Beauty and the Billionaire Devil

Chapter 8: First Day Hell

"Rule number one," John Bianchi said as they walked briskly down the marble hallway, "Mr. Venturi's coffee must be served at exactly one hundred and sixty degrees. Not one hundred and fifty-nine, not one hundred and sixty-one. Exactly one hundred and sixty."

Beauty hurried to keep pace with the man's long strides, frantically scribbling notes on the small pad he'd given her. John had been Marcello's personal secretary for eight years, and his devotion to his boss bordered on religious fervor.

"Rule number two," John continued without breaking stride, "all appointments must be confirmed twice… once the day before, once the morning of. If someone cancels less than two hours in advance, they go on the blacklist."

"Blacklist?" Beauty asked breathlessly.

"People who are no longer permitted to schedule meetings with Mr. Venturi. Currently stands at forty-seven names." John's expression remained completely serious. "Rule number three… never, and I mean never, interrupt him when his office door is closed unless the building is literally on fire."

Beauty's pen flew across the paper. The list of rules seemed endless, each one more specific and intimidating than the last. How was she supposed to remember all of this?

"His lunch must be ordered from Romano's on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Sakura Sushi on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He takes his calls standing up between two and three PM.. ergonomics, you see. And for the love of God, never mention his ex-fiancée Elena unless he brings her up first."

They turned a corner into what was clearly the executive wing. The hallway widened dramatically, lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered breathtaking views of the city skyline. Original artwork hung between the windows, pieces that probably cost more than Beauty's annual salary.

"The most important thing to remember," John said, lowering his voice as they approached the end of the hall, "is that Mr. Venturi values efficiency above all else. He doesn't want explanations, excuses, or emotional reactions. Just good results."

Beauty nodded, though her stomach was churning with anxiety. This felt less like job training and more like preparation for war.

John's phone rang, the sharp sound echoing off the marble walls. He glanced at the screen and frowned.

"I have to take this," he said apologetically. "Board meeting emergency. Just go ahead to his office… it's the double doors at the end of the hall. Introduce yourself and let him know you're ready to begin."

"Wait," Beauty called out as John was already answering his phone. "Shouldn't you…"

But John was already walking away, deep in conversation about quarterly reports and budget allocations. Beauty stood alone in the opulent hallway, her notebook clutched to her chest like a shield.

The double doors at the end of the hall seemed miles away. Each step toward them felt like walking toward her execution. What would she say to him? How was she supposed to act professional when all she could think about was that night in the hotel room?

As she drew closer, she heard sounds coming from behind the doors. Low, rhythmic sounds that made her step falter. Was he on a phone call? It sounded almost like...

Beauty's blood turned to ice as recognition dawned. Those weren't business sounds. Those were intimate sounds. Like someone's moaning.

She should turn around and walk away and wait for John to return. But her feet seemed frozen to the marble floor as the sounds grew clearer through the slightly ajar door.

"God, yes!..." came Marcello's voice, rough and breathless.

Beauty's heart hammered against her ribs. She took a step backward, then another, but it was too late. Through the gap in the doorway, she caught a glimpse of the scene inside.

Marcello sat behind his massive desk in his leather chair, his head thrown back, eyes closed in pleasure. A woman knelt between his legs, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders as she moved with practiced expertise. The woman's hands gripped his thighs while Marcello's fingers tangled in her hair, guiding her movements.

"f**k!!!," he breathed, his voice strained with desire.

Beauty felt like she'd been slapped. Her notebook slipped from nerveless fingers and hit the floor with a sharp sound that seemed to echo through the entire hallway.

Marcello's eyes snapped open.

For a moment that stretched like eternity, their gazes locked through the gap in the doorway. Beauty saw the exact moment he registered her presence, his eyes widen slightly, then narrow with something that might have been satisfaction.

The blonde woman, oblivious to the interruption, continued her ministrations. But Marcello's attention was entirely focused on Beauty now, his steel dark eyes boring into hers with an intensity that made her feel stripped bare.

Beauty tried to move, to turn and run, but her legs wouldn't obey. She stood there frozen like a deer in headlights while Marcello watched her with predatory interest.

Then, slowly, deliberately, a wicked smirk curved around his mouth.