Hating You Was My Full Time Job

Chapter 7: The Deal You Can't Refuse

The elevator doors slid open with a soft _ding_ that felt more like a gunshot in my ears.

Blackwood Corp.

The 87th floor.

I’d spent the entire cab ride rehearsing this. Head high. Back straight. Don’t look desperate. Don’t look like the girl who ruined his life three years ago.

I failed at all of them the moment I stepped out.

The entire floor was glass and steel and silence. No chatter. No phones ringing. Just the hum of power and the smell of money. Assistants moved like shadows in designer heels. The air itself felt expensive.

And at the end of the hallway, behind floor-to-ceiling windows, was his office.

Adrian Blackwood’s office.

My stomach twisted.

“Miss Carter?” A woman in a gray suit appeared beside me. “Mr. Blackwood will see you now.”

I nodded, throat too dry to speak.

The doors opened before I could knock.

And there he was.

He hadn’t changed. Not really. Still the same sharp jaw, the same dark hair that always looked like he’d run his hands through it after a 16-hour workday. Still the same suit that probably cost more than my rent for a year.

But his eyes… God. His eyes were colder.

He didn’t look up from his laptop when I entered. Just kept typing. One finger tapping on the trackpad. Like I was an email he could deal with later.

“Close the door,” he said.

I did. The click echoed.

Thirty seconds passed. A minute.

Finally, he leaned back in his chair and looked at me.

For the first time in three years, Adrian Blackwood and I were in the same room.

“You’re late,” he said.

“I’m five minutes early.”

“To me, that’s late.”

Right. Of course it was.

He stood up slowly, like he had all the time in the world. He walked around his desk and stopped about three feet from me. Close enough that I could smell his cologne. Expensive. Wood and something darker.

“You look different,” he said.

“So do you.”

“Richer.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “Bitter, too.”

That got a reaction. The corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. Never a smile.

“Have a seat, Evelyn.”

I sat. The chair was too soft. It made me feel small.

He didn’t sit. He walked to the window instead, hands in his pockets, staring out at New York like he owned it. Maybe he did.

“Three years ago,” he started, voice low, “you walked into my boardroom. You smiled at me. You shook my hand. And then you handed my biggest client to Sterling Group.”

Here it comes.

“I was twenty-four,” I said quietly. “And stupid.”

“Stupid.” He turned around. “You cost me 200 million dollars, Evelyn. You cost me my reputation for six months. You cost me a deal I’d been working on for a year.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” He took a step closer. “Because from where I was standing, you laughed while you did it.”

The memory hit me like a slap. The champagne. The smirk on my face. The way I’d thought I was being clever. Thought I was winning.

“I was young,” I whispered.

“You were cruel.”

The word hung in the air between us.

I swallowed. “Why did you call me here, Adrian? If you just wanted to yell at me, you could’ve done that over the phone.”

He studied me for a long moment. Then he walked back to his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a folder. He tossed it onto the desk in front of me.

“Open it.”

My hands shook as I did.

Inside was a contract. Assistant to the CEO. Salary: $85,000 a year. Benefits. Bonuses.

And at the bottom, in bold: _12 month term. Non-negotiable._

I looked up at him. “You’re offering me a job?”

“I’m offering you a leash,” he corrected.

I blinked. “What?”

“You need money. Badly. Your mother’s hospital bills. Your rent. The loan sharks calling you every night.” His eyes narrowed. “I know everything, Evelyn. I always have.”

My face burned. “That’s none of your business.”

“It is now. Because I’m the only one who can help you.”

I laughed, but it came out broken. “You want me to work for you? After what I did?”

“No,” he said simply. “I want you to suffer.”

The air left my lungs.

He leaned on his desk, arms crossed. “Twelve months. You work for me. You do everything I say. You fetch my coffee. You schedule my meetings. You stay late. You come in early. And every single day, you remember what it feels like to be under my control.”

I stared at him. “That’s insane.”

“That’s the deal.”

“You could’ve just said no to my application. Blacklisted me.”

“I could have,” he agreed. “But this is better. This is personal.”

I wanted to stand up. Walk out. Tell him to go to hell.

But then I thought of the hospital. Of the voicemails. Of the eviction notice on my door.

“I hate you,” I said.

“I know,” he replied, and for the first time, something like satisfaction crossed his face. “Sign it.”

My hand hovered over the pen.

This was a mistake. This was career suicide. This was walking back into the fire that burned me three years ago.

But I was out of options.

I signed.

The moment the ink dried, Adrian picked up the contract and put it in his desk.

“Good,” he said. “You start tomorrow. 7 AM. Don’t be late.”

“Anything else?” I asked, standing up quickly.

“Yes,” he said. As I reached the door, his voice stopped me. “One more thing.”

I turned.

“Don’t think for a second that this means I’ve forgiven you.”

“I wasn’t,” I said, and walked out before he could see my hands shaking.

The next morning came too fast.

7 AM on the dot. I was wearing the only black dress I owned that didn’t have a stain on it. My hair was pulled back. No makeup. I looked professional. I looked like someone who had her life together.

I didn’t.

His assistant handed me a tablet the moment I stepped off the elevator.

“Your schedule. Mr. Blackwood expects you to have memorized it by 8.”

“You’ll be getting his coffee. Black. No sugar. From the place on 42nd.”

“You’ll be sitting in on all meetings. You will not speak unless spoken to.”

“And Evelyn? Try not to make him angry. It’s not pretty.”

By 9 AM, I’d already spilled coffee on his desk.

“Clean it,” he said, voice deadly calm.

I dropped to my knees with napkins, mortified, while he just watched.

“Are you done?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now reschedule my 10 AM. Tell them I’m in a crisis meeting.”

“Is there a crisis?”

He leaned forward. “Yes. You.”

The day only got worse. Four-hour board meeting. Pen and paper only. Six pointless errands. He watched me all day like I was a bomb about to go off.

By 7 PM, I was ready to quit.

“One more thing before you go,” he said. “Dinner.”

“I’m not”

“With me. Clients. You’re my assistant. You come.”

The restaurant had no prices on the menu. Adrian was charming. Smooth. Nothing like the monster in his office. And the whole time, I sat beside him, smiling when I was supposed to, hating every second.

Until he put his hand on the small of my back as we stood to leave. Brief. Professional. But his fingers lingered half a second too long.

And I felt it. The same spark from three years ago.

In the car, he said, “Thank you for tonight.”

“For what? Humiliating me?”

“For not running away.”

“Is that what you wanted? To see if I’d break?”

“I already know you will,” he said softly. “The question is when.”

This was going to be a very long twelve months.

Day 2 was worse. Day 3 was worse than that.

By Friday, I was surviving on three hours of sleep and spite. But something else was happening too. The late nights. The coffee runs. We talked. About work. About the city at 2 AM from his office window.

He was still cold. Still cruel. But there were moments when he’d look at me like he was trying to figure me out.

At 8 PM he called me in. “Cancel your weekend.”

“I have plans.”

“Cancel them.”

“Adrian”

“Mr. Blackwood,” he corrected.

“Mr. Blackwood,” I said through gritted teeth. “I have plans.”

“What plans?”

“Personal.”

“It is if it interferes with work.”

“I’m not working this weekend.”

We stared at each other.

Then he sighed. “Fine. But Monday, 6 AM. We have a flight.”

“Where to?”

“Chicago. Client meeting.”

As I passed him at the door, he said quietly: “You’re doing better than I expected.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“No. It’s an observation.”

The flight to Chicago was six hours. First class. We didn’t talk much. The client meeting went perfectly. After, at the hotel bar, one of the clients leaned to me. “He likes you.”

I almost choked. “What?”

“The boss. He doesn’t bring just anyone to meetings like this. Especially not someone he has… history with.”

“We don’t have history.”

The man just smiled. “Sure you don’t.”

We flew back Sunday night. At midnight in the airport, he said, “I’ll have a car take you home.”

“I can take the subway.”

“It’s midnight, Evelyn.”

“Please,” he said. Just that.

In the car, I said, “Thank you. For not making this harder than it has to be.”

He didn’t answer. Just watched me get out.

Monday morning, 6 AM. He was already there.

“The deal in Chicago. It closed.”

“That’s good.”

“Because of you. You said something about their supply chain. We closed an extra 40 million because of it.”

I stared. “You’re welcome, I guess.”

He almost smiled. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

At 6 PM, he said, “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“My apartment.”

“I’m not going to your apartment, Adrian.”

“Mr. Blackwood,” he corrected. Then softer: “Please. It’s important.”

His apartment was huge. Minimalist. Cold. But there was a guitar in the corner. Books everywhere.

He brought wine and files. For two hours we worked in comfortable silence.

Until he said, “Why did you do it? Three years ago.”

I froze.

“Because I was angry. Because I thought if I hurt you, it would hurt less to leave.”

“Leave?”

“I was going to quit. Move to Boston. But Sterling offered more money and I panicked.”

He was quiet. “Was it personal?”

I looked at him. “Yes.”

He nodded once. “I thought so.