Under His Obsession - A Steamy Workplace Romance - Cathryn Fox Page 0,1
his bachelor party.
The pictures splashed across the front cover, however, painted a different story. Money and power. They mess with people. In the end, Will proved to be no different from any man with millions and authority—and because of the spread, he lost his supermodel fiancée. But I still refused to do the exposé. My father would turn over in his grave if I suddenly sank to slimeball level.
“I guess this is goodbye, then.” I turn and see a flurry of activity in the hall. Great, my colleagues were eavesdropping. At least they’ll have something to talk about at the watercooler. “I’ll clear my desk.”
“If you change your mind...”
“I won’t,” I say. Heads duck and eyes are averted as I walk down the hall. Despite the storm going on in my stomach, I straighten my back and calmly walk to my four-by-four pod.
I reach my desk and stare at the papers strewn across it. Nothing truly belongs to me, but I spitefully shove the stapler into my purse. I’m about to walk away but can’t. Dammit, I’m not a thief. I put the stapler back and go still when a pair of heels tap rapidly on the floor, growing louder as they approach.
Breathless, Steph skids to a stop. “I just heard.” My only real friend at the magazine—all the others would slice and dice anyone who got in their way—Steph takes my hand. Thick painted lashes blink rapidly over caramel eyes. “What happened?”
I lower my voice and explain, even though I’m sure everyone knows—around here, rumors spread faster than a Sean Mendes You Tube video.
“He’s such a worm,” she says.
“Hey, don’t insult worms. They have their purpose.”
“Wait, I got it.” Hope fills her eyes. “Just say you couldn’t find anything on Will. I mean, he might be a grade A asshole—”
“Will’s an asshole?”
“Yeah, that’s what every reporter who tried to get a story on him says.”
“They do?”
“Oh, yeah.” She holds her hand out and starts tapping one finger after another as she says, “Opinionated, arrogant, bossy, patronizing.”
“What you’re saying is he’s no different from any other Wall Street millionaire.”
She nods. “I also heard he doesn’t keep any of his assistants around for long. They’re fired for the smallest of mistakes.”
“I guess I haven’t been paying close enough attention to the Carson family drama.”
“Well, anyway, he’s become a bit of a recluse, taking privacy to the extreme. You could just say you didn’t find anything.”
I give her a look that suggests she’s insane. “Steph, come on. If I don’t bring the story Benjamin wants or twist it to his liking, I’ll be fired anyway.”
“But I don’t want you to go.” She pouts. “You can’t leave me here with all the two-faced piranhas.”
“You have that interview with the Cut next week, right?” While it’s Steph’s dream to write about trends and designs, I’m more interested in politics and current events. My ultimate dream is to write for the New Yorker magazine, and in my spare time, pen a novel.
“Yes, but—”
“No buts. You got this. And something will come my way,” I say. I hike my purse up higher and lift my chin, showcasing confidence I don’t currently feel.
Steph steps to the side to let me pass. “If he offers it to me, I’ll tell him to shove it up his—”
“Thanks, Steph, but I don’t want you to lose your job, too.”
“The Cut, remember.” She jabs her thumb into her chest. “It’s mine.”
“Good girl,” I say, and give her a hug. “I’ll text you later.”
“Wait, Khloe.” Her gaze moves over my face. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine.”
Her eyes narrow. “You need some sun.”
I run my tongue over one of my molars. “A piece of filling chipped off this morning.” There had been something strangely hard in the sausage on the leftover pizza I had for breakfast. “Maybe if I put it under my pillow, the tooth fairy will leave enough money for us both to go on a vacation.”
Steph laughs. “Your sense of humor is still intact. I guess that means you’re all right.”
“I’ll be okay,” I assure her with false bravado.
I make my way to the elevator and realize that while I refused to do the exposé, the next person likely won’t. Dammit. I hurry downstairs, step outside and hail a cab. But instead of going to my small apartment in Brooklyn, I give the driver directions to James’s mansion on Sixty-Fourth. I have no idea if he’s home, but he’s well into his nineties, so