Chapter 2: You’re due

Winston POV

The beauty of running a multi-billion-dollar corporation from behind the assistant's desk is that it runs entirely on predictable human flaws. And my current favorite flaw was pacing around the corner office, currently waving a highlighter like a weapon.

By 4:15 PM, the executive suite looked less like a corporate headquarters and more like a war room. Louis had thrown his jacket over his chair, rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and looked thoroughly, delightfully disheveled. His usually immaculate hair was falling across his forehead in a way that made me want to fix it—or mess it up further, I hadn't decided which.

The secret to destroying an empire like Miller-Ventures isn't to blast through the front doors; it's to become the very machinery that keeps it running. I had spent three years meticulously embedding myself into every system, every decision, every weakness that Louis Miller possessed. And there were many.

"Winston!"

He yelled my name, completely bypassing the expensive intercom system I had meticulously configured for him last month. I didn't even look up from my monitor as I gathered the freshly printed addendums. The paper was warm from the printer, crisp edges satisfying against my fingertips.

"The legal team from the Tokyo firm just sent over a rider," Louis barked, stepping into my line of sight while waving a wireless phone in one hand. His tie was loosened, which meant he'd been tugging at it for the past hour. A nervous habit. "They want a non-compete clause that extends to our European tech holdings. Tell them absolutely not. Tell them if they want Europe, they have to buy out our logistics sector first."

I walked into his office without knocking, keeping my posture immaculate and entirely untouched by his afternoon panic. I smoothly placed the papers directly in front of him on the mahogany desk, the sound of paper meeting wood satisfyingly definitive.

"I already told them no, Mr. Miller," I said, my voice flat, even, and thoroughly professional. "Three hours ago. Before they even sent the rider. I knew they'd try to sneak it in, so I preemptively drafted a counter-proposal that protects Europe and forces them to cover the closing costs."

Louis froze. His highlighter hovered in mid-air, a bright yellow beacon of stopped momentum. He blinked, looking down at the pristine documents, then up at me. I could see the internal battle behind his eyes—he wanted to be relieved that a massive crisis had vanished, but his pride was thoroughly annoyed that he had gotten worked up for absolutely nothing.

"You did that three hours ago?" Louis muttered, squinting at me suspiciously. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you were having a crisis about the catering menu for next week's board dinner," I replied deadpan, crossing my arms. The gesture was intentionally casual, a reminder that I wasn't intimidated by his title. "I prioritized. You're welcome."

"I was not having a crisis, I was expressing a valid concern about the lack of vegetarian options," Louis defended sharply. He tossed the highlighter onto the desk, trying to regain his commanding executive stance. "And stop doing that. Stop anticipating my moves. It's creepy. It's like working with a psychic who has an attitude problem."

"If I didn't anticipate your moves, this company would have declared bankruptcy during your first fiscal quarter," I countered smoothly. To emphasize my point, I reached out and adjusted the alignment of his desk calendar by a fraction of an inch, knowing the tiny gesture would drive his perfectionism wild. The pen holder followed suit, rotated precisely three degrees.

Louis gasped softly, looking genuinely offended. "My first quarter was highly successful!"

"Because I worked eighty hours a week correcting your math on the acquisition bids," I pointed out, offering him a tight, sweet smile that I knew infuriated him. I had practiced that smile in the mirror for weeks. It was perfectly calibrated to be professionally polite while simultaneously suggesting he was an incompetent fool.

"That was one typo! One extra zero!"

"An extra zero that almost bought us an entire fleet of broken-down cargo planes in Peru, Mr. Miller."

Louis opened his mouth, his chest rising as he prepared to deliver what I'm sure would have been a scathing, dramatic comeback. But right on cue, his desk clock chimed.

It was exactly 5:00 PM.

The sound cut through the room like a physical barrier. The official workday was winding down, and I watched the sudden shift in his posture. The corporate arguments faded, replaced by a sudden, sharp focus—but not on work. Something else had his attention now.

Louis snapped his mouth shut, clearing his throat and straightening his tie. He grabbed his charcoal jacket from the back of the chair, the expensive wool sliding over his shoulders with practiced ease. "We are done for the day. I am leaving early to prepare for my... evening. Sign off on those Tokyo files and go home, Winston."

"With pleasure," I said. My tone shifted instantly, dropping the sharp mockery for a sudden, guarded quietness. The banter was over; the reality of the night was settling in. I stepped back toward the doorway, giving him space. "Have a good evening, Mr. Miller. Try not to lose your keys."

"I haven't lost my keys in two years," Louis grumbled, grabbing his leather briefcase. The worn handles spoke of years of use, years of carrying the weight of this company on his shoulders.

"Exactly. You're due."

With that final parting shot, I turned and walked back to my desk, leaving him to glare at the empty doorway. I could feel his eyes on my back, that familiar mix of frustration and something else he'd never admit to.

The daytime battlefield was officially closed. I sat down to route the final Tokyo files, my mind already drifting away from spreadsheets and schedules. In a few hours, the starch-collared shirts would come off, the masks would go on, and I would slip out of my apartment to meet my midnight partner.

That was the arrangement—anonymous, no names, no faces revealed beyond the dim glow of a single candle. For the past six weeks, every Thursday at 8:00 PM, I'd walked into that tucked-away speakeasy and spent hours with a man whose voice I'd grown to crave. Low, warm, teasing. He had a way of laughing that made my chest ache. I never asked who he was, and he never asked me. That was the rule. That was the escape.

I had no idea what he did for a living, or whether he was married, or why he chose that dim-lit corner booth every week. I only knew that when his hand found mine across the table, the entire weight of Miller-Ventures lifted from my shoulders. He was my secret. My one genuine indulgence in a life otherwise devoted to calculated destruction.

And tonight was Thursday.

I glanced at the clock. Three hours until 8:00 PM. Three hours until I'd walk through that unmarked door and hear his voice—that rich, unhurried voice that made me forget every corporate war I was waging.

I saved the final document, shut down the monitor, and allowed myself a small, private smile in the darkness of the empty suite. My briefcase was already packed with a change of clothes—soft cashmere, nothing that screamed "assistant" or "corporate saboteur."

Louis had his own evening plans, clearly. Good for him. I didn't care what he did with his nights, as long as he stayed out of my way.

I grabbed my coat and headed for the elevator, my pulse quickening with every step. The night ahead held no spreadsheets, no contracts, no carefully orchestrated takedowns. Just a quiet booth, a flickering candle, and hopefully a stranger who will make me feel like I wasn't alone.

I had no idea that stranger was already in the parking garage, loosening his tie and thinking the exact same thing about me.