𝒯𝓌𝑜 𝓅𝑒𝑜𝓅𝓁𝑒. 𝒯𝓌𝑜 𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈. 𝒯𝓌𝑜 𝓈𝑒𝒸𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓈.
Isabella Leighton, a 23-year-old aspiring lawyer, unexpectedly lands a job working for the most prominent CEO in New York. While she doesn't align with his lifestyle, the generous sa...
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ASHER
"We both understand that it was a mistake, don't we?" Isabella's question brought my mind to a complete standstill, with not a single thought passing through it.
I fixed my gaze on the ground, attempting to channel my frustration anywhere but toward her. She was correct; it had to be a mistake. For any chance of her working here as my lawyer to function, that shared moment had to remain a mistake and nothing more.
"What was a mistake, Asher?" I glanced up at the doorway, only to spot Kady standing there, wearing an annoyed expression, and I realized exactly where my anger was going to be directed.
Before Isabella could respond, I stepped in, saying, "Can you wait outside? We're in the middle of a meeting."
"A meeting? This doesn't seem like a meeting to me," she remarked, gesturing between the two of us as she approached, shutting the door behind her. "Besides, I'm your wife. There's no reason why I can't be part of your 'meetings.'"
Isabella cast a genuine look up at me, one that seemed to carry a hint of sympathy. I despised it when people offered me that look, as if they felt so sorry for the wealthy, accomplished man with a failed marriage.
Relationships never seem to work for men like me. You become overly engrossed in your work, and your wife eventually seeks solace in the arms of a stranger from a bar. It's one of the prices you pay for being an industrious man – sacrificing your romantic life.
"Isabella, we'll continue this meeting later, all right?" I walked her to the door, ushering her out, and then promptly closed it behind her.
Kady gave me her typical knowing look as I sank into the chair that Isabella had recently occupied. "You can't keep showing up like this," I muttered, my hand cradling my head as I attempted to alleviate the migraine forming.
"Why not?" She abruptly straddled my lap, her hands threading through my hair. I swiftly caught her wrists, preventing her from making further contact with me.
"I'm not doing this with you," I stated firmly, struggling to contain my anger. There was a reservoir of pent-up frustration that I desperately needed to release.
I released her wrists, and she promptly started unbuttoning my white dress shirt. "Come on, Asher," she cooed seductively. "You need this," she pouted, attempting to entice me.
As tempting as it was, the pent-up sexual frustration couldn't entirely overpower my memories of the way she treated Isabella and all the previous receptionists we'd hired.
