to know this...
I stare at him in disbelief. "You were one of them, weren't you?"
My father grins shamelessly. "I had to try."
I don't smile back. This is Pietro's problem all along. He just doesn't have any boundaries.
Pietro sighs. "You're always too serious."
"And you're never serious enough."
"But at least I'm happy."
"Your happiness comes at a terrible cost," I retort, thinking of all the divorce settlements my father had to pay. Eight wives. Eight failures. Eight lessons he never learned.