Ethan entered after Dante had left for a meeting. He greeted her with a clipboard and a thin smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Mrs. Montgomery," he said, crisp and professional. "Your responsibilities begin here."
He gestured toward the desk tucked in the glass cubicle inside Dante's office—the one that still felt more like a cage than a workspace.
"You'll be handling Mr. Montgomery's schedule, filtering calls, organizing correspondence, and ensuring all documents are properly signed, filed, and digitized. He likes order. Perfect order."
Anastasia didn't bother replying. Her eyes trailed over the endless stacks of paper already waiting on the sleek glass surface—folders, reports, files, contracts. The kind of administrative chaos only the devil himself could assign on someone's first day.
Ethan gave a polite nod and exited, shutting the door behind him.
Alone again, Anastasia eyed the tower of paperwork. Her stomach let out a low, traitorous growl.
Of course. She hadn't eaten. Dante hadn't even allowed her breakfast back at the Laurent Estate. And she wasn't about to faint over a stack of quarterly reports.
She picked up her phone and opened a delivery app.
KFC. Extra crispy. Extra disrespectful.
Her lips curved in defiance.
Dante had left for a meeting—a mercy. She placed the order quickly and leaned back in the chair, heels propped up on the edge of the desk. Let him come back to the scent of rebellion and fried chicken.
Thirty minutes later, a call buzzed from the receptionist downstairs.
"Uh, hi. Someone named Miss. Laurent has a delivery?"
Anastasia stood smoothly, brushing imaginary dust off her dress. "That would be me."
She exited the glass cubicle, walking out like she owned the place—just as Dante had paraded her through the front lobby.
By the time she returned with the bag of hot food, Dante was back.
And he was waiting.
The moment she stepped into the office, his expression darkened.
"What is that?"
"Lunch," she said with a shrug, breezing past him. "Technically breakfast, too. You skipped that part this morning."
"You left during working hours. You didn't ask for permission. You haven't even touched the work."
"I'm not your prisoner, Dante."
"You're my secretary. Anastasia."
"Well, then consider this a working lunch," she replied sweetly, unpacking the food like it was a catered gourmet spread.
He stepped closer, tension rippling off him. "You think this is a game?"
"No," she said, popping a fry in her mouth. "But I am winning."
For a moment, they stared each other down in silence, the scent of spicy wings wafting between them like the smell of open defiance.
And then she calmly picked up a pen and began sorting the files.
One by one. No nonsense. No attitude.
The transformation was startling.
She flipped pages, signed, sorted, stapled, and organized like a machine—efficient, focused, utterly composed. The food sat beside her, barely touched after the first few bites.
Dante's phone buzzed. A message from Ethan.
"Should I bring in the catered lunch you ordered for Mrs Montgomery?"
Dante stared at the screen. Then typed back:
"Don't."
Hours passed.
Even Ethan, watching discreetly through the glass walls, was impressed. She didn't complain. Didn't speak. Just worked.
But if she expected a compliment, she didn't get one.
---
Meanwhile, in Manhattan...
Caroline DuPont's playlist was blasting too loud, and her fresh acrylic nails were tapping against her phone screen while she scrolled through an influencer's messy divorce update.
Her convertible glided through Midtown, her sunglasses perched on her head like a crown, lips glossed to perfection. She was dramatic, rich, and perpetually ten seconds away from a tantrum.
She looked up a second too late.
CRASH.
The front of her custom matte-black Benz kissed the bumper of the car ahead with a metallic screech that made her shriek.
"OH MY GOD. I am SO fucked up!"
Her phone flew onto the passenger seat. People began slowing around her, rubbernecking. Someone even honked, like she wasn't already drowning in a panic spiral.
Caroline yanked her door open, stilettos clicking on the pavement as she stormed toward the offending car.
"Are you blind? Are you on the phone? Do you even have a license? This is a brand-new Mercedes, you absolute —"
She paused.
The other driver hadn't gotten out yet. No dramatic entrance. No slamming door. Just a silent refusal to acknowledge her tantrum.
That pissed her off even more.
"Oh, so now you're silent?!" she shouted, kicking the lower panel of the car door lightly with her heel. "Say something before I lose my mind—!"
The driver's window slowly rolled down.
Caroline's words died mid-rant.
Her mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.
It was him.
The same man.
The one she had told Anastasia about days ago. The one she had bumped into. The one with the smug smile, the unbothered eyes, the ridiculous jawline.
And there he was, sitting behind the wheel of a black Aston Martin like he owned the street, staring at her like she was the entertainment for the day.
She froze.
"...You?" she breathed.
A slow, infuriating smirk curled on his lips.
"What did you say?"