Bought by the Ruthless CEO

Chapter 7: The Ex

Her name was Victoria.

I didn't know who Victoria was until I heard Martha say it from the hallway, her voice Suddenly small and scared.

Because the entire energy of the penthouse changed in one second.

"Sir," Martha whispered from the office door, her eyes wide. "Ms. Laurent is downstairs. In the lobby. She says she has a key and she says you are expecting her."

Aaron's face — which had been almost soft since the burnt eggs this morning, almost human since the sticky note — went to stone in half a second.

Cold. Hard. Empty.

"She doesn't have a key anymore," he said coldly, his jaw tight. "I changed the codes last month. Send her up. Let's get this over with so she never comes back."

I was still at my little desk in the corner of his dark wood office, pretending to organize expense reports I didn't understand. He had given me a job — "go through these reports and highlight anything stupid, anything that looks like someone stealing from me."

It was busy work. He knew I didn't know finance at that level. It was just to keep me near him. In his sight. He kept looking up from his three monitors to check if I was still there, like I might disappear.

The elevator dinged. Private elevator. Direct to penthouse. No announcement.

And Victoria walked in like she owned the black marble. Like she had lived here. Like she still did.

She was tall. Model tall. 5'11 in heels. Blonde, perfect blowout, lips done, nose done, everything done but done well. Expensive done. Wearing a tight red dress that probably cost more than my entire NYU tuition for a whole semester, Chanel bag, diamonds on her neck that caught the light.

She looked like every rich i********: girl in Manhattan combined into one person designed to make normal girls feel small.

"Aaron, baby," she said, her voice like honey and poison mixed together. "You didn't return my calls. You didn't return my texts. I was worried about you. You never worry me."

She walked straight to his big desk, ignoring me completely, and kissed his cheek. Loud. Possessive. He didn't move. Didn't kiss back. Didn't stand up. Didn't even look at her. He looked at his monitor.

"What do you want, Victoria?" he said. His voice was flat. Dead.

She finally, slowly, turned her head and noticed me. In the corner. At the tiny, cheap desk that wasn't supposed to be there. In my thrifted blouse and my old jeans because I refused to wear the designer closet today to prove a point.

Her eyes did a slow, cruel scan. From my cracked laptop to my messy bun to my cheap shoes from Target.

And she laughed. A small, fake, pretty laugh that was meant to cut.

"Oh my god," she said, hand over her mouth. "Is this... is this the new one? The charity case? Julian texted me last night that you bought a girl from Queens. I thought he was joking. I thought he was drunk."

My hands froze on the keyboard. My face went hot.

Aaron's jaw tightened so hard I could see the muscle jump.

"Watch it, Victoria," he warned. Low.

"What?" She put a hand on her chest, fake offended, eyes wide. "I'm just saying, baby, you have a type now? Broke college girls with sad stories? Last time it was me, at least I came with a trust fund and a family name. What does she come with? Debt? A sick dad? A Depop store?"

The words hit me like slaps. How did she know about my dad? About Depop? Julian. Julian told everyone.

"Victoria," Aaron warned again, his voice lower now. That dangerous low that made grown men go silent last night. "I said leave. Now."

But she wasn't done. She loved this. She lived for this.

She walked toward me, heels clicking loudly on the marble, slow, predatory, and leaned against my tiny desk with her red nails.

"Let me guess, sweetie," she said to me directly now, smiling, but her blue eyes were cruel and cold. "He told you you're special. That you are different from all the others. That he never brings girls here to his precious penthouse. Right? That you are not like the others?"

"He told me the exact same thing three months ago when I was living here in this room. In that bed you're probably sleeping in. And before me, it was Sophia. She lasted six months. And before her, it was Isabella. She lasted a year. You're just the new model. Cheaper model."

"Enough!" Aaron slammed his hand on his desk so hard the monitors shook and my coffee almost spilled. I jumped in my chair.

He stood up, furious. His black eyes were pure black now.

"Get out of my house. Now. Before I have security carry you out."

Victoria finally looked a little scared for one second, but she covered it fast with a smirk directed straight at me, to hurt me more.

"Honey, let me give you free advice from one contract to another," she whispered to me, leaning down, her perfume choking me. "He doesn't keep his toys long. You are a contract, right? A 365-day contract, I heard? How cute. How small. I was a 2-year contract, no end date. You think you are his assistant? You are his paid pet. His new charity project. He will get bored by month three, he will—"

That was it.

Something inside me snapped. Like a rubber band that had been stretched for three days straight.

The burnt eggs this morning. The $2,800 dress I didn't want. Julian calling me for sale last night. This woman calling me a paid pet, a charity case, in the house where I was trying so hard to keep one tiny piece of my dignity.

I stood up so fast my chair fell back and hit the wall.

I was shorter than her. Poorer than her. My blouse cost $12. Her dress cost $12,000. But I was shaking with rage, not fear. And rage makes you taller.

"I don't know who you are," I said, my voice shaking but loud and clear in his silent office, "and I don't care who you were to him."

"But you don't get to walk into my workplace, into my home, and call me a pet. I am not his toy. I am not your replacement. I am not a charity case."

"I am Lisa Reyes. I have a 4.3 GPA at NYU. I work three jobs to keep my father alive in a hospital you could never survive one night in. I did not ask to be bought. I did not ask to be here. I was forced here to save my family. So you can take your Chanel bag and your red dress and your expired key and your Botox and get the hell out of OUR penthouse."

Silence.

Absolute, total, shocked silence. You could hear the AC humming.

Victoria's mouth fell open. Perfect red mouth open. Martha gasped loudly from the doorway, hand over her mouth.

And Aaron...

Aaron was staring at me like I had just set his entire building on fire and he liked watching it burn.

His eyes were wide. Dark. Shocked. And something else underneath. Something that looked a lot like pride. And hunger. And awe.

Victoria recovered first, her face red with fury. "You little broke b***h—"

"She said get out," Aaron said quietly. But this time, his voice was not cold. It was lethal. Quiet lethal. The voice he uses right before he ruins someone.

He walked around his big desk in two strides, took Victoria by the elbow — not gently, not rough, but firm, like she was trash to be removed — and walked her to the elevator. He pressed the button.

He took her keycard from her designer bag and snapped it in half right in front of her face with his bare hands. Loud snap. And dropped the two pieces on the elevator floor at her feet.

"Don't come back. Ever. If you text me, I block you. If you come here, I will have you removed. You don't have a key. You don't have a name here anymore. You are nothing here."

The elevator doors closed on her stunned, furious, humiliated face.

He stood there for a second, hands in his pockets, breathing hard, back to me. His shoulders were tense.

Then he turned around and looked at me.

I was still standing behind my tiny desk, shaking, tears now in my eyes from anger and adrenaline.

He walked to me. Slowly this time. Not like a boss. Not like an owner. Like a man.

"You called it OUR penthouse," he whispered when he reached me.

"I— I didn't mean— I was just angry, I didn't—"

"You did mean it," he said, cutting me off softly. He was now right in front of my desk, so close I could smell his cologne. He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair that had fallen during my speech behind my ear. His fingers were warm. They lingered on my cheek. On my jaw.

"No one has ever spoken to Victoria Laurent like that in her life. No one has ever spoken to anyone like that in this house. For me. Defending my house like it was yours."

"She called me a paid pet," I whispered, tears falling now.

"And what are you, Lisa?" he asked, his voice suddenly rough, low, his eyes dropping to my mouth, to my throat, to my shaking shoulders. "Are you my pet?"

"No," I said, looking straight into his black eyes, not looking away this time.

"Then what are you?" he whispered. The question hung heavy in the air between us. Dangerous.

I should have said "your assistant." Or "your employee." Or "your debt. Your contract."

But what came out of my mouth, small and broken and true, was:

"I'm the girl who burned her tongue on your stupid burnt eggs this morning because you tried to cook for me."

He stared at me for one second. Two seconds. Three seconds. His eyes searched my face like he was memorizing it.

Then he laughed — a real, loud, surprised, delighted laugh that echoed in his cold, dark office — and in one quick movement, he grabbed my waist and pulled me against the edge of his desk, his forehead almost touching mine, his breath on my lips.

"You are going to ruin me, Lisa Reyes," he whispered, his voice hoarse, his hands tight on my waist. "You were supposed to obey. You were supposed to be quiet and sit at your little desk. And instead you... you defend my house like a queen."

He didn't finish. Because the elevator dinged again.

Loud.

Martha's panicked voice called from the entrance, "Sir! Sir! The driver is here with Ms. Reyes' mother! She is downstairs! She says she came to see her daughter! She is very upset!"

My mother?

My blood ran cold. Ice cold. My mother was here? In this building?

Aaron let go of me instantly, his mask slamming back on, CEO face on. But his eyes stayed on me, dark and worried.

"Rule Eight, Lisa," he said quickly, straightening his white shirt, his hands still warm from my waist. "When your mother asks why you live with me in a penthouse on Fifth Avenue... we tell her you got a big promotion. You are my executive assistant now. You lie FOR me, not TO me. Understand? Can you do that?"