ARIA

Around 6:30 pm, a fog of exhaustion weighs on me as I finally drag my ass out of the Jackson & James building. I've been working for almost ten hours straight. The blisters on my feet—from scuttling back and forth, nonstop, to the restroom—are killing me. I change out of my heels and into some comfier trainers as I take the Tube back to Appa's flat in Peckham.

My dad and I are having dinner tonight. Even though we both live in London, I haven't seen him in weeks. He's been busier than me at work, and that's saying a lot. He also slaves away at one of the Big Four in the finance industry. Not at Jackson & James, though. He's been at one of Jackson & James' main competitors, J.M. Weiss, for years, and I'm pretty sure that I inherited all of my workaholic tendencies from him.

The train is packed, as always, with passengers. It feels claustrophobic. I can barely hear myself think. Keeping an eye out for pickpockets and perverts, I hold on tightly to my tote bag and try to inch away from a middle-aged creep who keeps leering at my ass.

Relief washes over me when we finally arrive at my stop. I leave the Underground behind and make my way to the surface streets. From there, I head toward Appa's flat on foot, passing by rows of small storefronts: An eel and pie shop. A specialty adult bookstore that curates some of the spiciest books I've ever read in my life. My favorite place for Nigerian suya. The smoky, aromatic scent of grilled meat drifts outside the restaurant. It fills my nostrils, calling to me, making my stomach rumble with hunger.

Without a doubt, good food and smutty romances are my kryptonite. They are always my happy place whenever life gets to be a bit too much for me to handle.

Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at Appa's doorstep. The moment I step in the front door, I see Appa puttering around in the kitchen. My dad glances away from the stove, and a big smile spreads across his face.

Not wasting any time, he asks about work. Outside of my career, he never shows much interest in any other aspect of my personal life. "So... how are things going at Jackson & James? Have you spoken to Robert about opportunities for a promotion?"

"He actually called me into his office the other day."

"Why?"

Smiling, I put a slant on the truth, "To discuss my future at Jackson & James. It was promising. I have my eye on making senior."

"Make sure to squeeze them for all they're worth when negotiating your new contract."

I continue to play along, "Will do."

He laughs. I laugh, too. Our happiness feels hollow, though, because it's based on lies. I can never tell Appa the truth. He'll lose his ever-loving mind if he finds out that I've been temporarily demoted to a personal assistant.

In easy, breezy tones, I proceed to share the productive parts of my day while purposely leaving out my problematic run-ins with Ted Manning and Nicco Vitale.

Appa is all too happy to eat up my all too upbeat narrative.

What can I say?

I'm a master of spin when it comes to either of my parents. Māma is Chinese-American. Appa is British Sri Lankan. I was often stuck between their expectations. Trapped—between two feuding exes who were disappointed by anything short of perfection. They divorced when I was seven. Māma stayed in San Francisco. Appa returned to London once their divorce was finalized.

It always felt impossible to open up to either of them. I've become something of an expert at reframing negatives into positives. Sometimes, I feel guilty for not being honest with my family, but, most of the time, it's simply easier not to tell them about the crazy, stupid, painful shit I've gotten into over the years. And, trust me, there has been some crazy, stupid, painful shit.

Shit—that'll probably haunt me until the day I die.

For dinner, Appa prepares my favorite comfort food. Chicken biryani. Māma would kill me for saying so, but my dad's actually a much better chef than her. I've missed his cooking. Eagerly, I push aside my horrible first day at work and scarf down every bite of Appa's spicy, perfectly seasoned basmati rice and chicken. The flavors are complex, intense, and in-your-face. It's so fucking good. I get seconds and thirds and barely stop myself from licking my plate when I'm done.

After dinner, I help my dad tidy up the kitchen. He then heads back to his study to take a conference call while I head home. Once I'm back in my apartment, I draw myself a nice, warm bath so I can wallow in the tub for a while. Now that I no longer have any biryani to distract me, the day's awful events keep replaying themselves in my head.

Even though Ted and Nicco have yet to take action against me, I'm scared that the damage is already done. My stress levels skyrocket to an all-time high. I need to find a way to unwind before I implode from anxiety.

I decide to bust out the big guns: An aromatherapy candle, a cheap glass of wine, and an obscenely raunchy fantasy romance novel about a fox demon who marries a water god that can clone himself several times over whenever he, ahem, takes her to pound town. Their wedding night is a fucking masterpiece of reverse harem smuttiness.

Minutes drift into an hour, and, sip by sip, page by page, the bath helps me relax. Some of the stress from the day washes away. Anxiety shifts into a new kind of tension. The water becomes overly warm on my skin. I feel restless. Needy. There's no doubt in my mind: The fox demon book is what flipped the switch. The chapter with the wedding night scene may or may not have given me a second heartbeat between my legs.

Later that night, I dream that I'm back in the office. Except there's nothing normal about this make-believe workday. The wine and smut have a potent effect on my psyche. Fantasy blends with reality. In my dream, I show up at Jackson & James, dressed in a very inappropriate lacy black bra and panty set, and proceed to get railed and reverse haremed by not one but two sexy, green-eyed somebodies. The first Nicco bends me over the desk, splays my legs, and rams his hard, massive ten-incher into me full force, and the second Nicco fucks me against the wall.

I wake up the next morning feeling more than a little deranged. I'm embarrassed over what my dick-deprived brain let my boss do to me last night.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I roll out of bed with a groan. I'm no stranger to vivid dreams, but they're usually more like nightmares than bad pornos. Feeling all out of sorts, I go through the motions of getting ready for work and, after some considerable effort, drag my hot-and-bothered ass back to Jackson & James with my game face on. I show up in a very appropriate cream-colored blazer and white mid-length shirt dress. It's a total boner-killer compared to what I had on in my dream.

At 7:15 am, I enter the first-floor lobby of Jackson & James. It's massive. Clean, curved lines blend into organic, asymmetrical shapes. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows encase the entire floor, bringing in as much natural light as the cloudy London skies will allow. The heels of my stilettos echo across pristine marble floors as I walk toward the security guards and flash my employee badge. They permit me to take the glass elevator up to my floor. A minute later, the elevator doors slide open with a faint chime. I peer out and realize that I'm the first to arrive in the office. So far, so good. No signs of trouble. This is a promising start to my second day.

With a relieved sigh, I settle into my cubicle, turn on my laptop, and get to work. Ten minutes go by. Save for rhythmic click-click-clacks of my fingers flying over the keyboard, the entire floor remains empty and silent until a low, husky voice, thick with an Italian accent, greets me, "Good morning... Aria."

My fingers freeze over my keyboard. I glance up from my laptop and find myself staring into a pair of green, green eyes. It's him. My sexy, fuckable boss.

Just one of him, though.

Not two at once.

Thank fuck.

As Nicco looms over my cubicle, I offer a choked greeting, "Morning."

I barely keep my shit together. Heat warms my skin as a particularly NSFW blip from last night's dream flits through my mind. The part where the first Nicco's lips locked onto my nipple while the second Nicco's head dipped between my thighs to—

Oh, God.

No.

Crossing my legs, I clench my thighs together and try to act normal in front of my boss. As though I wasn't fantasizing about him. As though my subconscious didn't randomly assign him a ten-inch anaconda while snoring away last ni—

Nicco's gaze lands on my face. I quickly scoop my mind out of the gutter as his eyes linger on my cheeks. "Should you be in the office today?"

Shit.

Did I miss an email from HR?

Panic distorts my features. "Why shouldn't I be here?"

Have I already been terminated?

"You look a bit... feverish."

Discreetly, I brush my knuckles against my neck. My skin feels warm to the touch.

Am I blushing?

"Don't worry, I'm not sick," I reply a bit too quickly.

"Are you sure?"

I nod. "Uh-huh. Yep. Totally."

Why the hell is Nicco even here?

It's only 7:25 am. In truth, I'm bewildered to see my boss in the office. His first meeting of the day doesn't start until 8:30 am. Hesitantly, I ask, "Are you feeling alright?"

His forehead creases. "What do you mean?"

Sharpening my gaze, I try to feel him out. Nicco's mood appears to have improved since yesterday. He's no longer trying to incinerate my existence with his eyeballs.

I point out with a touch of suspicion, "You're here. Early."

He chuckles. "Am I not allowed to be here early?"

"Well..."

"Well?" he prompts.

After yesterday's exchange, I pegged the man to be more of the "hardly working" type rather than the "working hard" type. I doubt he came in early to prep for success or get a head start on emails. More likely than not, he's still pissed about what I said yesterday. My brain leaps to the worst-case scenario.

Has he come to ask for my resignation before everyone else arrives?

It seems totally plausible. I scramble to save my ass, "Actually, it's good that you're here early. There's something important that I wanted to address with you."

"And what might that be?"

"I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize."

Nicco's perfectly symmetrical features give away nothing when he asks, "Apologize for what?"

I eye his poker-faced expression warily.

Is he playing dumb?

I swallow my pride and grumble, "For my, ah, uncalled-for behavior yesterday."

His black eyebrows rise. "You are admitting that you were in the wrong?"

"Yes." Humbly, I promise, "It won't happen again. I'll do everything in my power to improve my attitude until you're satisfied with my efforts."

To my surprise, instead of getting angry or upset, Nicco remarks in thoughtful tones, "I have never been in this position before."

I stare up at him with wide eyes. "What do you mean?"

He grins without a trace of shame. "Usually, I am the one in the wrong. Kissing ass. Or begging a woman for forgiveness."

This conversation has taken an unexpected turn. He's talking to me more like an equal rather than my superior. Again, I sense no trace of displeasure from his end. I balk slightly, not knowing how to respond. "Uh..."

"At any rate, there is no need for you to apologize."

"Really?"

"Rest assured, you have nothing to worry about."

Fibbing to save what remained of my dignity, I mumble, "I wasn't worried..."

"You were not afraid that I might fire you," Nicco drawls, "if you did not get your act together?"

Damn. This bastard is reading me like a book, and I resent him for it. Reluctantly, I confess, "I mean, the thought might have crossed my mind."

"Well, remove that thought. I have every intention of retaining you as my assistant."

The certainty in his voice catches me off guard.

Why isn't he pissed anymore?

I blink. Once. Twice. "You... aren't going to let me go?"

"Not anytime soon."

Frowning, I don't know if I believe him.

"If anything," Nicco adds with a wicked gleam in his green eyes, "I will keep you around. Just to spite you. As punishment for your insubordination."

I gasp, "What!"

Wasting no time at all, he issues my first slap on the wrist, "I want to review the notes from the meetings I missed these past two weeks. Can you write up summaries by Thursday?"

Today is already Tuesday. This gives me less than forty-eight hours to review two weeks' worth of notes on my own, weed out the nonessential information, and retype the summaries with just the highlights and key issues. Fucking hell. Even though the deadline for this task is preposterous, I agree to it because I know I'm being tested, "Of course."

"I will also need the quarterly reports from the last two years. Get them ready by the end of next week. I want you to walk me through every single one of them. Line by line."

I force a smile on my face to keep from crying. "Yes, sir."

"Also, I am starving."

"Would you like me to get some breakfast delivered to the office?"

He shakes his head. "I hate deliveries. They always fuck up my requests. Why don't you pick it up in person to make sure that everything is exactly the way I want it?"

This motherfucker. "Sure, what would you like to eat?"

"A wedge salad from Claymore's sounds good."

Easy enough. Except it's not even 8 am right now. Most fine-dining restaurants don't open until dinner. But whatever. I'll figure it out. "Not a problem."

"I'm in the mood for steak as well. From Stancia. Medium rare. Check for an internal temperature of 54 degrees Celsius. I will not put anything in my mouth that does not taste like perfection."

"54 degrees Celsius. Got it." I keep smiling to mask my desire to shove a handful of perfection into his stupid mouth.

"For dessert, I would love a lemon tart from Trullo. They are to die for."

I want to die as well. "You want me to hit up all three places? I assume you want this for lunch, right?"

"No, no. Not lunch. Brunch. Like I said, I am famished, and it would be impossible to work on an empty stomach," Nicco insists with a look of diabolical innocence.

"Brunch, huh?"

He has the audacity to ask, "I hope it will not be too much trouble for you?"

"Not at all," I assure him in bright, sugary tones even though violence is crackling through my veins. "It would be my pleasure."

The smile on my face doesn't waver even when I realize, right then and there, that Nicco wasn't joking about keeping me around as punishment. It's clear the bastard is dead set on making my life a living hell.

You can run, Ari.

That's fine by me.

But I'll always find you.

Challenge accepted, bitch.

You don't want to end up like Maya, do you?

I can handle whatever Nicco throws my way.

Keep your mouth shut if you want to live, slut.

Because the devils I've known are far worse than he'll ever be.