Page 2

CHAPTER 2

CLARICE

"T he position often requires late nights," Simon says. "Are you willing to stay after hours?"

"I can go all night long." The words tumble out before I can stop them, eager and breathy. Heat floods my cheeks as I realize how that sounds—and worse, how I said it. Like some desperate freshman trying to impress the quarterback.

What's wrong with me? I'm supposed to be composed, controlled. That's how I survived growing up, how I made it through college, how I navigate the corporate world. Never show weakness. Never give them ammunition. But something about Simon strips away my carefully constructed walls, leaving me exposed and vulnerable.

His lips curve into the barest hint of a smile, acknowledging the double entendre without commenting on it. Instead, he shifts topics smoothly, professionally.

"What if I tell you to write up a ten page proposal on the merits of an acquisition, but I only give you four hours to do it. Can you impress me?"

"Yes, Sir." I straighten my spine. "I've written longer proposals in less time."

The floorboards creak behind me. Simon's presence looms large, his breath hot against my neck. The scent of leather and smoke envelops me, and my pulse quickens traitorously.

"So you're arrogant?" His voice drops low, dangerous.

"No, Sir," I reply without missing a beat. "I'm just confident in my ability to serve you, Sir."

The words feel heavy on my tongue, laden with something I can’t quite name. My cheeks burn, but I resist the urge to fidget. I keep my hands steady on the edge of the chair, my posture rigid.

Simon grunts, a low rumble that vibrates through the room, making the air between us feel charged. "An excellent answer," he growls, and the corners of his mouth twitch. "Perhaps the best I’ve ever heard."

Pride surges through me, hot and heady, mingling with something else—something giddy and electric. My pulse quickens, and I’m surprised by how much his approval means to me. It’s not just about the job anymore. I want him to keep looking at me like that, like I’ve just handed him a secret he didn’t know he was searching for.

He stares, his gray eyes sharp, assessing. "What if I tell you to scrap the proposal you’ve spent hours on and draft an entirely new one? What then?"

"I will obey." The words slip out before I can second-guess them, and they crackle in the air between us. My voice is steady, but there’s something beneath it, a current Simon can’t miss. The double entendre is impossible to ignore, and I don’t even try to hide it. I like saying those words—more than I expected. And judging by the way his pupils dilate, he likes hearing them.

He doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze lingering on me, heavy and deliberate. The silence stretches, the tension thickening until it’s almost tangible. I can hear my own heartbeat, a rapid thrum in my ears.

"Good," he finally says, his voice rougher than before. "What if I tell you to take an overseas trip on a moment’s notice? No time to prepare, no time to think. Just go."

"I will obey." This time, I look him straight in the eyes, refusing to break the connection. My breath hitches, and I can tell he notices—his chest rises and falls just a little faster, his mask slipping ever so slightly. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips, and I feel the heat pool in my stomach, a strange, unfamiliar warmth.

He leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk, and his voice drops lower, almost a purr. "What if I tell you to work weekends, holidays, nights—no exceptions, no excuses?"

"I will obey." My voice doesn’t waver, but I’m breathing harder now, my chest rising and falling visibly. His eyes flicker to my neck, and I feel my pulse throb under his scrutiny.

The questions keep coming, each one more hypothetical, more absurd. Yet, my answer remains the same—three words that seem to unravel something in both of us with every repetition. Simon’s composure is fraying, his breaths coming quicker, his questions growing sharper, more pointed. He’s pushing me, testing me, but it feels like he’s doing it just to hear me say those words again and again.

And I don’t mind. Not at all.

The room feels smaller now, the air thicker, charged with an energy I can’t explain. My skin prickles, and I shift in my seat, trying to ground myself, but it’s useless. Every time I say, “I will obey,” it’s like a spark ignites between us, and I can’t tell which one of us is more affected by it.

Simon’s eyes are dark now, his voice a low rumble that. "What if I tell you to stay late tonight? No questions, no hesitation."

I don’t even think before I answer. "I will obey."

The printer whirs to life, spitting out sheets in crisp succession. Simon doesn’t look at me as he gathers them, his fingers precise and deliberate. He hands the stack over without a word, his gray eyes locking onto mine like he’s trying to bore through my skull.

"This is your contract offer," he says, his voice flat, almost bored. "Read it over carefully. In one hour, you must either sign it or return it."

I take the papers, my fingers brushing against his for the briefest moment. A jolt runs up my arm, and I force myself not to react. Instead, I nod, all business, and start flipping through the pages. The numbers jump out at me first—the salary, the bonuses, the stock options. It’s more than generous. It’s obscene.

I did it. I impressed the meanest alpha-hole boss in America, and I landed the job. For a second, I let myself bask in the glow of accomplishment, the thrill of knowing I’ve proven myself to someone as exacting as Simon Karr.

Then reality crashes in. It’s not real. I’m not here to work for him. I’m here to spy on him for Silas. The thought feels like a wet blanket smothering my elation, and I push it aside, focusing on the contract in front of me.

I skim the clauses, my gaze catching on one in particular. My eyes widen, and I glance up at Simon. He’s watching me with that same intensity, like a predator waiting for the right moment to pounce.

"The contract stipulates that you must approve of my clothing choices both inside and outside of work," I say, keeping my tone neutral. "But there’s nothing about specific details, or whether I will be compensated for buying all these new clothes."

Simon’s lips twitch, the faintest hint of a smile. "If I’m approving your wardrobe, Miss Redding, I’ll ensure it’s suitable. As for compensation..." He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "I will cover the expense. And I’ll expect receipts."

"You’ll expect receipts?" I raise an eyebrow, trying to hide the flutter in my stomach. "Do you micromanage all your employees this closely, or am I special?"

The corner of his mouth tilts up, and for a moment, I think he’s going to smile. But the look disappears as quickly as it came. "You’re special," he says. "But don’t let that go to your head. I hold everyone to the same standards. Precision. Discipline. Obedience."

The way he says “obedience” is super hot. I clear my throat, forcing myself to stay composed. "So, what happens if you don’t approve of my choices? Do I get a demerit? A write-up?"

Simon doesn’t miss a beat. "You’ll correct it. Immediately. And if it happens again, there will be consequences."

Consequences. The word hangs in the air between us, heavy with unspoken meaning. I feel my cheeks flush, and I look back down at the contract, pretending to read as I try to steady my breathing. This is supposed to be a ruse, a means to an end. So why does the thought of disappointing him make my stomach twist?

"Anything else I should be aware of?" I ask, my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me.

Simon’s gaze doesn’t waver. "Sign the contract, and you’ll find out." He leans back again, all casual confidence, like he already knows what I’m going to do. Like he already owns me.

And damn it all, part of me wants him to.

The pen hovers over the paper, my hand steady despite the storm brewing inside me. I glance up one last time—a calculated move, a show of deliberation—before lowering the pen to sign. The ink glides across the page, smooth and inevitable. But just as my signature starts to take shape, his voice cuts through the silence like a blade.

"Wait."

My hand freezes mid-stroke, the pen trembling ever so slightly. I look up, and Simon’s gaze pins me in place. There’s something in his eyes—sharp, unrelenting—that makes my stomach twist.

"I must make certain you understand what your contract entails before you sign it, Ms. Redding."

His voice is low, a rumble that vibrates through the room and settles deep in my chest. I swallow hard, forcing my nerves to steady. "I just read through it, Sir. I understand the terms."

He leans forward, his elbows resting on the desk, and those gray eyes bore into mine. "I’m not talking about the words on the page. I’m talking about the spirit of the contract."

I tilt my chin up, refusing to flinch under his scrutiny. "I understand, Sir."

"Do you?" he challenges, his voice dropping even lower. "If you sign this, your opportunities will be boundless. But it’s up to you to seize them. I won’t hand them to you. You’ll have to earn every single one."

"I understand, Sir," I repeat, my voice firm despite the heat creeping up my neck.

Simon doesn’t look away. His gaze is relentless, like he’s trying to peel back every layer of pretense I’ve built up over the years. "And once you sign your name," he continues, his tone slow and deliberate, "you belong to me. You are mine. Until you fail me or decide you can’t handle the pressure."

The words hang in the air, heavy and electric. I feel a warmth pooling low in my belly, a sensation I can’t quite control. My legs tense, thighs pressing together as if that could somehow ground me. His words echo in my head, twisting my thoughts into something I’m not ready to examine.

"I won’t fail you, Sir," I say firmly, despite the storm inside me. "And whatever you give me, I can take it."

His lips curve into the faintest hint of a smirk, and he nods, satisfied. "Good. Sign it."

The pen moves again, my signature flowing across the page. I hand the contract back to him, and he reviews it with the precision of a man who doesn’t miss a single detail. Then he signs his own name with a flourish, tucking the document away in the top drawer of his desk.

He picks up the phone, his movements deliberate and unhurried. "Kenneth? Bring the car around out front, now."

He hangs up without waiting for a response and looks at me, his expression unreadable. "Get up."

"Where are we going?" The question slips out before I can stop it, and his brow arches in a silent rebuke. My cheeks flush, and I quickly correct myself. "Yes, Sir."

I rise from the chair, my legs feeling strangely unsteady, and he’s suddenly there, standing so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body. His hand lands on the small of my back, and I stiffen for a moment before forcing myself to relax.

"Do not disappoint me, Clarice," he murmurs, his breath brushing against my ear. The low, menacing tone thrills me. "It would be a shame if I had to discipline you on your first day."

His hand presses gently but firmly, guiding me toward the door. I move with him, my heart pounding in my chest. The thought of disappointing him twists my stomach—but beneath that, there’s something else, something I don’t want to acknowledge.

As we step out of his office, I can’t help but think that the idea of discipline doesn’t sound so bad after all.