Chapter 9 8

Lena

By nine thirty that morning, I was actively imagining my boss sprinting to the bathroom with regret in his eyes.

I don't mean death, oh no. I was not deranged. I just wanted him to have a taste of a brief humiliating consequence.

Lucas Reed had been unbearable.....so fucking unbearable.

He had rejected documents he personally approved minutes before. He had asked me to arrange documents that I felt should be useless to him. He had asked for sudden revisions without explaining what was wrong. He had looked at me like I was an inconvenience he had inherited and could not legally discard.

This wasn't my first rodeo as a personal assistant. I served the former CEO, Brandon Reed and then it crossed my mind that he and Lucas may be brothers. Brandon rarely gave me any work or attention. He floated in and out of the office like a man allergic to responsibility and deeply committed to avoiding it. He was more concerned with snorting coke. I never ratted him out, I was too scared too because what if I did and he sent the goddamn mafia after me?

I learned early that sometimes the smartest thing an assistant can do is nod, take notes, and mind her business like it pays rent. Because it does.

But it was the coffee incident that stayed with me.

It was not because of the spill itself. Accidents happened, and coffee spilled more often than anyone cared to admit. A suit could definitely be cleaned. The damage was not permanent, and it should not have mattered as much as it did.

What stayed with me was what followed.

My instinct had been to help. I had stepped forward immediately, apologizing as I did, already reaching out because that was part of my job and part of who I was. I knew how to handle situations like that. I had handled worse. I had wanted to fix the problem quickly and professionally.

He had stopped me.

He had spoken to me as though I was overstepping, as though I did not know how to handle a simple mistake. The tone he used suggested that my reaction was unnecessary and poorly judged.

That was the part that lingered.

He did not simply refuse my help. He made it seem as though offering it had been a sign of incompetence rather than responsibility, as though I had misread the situation instead of responding to it appropriately.

I returned to my desk afterward feeling unsettled. The embarrassment was quiet but persistent. It sat with me as I worked, affecting the way I moved and spoke. I became more careful not to give him another reason to look at me as though I had failed at something basic.

It was strange how quickly confidence could erode under that kind of treatment.

I replayed the moment more than once, trying to understand why it affected me so deeply. I had worked under demanding executives before. I knew how to separate professionalism from pride. I knew that bosses could be difficult without it being personal.

I was still in that very mature headspace when his voice cut through the office telephone on my desk.

"Lena."

I inhaled slowly, smoothed my skirt, and walked into his office with the posture of a woman who had never once considered poisoning a man like him.

"Yes, sir?"

"We are going somewhere."

I stopped just inside the doorway. His office smelled faintly of coffee and something expensive I could not name. He did not look up from his laptop.

"You are not scheduled to go anywhere today, sir," I said calmly.

"I am now."

I stepped forward and showed him my tablet whivh was tucked under my arm earlier, because facts mattered and delusion did not get diplomatic immunity.

"There are no external meetings, no travel approvals, no-"

"I have a meeting with a business tycoon," he said, cutting me off without lifting his head.

I stared at him. "That meeting does not exist."

"It does now."

What the fuck was wrong with him?

I blinked, once and twice. "Sir, inventing meetings does not make them real."

"It does when I am paying for them."

I straightened my back, realizing arguing with him was a bloody waste of time. "Alright. I will arrange the car."

"There's no need for the car."

I frowned. "Sir?"

"We will need a jet."

I laughed. It escaped me before I could stop it. The company jet, what on earth was he talking about? Brandon never used the jet for work, he used it for his personal business.

"A jet," I repeated.

"Yes."

"For where sir?"

"Italy."

The word landed heavy and absurd between us.

"What."

He finally looked at me. "Italy. We are headed to Italy. Do I have to repeat it to you again?"

"Why," I asked carefully, "am I going to Italy with you?"

"You are my personal assistant."

"I never followed the former CEO on trips."

"That was his mistake. He didn't know your job quite well."

Something unpleasant fluttered in my chest. I ignored it.

He stood, already shrugging into his jacket. I noticed he was wearing a new suit. "We are late."

"We are not late," I said, following him. "You made this up five minutes ago."

"But we are late." he responded while staring at his watch.

Twenty minutes later, I was power-walking through a private hangar with my heels clicking against polished concrete. My pulse refused to calm down.

The jet was obscene and luxurious.

The jet was filled with white leather seats and soft gold lighting that made the space glow. There was a bar that looked bigger than my entire kitchen at home, fully stocked and shining. Everything was spotless and perfect, as if no one had ever made a mess or a mistake here. I stood there for a moment, taking it all in, quietly amazed, because I had never seen anything like it before.

"This is excessive," I muttered.

Lucas did not even look back. "Sit down," he said calmly, already unbuttoning his cuff like this was just another Tuesday.

"I did not pack anything," I added, because apparently my mouth had not received the memo to stop talking.

"You will not need to."

That sentence deserved a follow-up question. A sensible one. Possibly several. I chose silence instead.

That was my second mistake of the day.

I stood there for a full three seconds, openly staring.

Then my eyes landed on the garment bags lined neatly along one side of the cabin.

They were identical.

They were pressed.

They were labeled.

And with my name.

I stopped walking so abruptly my heel scraped the floor.

"Sir," I said carefully, "why are there clothes here for me?"

"I had your sizes picked out," Lucas replied easily, taking his seat.

My head snapped toward him. "You what?"

"I like to prepare adequately for my trips," he said, like this explained everything.

"That is not preparation," I said flatly. "That is planning."

He glanced up, faintly amused. "You are my assistant."

"I am not a suitcase."

"You are underdressed."

"That is not the same thing."

As the jet began to glide upwards, the movement rolled through my stomach in a way I did not enjoy. I gripped the armrest without realizing it, jaw tightening as the ground shifted beneath us.

Lucas noticed instantly.

"Do you get motion sickness?" he asked.

"I rarely fly," I admitted, annoyed that my voice betrayed me.

He reached over and pressed a button. "Could we get something for nausea, please?"

A flight attendant appeared almost immediately, carrying pills and water. I accepted them, a little stunned.

"Thank you," I murmured.

Lucas poured champagne like we were not thirty thousand feet above the ground and handed me a glass.

I took a sip.

Then another.

Then sighed before I could stop myself. "This is the best wine I have ever tasted."

He frowned at his own glass. "It tastes cheap."

I choked.

"Cheap?" I coughed. "This tastes like joy. This tastes like I made all the right choices in life."

"It is a ten-thousand-dollar bottle," he said.

"That does not make it cheap."

"That makes it average."

"Average people cannot spend ten thousand dollars on alcohol," I snapped. "That is vain and unnecessary."

He studied me for a moment. "Do you think I am vain?"

I stared very hard at my champagne. "No comment."

That made him smile.

"I am sorry about this morning," he said suddenly.

The words caught me off guard.

"You may speak freely," he added. "I will not fire you or cut your pay."

I laughed softly. "You are quite vain and that's a compliment for rich people."

He laughed, actually laughed. "You are funny."

"I am serious."

"I know."

Hours later, Italy appeared beneath us as the pilot informed us that the jet was about to land.

I wore the sweatpants he bought with a top and I was amazed that it fit perfectly.

As we stepped out of the airport, the hot Italian sun hit me full force. I squinted, shielding my eyes, and turned to him. "So... where exactly is this business tycoon of yours?"

Lucas didn't look at me, already moving toward the sleek black car waiting at the curb. "We're headed to his hotel. It's called Villa Romano and his name is Marco Bellini."

I stopped in my tracks. "Villa Romano? And... where exactly is his business?"

"In the slums," he said smoothly, like it was completely normal.

I blinked. "The slums? That's... extremely suspicious and it sounds dirty. ."

"He's not involved in dirty work. he's involved in...." he replied calmly, opening the back door and letting me slide in. "Paper production."

"For money?" I asked, because at this point, what else could it possibly be?

"It's for Altura Group and do to keep Altura Bank from collapsing, it's been running at a deficit for a while," he said, as though that explained everything.

I stared at him, dumbfounded. "Wait. Let me make sure I've got this right. Marco Bellini who is wealthy business tycoon has a business in the slums, producing paper, all to prop up a bank? That... doesn't even make sense."

Lucas finally looked at me, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I can tell what you're thinking," he said dryly, reading my expression like an open book. "No, they don't sell drugs. And if I were dealing with drugs, I certainly wouldn't bring along a blabbermouth like you."

I muttered under my breath, "Smartass."

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. "Oh, I heard that."

"Of course you did," I said, rolling my eyes so hard I half expected them to get stuck. "You hear everything, don't you?"

"I'm your boss," he said smoothly, "It comes with the territory. Knowing everything is part of the job description."

I crossed my arms, pretending to look annoyed. "Wonderful. So not only do you enjoy power, you also enjoy eavesdropping.

He winked in a way that made my thighs press together.

I groaned, "This is going to be a long trip."

He glanced at me from the corner of his eye, amused as he opened the car door to speak to the driver. "Villa Romano," he repeated.

A chill slid down my spine.

I got in anyway.

And as the car pulled away, I realized something unsettling in my stomach.

He had planned this trip far too well.

Which meant I was not just here to assist.

I was here for something else.

And I was not sure I wanted to know what it was.