“Fine,” he said after what felt like an eternity of silence. “Pack your things. I’ll send someone to collect you tomorrow morning.”
I nodded, trying not to look too eager. “Sure. Whatever you say, boss.”
“And Isabella?” he added, his tone sharp enough to make me pause mid-turn.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t make me regret this.”
I flashed him the fakest smile I could muster. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The walk back to my desk felt like trudging through molasses. The reality of what I had just agreed to started sinking in, and it wasn’t pretty. Moving into his mansion? Playing house with Mr. Stone-Faced Perfectionist? My pride took a hit just thinking about it.
But then I thought about my apartment—the peeling paint, the rent I couldn’t afford, the faucet that seemed to mock me with every drip—
