Page 32 of I'm sorry, Princess

He’s deep in conversation with Ian, their postures tense, their voices low. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but whatever it is, they look... angry.

My curiosity flares instantly.

Without hesitation, I make my way toward Ian’s office, my heart pounding with anticipation. I tell myself it’s just to say hello, but deep down, I’m already bracing myself for whatever I might overhear.

I step into Ian’s office, feigning nonchalance, but the charged atmosphere in the room makes it clear that this isn’t just a casual chat.

The tension is almost palpable, and I can’t shake the feeling that whatever’s happening here, it’s something I’m not supposed to know about.

“Good morning!” I say cheerfully, trying to cut through the tension hanging in the air.

The looks I get in return are less than welcoming, both men appear as if they’d rather throw me out than engage in pleasantries.

Ian, however, softens after a moment, his expression relaxing as he acknowledges me.

“Morning, Serena,” he says, his tone friendlier now. “I didn’t know you were working today. Have they assigned you two clients already?”

There’s curiosity in his voice, though I can tell he assumed Lorenzo was my sole focus.

“Yes,” I reply with a nod. “They gave me Stephan Blackwell as well. How are you doing, Dad? It’s nice seeing you around. Are you here to check on me?”

I lean in and give my father a cheek kiss, noting the slight stiffness in his posture.

My father may be an “old man” by my standards, but at 51, he hardly looks it. With his sharp features and perfectly tailored suit, he easily passes for someone in his mid-40s. Sometimes I joke to myself that he must be sacrificing babies to maintain his youthful glow.

“Honey, I actually wanted to speak to you,” he says, his tone serious, and I can’t help but notice the lines of fatigue on his face.

It’s clear neither of us got enough sleep last night.

He gestures for us to move to my office.

Once inside, I catch him glancing around, his gaze lingering on the small personal touches I’ve added to the space.

The all-glass walls might scream corporate sterility, but I’ve worked hard to make it my own. The shelves are lined with books I love, a framed picture of me with Mom and Dad sits prominently on my desk, and sticky notes arescattered everywhere like confetti, my system for keeping track of thoughts and tasks. My work journal sits open, ready for the day.

I see him sigh, his expression betraying a flicker of disapproval. I know it’s not his style, he probably finds it cluttered or unprofessional, but this is my space, and I don’t plan on changing it to suit anyone else.

“How was your first day at work?” he asks casually, his eyes fixed on his phone.

Of course. I’ll never get his full attention, work always comes first. I could probably set something on fire, and he’d still be scrolling through emails.

I almost laugh at my own thoughts. Rich girl with daddy issues complaining about life, what a cliché.

“It was... interesting,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral. “I think I handled myself quite well in discussions with Mr. Moretti. He’s not very talkative, but we’ll work through that. I’m confident I’ll get good results.”

Of course, I lied. What else could I say to him?

Oh, it went fine, Dad. He called me a prostitute, then asked if I was wearing underwear. But no worries, we’re totally bonding.

No, that would go over well.

My father finally puts his phone down, his expression serious as he looks at me.

“Serena, I want you to pay attention right now,” he says, his voice firm. “I want you to report to me before writing your report on him. If he says, does, or even breathes anything suspicious, I want you to bring it to me first. Understood?”

His eyes are sharp, pinning me in place, and for a moment, I’m caught off guard.

“Why?” I ask, the word slipping out before I can stop myself.