BEHIND THE DESK OF A MONSTER
1498 Words
DEREK'S POV
The door clicks shut behind Emily Haven, and I feel my entire body tense.
I keep my face neutral, my eyes fixed on her as she stands in front of my desk. She looks different from that night at the hotel. Sober. Frightened. But there's something else underneath the fear—something I recognize all too well.
Determination.
She's here for a reason. I know that. The same way I know the color of her eyes, the sound of her voice, the way her skin felt against mine. I've been replaying that night in my head for weeks now, unable to forget. Unable to stop thinking about her.
"Miss Haven," I say, my voice smooth and controlled. "Sit down."
She obeys, perching on the edge of the chair like she's ready to bolt at any moment. Her hands are clasped in her lap, knuckles white. She's trying to hide her nerves, but I can see right through her.
"Thank you for seeing me," she says, her voice steady despite the trembling in her fingers. "I wasn't expecting to get the job. I don't even remember applying."
That part is true. I know that because I'm the one who hired her. I'm the one who pulled her file from the database after that night, who found her address, who made sure she got the position.
I told myself it was to monitor her. To keep her close, where I could watch her. To find out who she really was and why she ended up in my hotel room that night.
But a small part of me—the part I refuse to acknowledge—just wanted to see her again.
"I reviewed your qualifications," I lie smoothly. "Your resume was impressive. It came recommended."
Her eyes narrow slightly. "Recommended by who?"
"The system." I lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers. "We have algorithms that filter through thousands of applications. Yours stood out."
She doesn't believe me. I can see it in the way her jaw tightens, in the way her gaze darts around my office like she's looking for something. An escape. A weapon. Evidence.
"My father worked here," she says suddenly. "His name was Zevian Haven."
The name hits me like a punch to the gut. Zevian Haven. The man who discovered the gold. The man who died at the riverbank.
The man I helped kill.
"Zevian Haven," I repeat, keeping my voice blank. "I don't remember that name."
"You don't remember him?" Her voice cracks slightly. "He worked here for fifteen years. He was loyal. He gave everything to this company."
I shrug, feigning disinterest. "We have hundreds of employees, Miss Haven. I can't keep track of all of them."
"I heard he found something valuable," she continues, leaning forward. "Something that could have helped this company. But he died before anyone could see it."
My heart pounds against my ribs. She knows. Or at least, she suspects.
"That's unfortunate," I say, keeping my face impassive. "But accidents happen. Mining is a dangerous industry."
"Accidents." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Is that what you call it when someone suddenly goes missing and turns up dead at a riverbank?"
I stand up abruptly, turning to face the window. I can't look at her right now. I can't let her see the guilt in my eyes.
"I'm sorry for your loss," I say flatly. "But I fail to see how this relates to your position as my secretary."
"Don't you?" Her voice is soft, but it cuts through me like glass. "Don't you think it's strange that I got a job here without applying? That I'm sitting in your office, talking to you about my father, when I should be anywhere else but here?"
I turn back to face her. "Maybe it's fate."
"Fate." She shakes her head. "That's not fate. That's you. You know who I am. You know what I'm looking for."
"Are you accusing me of something, Miss Haven?" I step closer to her, close enough to see the pulse beating in her throat. "Because that would be very foolish of you."
She doesn't back down. Her eyes meet mine, fierce and blazing. "I'm not accusing you of anything. Yet."
We stare at each other for a long moment. The air between us crackles with tension—with attraction, with hatred, with something I can't name. She's so different from everyone else I know. She's not afraid of me, even when she should be.
It's infuriating. And intoxicating.
"You start tomorrow," I say, breaking the silence. "Tristan will show you around. He's my assistant. He'll tell you what you need to know."
"What if I don't want the job?" she challenges.
I smile coldly. "Then you should have thought about that before you confirmed your acceptance. You signed a contract, Miss Haven. Legally, you're bound to work for me for at least six months."
Her face pales. "I didn't sign anything."
"Electronic signature," I say, enjoying the panic flickering in her eyes. "Part of the application process. You just clicked 'agree' and kept moving. Standard practice."
"I can't believe this," she mutters, standing up. "This is insane. You're insane."
"Perhaps." I walk around the desk, closing the distance between us. "But you're working for me now. And while you're here, you'll follow my rules. No snooping. No questions about your father. No—" I pause, letting the threat hang in the air. "—trouble."
"And if I don't follow your rules?" she asks, lifting her chin.
"Then you'll find out exactly how ruthless I can be."
She holds my gaze for a moment longer, then turns and walks toward the door. Her hand is on the handle when I call out to her.
"Emily."
She stops but doesn't turn around.
"The night at the hotel," I say, my voice low. "Do you remember it? All of it?"
She says nothing. But I see her shoulders tense, and I know she remembers. Every single moment.
"Get out," I say harshly, the softness gone from my voice. "Get out of my sight."
She leaves without another word, and I watch her go, my hands clenched at my sides. I want to hate her. I want to see her as just another obstacle, another threat to be neutralized.
But I can't.
I see her face every time I close my eyes. I feel her body pressed against mine, her lips on my skin, her breath in my ear. I remember how it felt to hold her, to lose myself in her, to forget for one night who I was and what I'd done.
And I hate her for it. I hate her for making me feel something I haven't felt in years.
Humanity.
I sink into my chair, pressing my palms against my eyes. Tristan will be here soon. He'll want to discuss Emily, to plan how to deal with her. He'll suggest something violent, something final.
And I'll have to say no. I'll have to protect her, even if it means betraying my own family.
Because despite everything—despite the hatred and the secrets and the lies—I can't let anything happen to her.
She's carrying my child.
---
Outside my office, I can hear Emily's footsteps retreating down the hallway. I imagine her face, her fear, her fury. She doesn't know I watched her from my office window last night. She doesn't know I've been tracking her every move since we met.
But she will soon.
The door opens, and Tristan saunters in, a smug grin on his face. "I saw her leaving. She looks just like her father. You sure we shouldn't just get rid of her now? One less loose end to worry about."
"No." My voice is sharp enough to cut glass. "We do nothing to her. She's under my protection."
Tristan raises an eyebrow. "Protection? Since when do you protect anyone, Derek?"
"Since now." I lean forward, my eyes cold and dangerous. "You'll treat her like a queen. You'll answer her questions, help her learn her job, and you won't lay a finger on her. Understood?"
Tristan studies me, his expression unreadable. Then he nods slowly. "Whatever you say, cousin. But if she causes trouble, I won't hesitate to—"
"She won't." I cut him off. "Because I'll be watching her. Closely."
Tristan laughs, the sound hollow. "You know, I almost believe you. Too bad we both know the truth. She's a threat, Derek. And threats need to be eliminated."
He walks out, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I look out the window at the city below. Los Angeles sprawls beneath me, vast and glittering. Beautiful, like Emily. Dangerous, like Emily.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to no one. "I'm so sorry for everything."
But I know it's not enough. It will never be enough.
Some things can't be fixed. Some wounds can't be healed.
And some sins can't be forgiven.
- Writer
