Too Late For Regret: The Assistant's Revenge

The Manhattan rain did not fall; it attacked. Heavy, violent drops slammed against the windshield of the black Maybach, blurring the neon lights of the Upper East Side into a smeared, bleeding canvas.

Christina Chen sat in the driver's seat, the engine idling in the alley behind the Carlyle Club. Her fingers gripped the leather steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles jutted out like white marbles under her skin.

She stared at the digital clock on the dashboard. 11:42 PM.

Her stomach was a tight, cold knot. It was always like this when she waited for him. The suffocating blend of dread and that pathetic, stubborn hope she couldn't seem to kill.

Christina forced her hands to uncurl. She killed the engine.

She grabbed the heavy black umbrella from the passenger seat and pushed the door open. The cold November wind hit her instantly, stealing the air from her lungs. She popped the umbrella, but the rain blew sideways, soaking the hem of her pencil skirt and seeping into her black stilettos.

Every step through the puddles sent a shock of ice water up her calves.

She reached the heavy mahogany side door of the club. Leo, the night manager, stood just inside the awning. He pulled the door open, giving her a brief, professional nod.

"Miss Chen," Leo said.

Not Jackson's guest. Not Jackson's girlfriend. Miss Chen. The executive assistant.

"Thank you, Leo," Christina said, her voice steady, betraying none of the shivering in her limbs.

She stepped into the dimly lit whiskey lounge. The air inside was thick and warm, smelling of aged bourbon, expensive cigar smoke, and the distinct, arrogant scent of old money. It was a world she worked in, slept in, but never belonged to.

She walked past the velvet booths, her wet heels sinking into the plush carpet. She headed straight for the VIP corridor in the back.

As she turned the corner toward the private suites, her foot stopped mid-air.

The heavy oak door of Suite 4 was cracked open just an inch.

Jackson's voice drifted through the narrow gap. It was low, smooth, and completely devoid of warmth. It was the exact tone he used when stripping a bankrupt company down to its copper wires.

"The marriage is the most efficient route," Jackson said. "A merger between Booker Capital and Wall Investment Group secures the board."

Christina's lungs forgot how to expand. She pressed her back against the cold wall of the corridor, the damp fabric of her coat clinging to her skin.

A high-pitched, grating laugh followed. It was Rex, one of Jackson's senior partners. "And Carson Wall isn't exactly a hardship to look at, Jack. But what about your... current arrangement? The board won't like messy loose ends before a wedding."

Christina stopped breathing. The silence that followed stretched so long it made her ears ring.

Then, Jackson chuckled. A short, dismissive sound that felt like a physical blow to Christina's ribs.

"There is no mess," Jackson said smoothly. "Once the merger is finalized, I'll cut her a severance check. Have legal draft a supplemental NDA. It's a non-issue."

A severance check.

A non-issue.

The words hit her bloodstream like a lethal injection. The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet. Christina pressed her nails so hard into her palms that the skin broke, the sharp sting of pain the only thing keeping her knees from buckling.

Three years. Three years of his bed, his secrets, his whispered demands in the dark. Reduced to a severance check and a gag order.

A drop of rainwater slid down her hair and landed on the marble floor with a quiet tap.

She couldn't let him see her like this. Not shattered. Not pathetic.

Christina spun around and walked fast, almost running, toward the women's restroom at the end of the hall. She pushed through the door and braced both hands on the edge of the marble sink.

She stared at the mirror. Her face was the color of chalk. Her chest heaved, pulling in jagged, shallow breaths.

She turned on the faucet, letting the freezing water run over her wrists. She cupped the water and splashed it over her face, ignoring the way it ruined her makeup. The freezing temperature shocked her system, forcing her heart rate to slow down.

You are an employee, she told her reflection. Act like one.

She grabbed a paper towel, dried her face, and pulled a tube of red lipstick from her pocket. She applied it with a steady hand, painting on her armor.

Christina walked out of the restroom, her spine straight. She approached Suite 4 and knocked twice, firmly, before pushing the door open.

The room smelled heavily of scotch. Jackson was leaning back on a leather chesterfield sofa, a crystal glass in his hand. He wore a bespoke charcoal suit, the jacket unbuttoned.

His dark, predatory eyes snapped to her. They tracked over her wet hair, the damp shoulders of her coat, and settled on her face. His gaze was heavy, calculating.

"Mr. Booker," Christina said, her voice perfectly hollow. She held out his dry wool overcoat. "The car is ready."

Jackson didn't say a word. He stood up, his massive frame dominating the room. He didn't look at Rex. He just walked toward Christina, snatching the coat from her hands. His knuckles brushed against hers. His skin was burning hot; hers was like ice.

He didn't react to the temperature difference. He just walked past her into the hallway.

Christina followed him out into the rain. She opened the rear door of the Maybach. Jackson slid into the back seat, his jaw set in a hard line.

Christina got into the driver's seat. She started the engine, her hands trembling so violently she had to grip the wheel until her knuckles ached to keep them still.

The drive to the Booker Building was a suffocating nightmare. The silence in the car was thick enough to choke on. Christina kept her eyes glued to the road, but her peripheral vision caught Jackson in the rearview mirror.

He was staring out the window, his profile carved from granite. He looked completely unaffected. He looked like a man who had just closed a profitable deal.

The Maybach descended into the private underground garage of the Booker Building. Christina parked in his reserved spot.

Before she could even unbuckle her seatbelt, Jackson was out of the car. He walked toward the private elevator that led straight to his penthouse, not bothering to check if she was following.

She always followed. That was the rule.

Christina grabbed her bag and hurried after him. She stepped into the elevator just as the doors were closing. The mirrored walls of the elevator reflected her pale face and his broad, unyielding back.

The numbers above the door climbed rapidly. 50. 60. 70.

The doors slid open to the penthouse. The fingerprint lock beeped as Jackson pressed his thumb to the scanner.

He stepped inside, shrugging off his overcoat and tossing it onto the white leather sofa. He walked straight to the wet bar, grabbed a decanter, and poured two fingers of bourbon.

Christina stood awkwardly in the foyer, the rainwater from her shoes staining the pristine hardwood floor.

Jackson finally turned to look at her. He took a sip of his drink, his eyes narrowing.

"Your reaction tonight," Jackson said, his voice dropping an octave, slicing through the quiet room. "It crossed a line, Miss Chen."

Christina's throat closed up. He noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed the slight hesitation, the wet hair, the rigid posture.

"I apologize, Mr. Booker," Christina whispered. The words tasted like ash.

Jackson stared at her for a long, agonizing moment. He lifted the glass and drained the bourbon in one swallow. He slammed the empty crystal glass down on the marble counter. The sharp crack made Christina flinch.

He adjusted the Patek Philippe watch on his left wrist, a gesture he only made when he was done tolerating a situation.

"Eight AM tomorrow," Jackson said coldly, turning his back to her and walking toward the master bedroom. "Do not be late."

The heavy bedroom door shut behind him. The lock clicked.

Christina stood alone in the massive, empty living room. The sound of that lock turning was the final blow.

Her knees gave out. She sank to the floor, the cold hardwood biting into her bare legs. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, bending forward as the first sob tore out of her throat.

She cried until her chest physically ached, until there was no air left in her lungs.

When the tears finally stopped, she stared at the locked door. The pathetic hope was dead. He had priced her out, packaged her up, and prepared her for disposal.

Christina wiped her face with the back of her hand. Tomorrow morning, she wouldn't wait for the severance check. She would end it herself.

The morning sun over Manhattan was blinding, reflecting off the glass facades of the skyscrapers like a thousand camera flashes. The traffic on Park Avenue was a slow, crawling beast.

Inside the Maybach, the air conditioning hummed quietly, keeping the temperature at a crisp sixty-eight degrees.

Christina stared at the red taillights of the cab in front of them. Her palms were sweating against the leather steering wheel. She hadn't slept a single minute. Her eyes burned, and her stomach felt like it was full of broken glass.

In the rearview mirror, Jackson was reading a quarterly earnings report. He wore a navy blue suit today, his tie perfectly knotted. He looked rested. He looked invincible.

Christina took a deep breath. The air felt thin. She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, using the sharp metallic taste of blood to anchor her racing heart.

"Mr. Booker," Christina said. Her voice sounded too loud in the quiet car.

Jackson didn't look up. He merely turned a page of the report. "Keep your eyes on the road, Christina."

"Regarding the upcoming merger and your marriage," she forced the words out, her voice trembling slightly before hardening. "I want to terminate the NDA. And I am ending our private arrangement. Effective immediately."

The turn signal ticked loudly in the sudden, absolute silence.

Jackson's hand stopped mid-air. The page of the report crinkled under his grip.

He slowly lowered the file. His eyes lifted to the rearview mirror, meeting hers. The temperature in the car seemed to drop ten degrees. His gaze wasn't just cold; it was lethal.

He let out a low, dark laugh that made the hairs on the back of Christina's neck stand up. He tossed the financial report onto the empty seat beside him.

Jackson leaned forward, his chest pressing against the back of her seat. His breath brushed her ear.

"Terminate?" Jackson whispered, the word dripping with venom. "Who gave you the delusion that you have the right to unilaterally terminate anything?"

Christina swallowed hard, her throat dry. "It's over, Jackson. You're getting married."

"Drive the car," he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating growl.

The Maybach rolled down the concrete ramp into the underground garage of the Booker Building. The tires squeaked against the polished floor. Christina slammed the brakes a little too hard, jerking the car to a halt in his reserved spot.

She didn't wait for him. She hit the button to unlock the doors and unbuckled her seatbelt, her hands shaking so badly she fumbled with the metal clasp.

She just needed to get out. She needed to breathe real air.

She pushed her door open, but before she could swing her legs out, a hand clamped down on her wrist.

His grip was like a steel vice.

"Jackson, let go!" Christina gasped, twisting her arm.

He didn't let go. Instead, he yanked her backward with terrifying force. Christina let out a sharp cry as she was pulled over the center console, tumbling awkwardly into the spacious back seat.

She crashed against his chest. Before she could push away, Jackson's hand shot up and gripped her jaw, his fingers pressing hard into her cheeks. He forced her face up, making her look directly into his eyes.

They were black with fury. A raw, violent possessiveness radiated from him, suffocating her.

"The NDA has no expiration date," Jackson said, his voice a harsh rasp. "Unless I tear it up."

Christina's eyes filled with angry, hot tears. She pushed her hands against his solid chest, trying to wedge some space between them. "You are marrying Carson Wall! What am I supposed to be? Your dirty secret until you get bored?"

The mention of Carson's name didn't bring guilt to his eyes. It brought rage.

Jackson's jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He looked down at her mouth, his breathing turning ragged.

"You are mine," he snarled.

He grabbed the collar of her crisp white silk blouse. With one violent jerk, he ripped it open. The small pearl buttons popped off, scattering across the leather seats like tiny hailstones.

Christina gasped in shock, crossing her arms over her exposed lace bra. "Stop!"

Jackson ignored her. He tangled his hand in the hair at the back of her head, pulling her head back, and crashed his mouth down onto hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a punishment. It was a brand.

His lips were brutal, forcing her mouth open. He tasted like mint and dark coffee. Christina tried to turn her head, making a muffled sound of protest, but his grip on her hair held her completely still.

Her hands beat against his shoulders, but hitting him was like hitting a brick wall. He didn't even flinch.

The red security lights of the garage swept across the tinted windows of the Maybach, casting harsh, bloody shadows over them. The air in the back seat grew thick and hot.

Jackson finally pulled back, breaking the kiss. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling against hers. His eyes were wild, completely stripped of his usual corporate control.

He reached over her and pressed the intercom button on the door panel.

"Ben," Jackson said, his voice hoarse.

The voice of his head of security crackled through the speaker. "Yes, Mr. Booker?"

"Clear the executive floor. Lock down the private elevator. We are going straight to the penthouse."

"Understood, sir."

Christina's eyes widened in pure panic. She shook her head frantically. "No. Jackson, please. I have to go to work. I have to-"

He hit the button to raise the privacy partition, cutting off the front seat.

"You aren't going anywhere," he said.

He didn't wait for her to fix her torn shirt. When the car door opened, he grabbed her around the waist and hauled her out. Christina stumbled, her heels scraping the concrete.

He half-carried, half-dragged her to the private elevator. She hit his arm, her nails digging into his suit jacket. "Let me go!"

Jackson didn't speak. The elevator doors opened, and he shoved her inside, hitting the button for the top floor.

The ride up was a terrifying blur. Christina backed into the corner of the elevator, clutching the ruined edges of her blouse together. Jackson stood in front of the doors, his back to her, adjusting his watch with jerky, agitated movements.

The doors slid open.

Before Christina could run, Jackson turned and scooped her up into his arms. She kicked her legs, letting out a scream of frustration.

He carried her through the foyer and slammed her against the wall next to the front door. The impact knocked the breath out of her.

He pinned both of her wrists above her head with one hand. His other hand went to the hem of her pencil skirt, bunching the fabric up roughly.

"Remember this feeling, Christina," Jackson whispered against her neck, his teeth scraping her skin. "As long as I don't let go, you have nowhere to run."

He didn't take her to the bed. He didn't bother with foreplay. He used his weight to press her flush against the wall, his knee parting her legs.

When he pushed inside her, it was entirely without gentleness. It was a raw, aggressive claim of ownership.

Christina let out a choked sob, turning her face away from him. The physical pain was sharp, but the humiliation was worse. She squeezed her eyes shut, letting the tears fall hot and fast down her cheeks.

She stopped fighting. Her arms went limp in his grip. She just stood there, taking the brutal rhythm of his body against hers, feeling her soul fracture into a million irreparable pieces.

Jackson felt her surrender. The fight drained out of her, leaving only a hollow shell.

His movements slowed. The violent rage in his blood began to cool, replaced by a sudden, creeping panic. He looked at her face. Her eyes were closed, her lips bitten raw, tears tracking through her makeup.

He let go of her wrists. He wrapped his arms tightly around her waist, burying his face in her shoulder, finishing with a ragged groan.

Christina's legs gave out. She slid down the wall, completely exhausted, her body trembling violently.

Jackson caught her before she hit the floor. He picked her up carefully this time. He carried her into the master bedroom and laid her gently on the center of the massive king-sized bed.

He pulled the heavy velvet duvet over her shivering body.

Christina didn't open her eyes. She just curled into a tight ball, pulling the blanket up to her chin, and let the darkness pull her under.

Jackson stood by the bed, staring down at her pale, exhausted face. He reached out, his thumb gently wiping a stray tear from her cheek. His hand was shaking.

He turned away, his chest tight with a terrifying realization he refused to name.

The afternoon sun sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, hitting Christina directly in the eyes.

She flinched, turning her head into the pillow. Her entire body ached. Her thighs felt bruised, and a dull, throbbing pain radiated from her lower back.

The memories of the garage, the elevator, the wall in the foyer rushed back, hitting her like a physical weight on her chest.

She gasped, sitting up abruptly. The velvet duvet fell to her waist.

The bed beside her was empty. The sheets were cold. Jackson was gone.

Christina pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. A wave of intense nausea rolled through her stomach. She felt dirty. She felt completely, utterly owned.

She forced herself to swing her legs over the edge of the bed. Her feet hit the plush rug, but her knees buckled instantly. She grabbed the nightstand to steady herself, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

She had to get out of here.

She stumbled out of the bedroom and walked down the hallway. Her clothes from this morning were scattered on the floor. She picked up her white silk blouse. It was ruined, the buttons completely torn off, the fabric ripped at the seam.

She dropped it as if it burned her.

She walked into Jackson's massive walk-in closet. The smell of his cedar and bergamot cologne made her stomach churn again. She grabbed the first thing she saw-a crisp, white button-down shirt.

She pulled it on, rolling up the sleeves. The fabric smelled like him. It felt like putting on a straightjacket, a physical reminder of his brand on her skin.

She didn't bother looking in the mirror. Her purse was sitting on the foyer console, right where someone had placed it after retrieving it from the car. She snatched it up and ran out the door.

The private elevator descended in silence, carrying her straight down to the building's main lobby. The polished marble and the doorman's polite nod felt like a cruel joke-everyone in this building answered to Jackson Booker. She kept her head down, pushing through the revolving doors and out onto the Manhattan sidewalk.

She hailed the first cab she saw, giving the driver her address in Queens. The entire ride, she stared out the window, her mind blank and buzzing all at once.

When she finally locked the door of her cramped apartment behind her, she stripped off his shirt and threw it into the trash can.

She stood under the shower for forty minutes. She turned the water as hot as she could stand it, scrubbing her skin with a loofah until it was bright red and stinging. But no matter how hard she scrubbed, she couldn't wash away the feeling of his hands pinning her to the wall.

When she finally stepped out, she dried off and walked to her closet. She bypassed her usual silk blouses and V-neck dresses. She pulled out a thick, black turtleneck sweater and a pair of wide-leg trousers.

She pulled the turtleneck up as high as it would go, making sure it covered the faint red marks on her collarbone. She tied her hair back into a severe, tight bun.

She checked her phone. It was 2:15 PM. She was over six hours late for work.

Christina grabbed her bag and headed to the subway.

When she swiped her badge at the glass doors of Booker Capital, her hand was shaking so badly she dropped her ID twice.

The trading floor was a chaotic symphony of ringing phones and shouting analysts. Christina kept her head down, walking quickly toward the executive suites.

She stopped by the pantry to get a bottle of water. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

As she pushed the pantry door open, she heard voices.

Jessica, a junior analyst, was leaning against the counter, holding her phone out. Chloe, the HR coordinator, was looking at the screen, her eyes wide.

"Did you see the Wall Street Journal this morning?" Jessica whispered loudly, her voice buzzing with excitement. "The Booker-Wall merger is official. And look at this!"

Christina froze just inside the doorway.

Chloe gasped. "Oh my god. Is that Jackson and Carson Wall? They look so young!"

"It's from their Harvard days," Jessica said, swiping the screen. "Look at the ring he gave her. It's a flawless five-carat emerald cut. They are literally the perfect power couple. I heard she's moving into his penthouse next month."

Christina's heart stopped beating. The blood drained from her face, rushing to her feet.

Moving into his penthouse. The same penthouse where she had just woken up, bruised and broken.

Christina stepped forward, her flat shoes making a scuffing sound on the tile.

Jessica and Chloe jumped, spinning around. When they saw Christina, their faces flushed with guilt. Everyone knew Christina was Jackson's gatekeeper.

"Oh, hi, Christina," Chloe stammered, quickly locking her phone. "We were just... taking a break."

Christina didn't look at them. She walked straight to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and walked out.

The moment she was back in the hallway, the physical pain hit her. A sharp, stabbing ache right in the center of her chest.

She walked to her desk, which sat right outside Jackson's massive double doors. She sat down in her ergonomic chair. Her hands hovered over the keyboard.

She opened a blank Word document.

Her fingers trembled as she typed the date. Then, she typed: Letter of Resignation.

Every keystroke felt like lifting a hundred-pound weight. But with every word she typed, the fog in her brain began to clear, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

She printed the letter. The printer whirred, spitting out the single sheet of paper.

Christina picked it up. She didn't bother knocking.

She walked past Ben Rhodes, who was standing guard near the doors.

"Miss Chen, he's-" Ben started to say, reaching out.

Christina ignored him. She pushed the heavy mahogany doors open and stepped into the CEO's office.

Jackson was sitting behind his massive desk, a phone pressed to his ear. He looked up when she barged in. His eyes immediately dropped to her outfit-the severe black turtleneck, the complete lack of makeup, the rigid posture.

He said something brief into the phone and hung up.

"You're late," Jackson said. His voice was calm, but his eyes were tracking her every movement like a hawk.

Christina walked right up to his desk. She slammed the piece of paper down on the polished wood.

"I quit," Christina said. Her voice was raspy, but it didn't shake.

Jackson looked at the paper. He didn't even read the words. He just stared at the bold heading.

He slowly leaned back in his leather chair. He reached out, his long fingers picking up the resignation letter.

"You quit," Jackson repeated softly.

"Yes," Christina said, her fingers twisting the fabric of her skirt until her knuckles turned stark white. "You can keep your severance pay. You can keep your NDA. I am leaving."

Jackson's eyes darkened. He stood up slowly, his height instantly dwarfing her. He walked around the edge of the desk, stopping mere inches from her.

Christina refused to step back. She tilted her chin up, glaring at him.

"You think you can just walk away?" Jackson asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Did last night teach you nothing?"

"Last night taught me that you are a monster," Christina spat, the tears finally burning the backs of her eyes. "You cannot marry Carson Wall and keep me locked in your apartment like a pet!"

Jackson's jaw tightened. He held up the resignation letter right in front of her face.

With one smooth, violent motion, he ripped the paper in half. Then he put the pieces together and ripped them again. And again.

He dropped the shredded confetti into the metal trash can by his desk.

"As long as Booker Capital exists, you work for me," Jackson said, his voice hard and absolute.

He reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of her neck. His thumb pressed into the pulse point below her jaw.

"Go back to your desk, Christina," he ordered softly.

Christina stared at him, her chest heaving. The sheer, suffocating weight of his power crushed the last bit of air from her lungs. She couldn't fight him physically. She couldn't fight him legally.

She violently shoved his hand away from her neck.

She spun around and ran out of the office, the heavy doors slamming shut behind her with a deafening boom.

Outside, Jessica and Chloe were walking past. They froze, staring at Christina's pale face and the slamming door.

Christina ignored their wide eyes. She sat down at her desk, staring blindly at her computer screen.

A cold, terrifying realization settled in her stomach. Running away wasn't an option. If she wanted to survive Jackson Booker, she had to find another way out.