Is Today a Win for Miss Assistant?

Misogynist

Claire Delaney graduated with a master’s degree from Princeton a year ago. With excellent grades, she was recommended by her advisor to Lucien Thorne, who at the time was busy expanding his company’s overseas branches.

By coincidence, they shared the same mentor, and both were considered his prized students.

Claire stood out from hundreds of fierce competitors. Though her professor’s recommendation helped, no one could deny her own abilities.

After reviewing meeting minutes, tomorrow’s work schedule, and the guest list for an upcoming business exchange, Claire leaned back against her chair, finally allowing herself a moment of relaxation.

She glanced at her watch—12:30 a.m.

Because Lucien Thorne had returned to the country, the entire CEO’s office was brightly lit.

Other assistants could leave once their work was done, but not Claire. As the special assistant, she had to wait until Lucien was finished.

Rising to fetch some water, she stepped into the break room where two junior assistants were huddled together, whispering and gossiping.

The moment they noticed her, they straightened up and called out, “Assistant Delaney.”

Lucy quickly took Claire’s cup and helped her fill it. “Assistant Delaney, you’ve worked hard today.”

Claire accepted the cup with a wave of her hand. “It’s fine.”

“What were you two just talking about?”

Ailly giggled and replied, “We were gossiping. Last week, a photo leaked of Mr. Thorne with that rising star, Ella Oliver. Assistant Delaney, is it true? Is she really his girlfriend?”

Everyone knew that being an assistant required more than competence. It demanded emotional intelligence, intuition, and discretion—especially when it came to a boss’s private life.

A proper assistant would never reveal a single detail about their superior’s personal affairs. Claire’s tone turned stern: “Focus on your work. "Don’t stick your noses where they don’t belong.”

Ailly and Lucy let out disappointed sighs.

But Claire was not a “proper” assistant. Secretly, she had made it her mission to spread Lucien Thorne’s scandals into every corner.

Setting down her cup, she cleared her throat. “But since you insist, I’ll indulge you a little. That photo was misleading—the angle made it look like they were closer than they really were. In truth, they were at least two meters apart. It’s possible Ella Oliver is interested in him, but as for Mr. Thorne—he’s completely indifferent. In fact, he’s practically allergic to women. Misogynistic!”

“I strongly suspect he might even prefer me—”

“What do I prefer?”

The low, icy voice from the doorway froze the room.

Claire’s head snapped up to see Lucien Thorne standing there, her expression unreadable. Lucy and Ailly nearly jumped out of their skin, bowing their heads. “Mr. "Thorne…” they mumbled.

Lucien ignored them. His gaze fixed directly on Claire. “Is your workload so light that you have time for idle chatter? Or has your taste sunk so low you can only indulge in trivial gossip?”

His tone was calm, almost detached, but carried a chill that made people instinctively shrink back.

The two junior assistants trembled, not daring to breathe. Gossiping about the CEO was a serious offense. If Mr. Thorne chose to fire them on the spot, no one would be surprised.

They stared at Claire, silently thinking: She’s so done.

Caught red-handed—it was bad luck.

But Claire took a deep breath and bowed her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Thorne. I spoke out of turn.”

The other two assistants dared not even lift their eyes.

The silence stretched, heavy.

“Your apologies are more frequent than your meals. If I were you, I’d be too ashamed to lift my head.”

With a sharp remark, Lucien dismissed the matter, turned on his heel, and walked away.

Claire immediately grabbed her bag and hurried after him.

Work was over at last.

The break room instantly relaxed, the suffocating tension lifting. Lucy and Ailly still looked pale, as though they’d narrowly escaped execution. For a moment, they thought Claire would be finished. Surprisingly, Mr. Thorne—cold and ruthless as he was—let her off.

Inside the private elevator, Claire stood quietly behind him, chastened.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen—messages from Lucy and Ailly.

Lucy: Are you okay, Assistant Delaney? Sorry, I was too scared to say anything.

Ailly: I’m so sorry, Assistant Delaney. It was our fault for gossiping—you ended up getting scolded.

When the elevator dinged open, Claire quickly typed back: It’s fine. Just a small matter. Then she shut her phone.

In the underground parking lot, she opened the rear door of the car and frowned. The driver, Thomas, wasn’t there. “Where's Thomas?”

“Family issues,” Lucien replied.

So who would drive him home?

Before she could say more, Lucien had already slid into the backseat, reclining with ease. Even in the dim lighting, his sharp, aristocratic features stood out.

Only the two of them remained in the parking lot.

“Mr. Thorne, it’s already past one in the morning,” Claire ventured.

“So?”

So?

So, if she drove him home, it would take half an hour. Then another hour for her to get back to her own place. With tomorrow’s 9 a.m. conference, she’d barely get three or four hours of sleep.

Damn capitalists.

Claire couldn’t help but blurt out, “Mr. Thorne, according to labor law, employees cannot work more than eight hours a day or forty-four hours a week. You’re violating it!”

Lucien lifted his gaze, eyes narrowing with a faint smirk. “The minimum monthly wage in this city is 2,360. I pay you one hundred times that. Do you really want to lecture me about labor law while taking such a salary?”

Claire: “…”

“And as for spreading fabricated rumors about your boss’s private life…” Lucien massaged his temple, speaking slowly, “I have every reason to believe that the entire city now questions my s****l orientation—thanks to you.”

“!”

Heart-pounding, Claire quickly denied it. “It’s a misunderstanding! I would never make something like that up. I only repeated what I’d heard—just a slip of the tongue. It won’t happen again.”

He has no proof, she told herself. As long as I don’t admit it, he can’t pin it on me.

“Excellent.” Lucien’s eyes lowered. “Then I’ll deduct your year-end bonus.”

Claire: “…”

That damned tyrant. Completely unreasonable.

..................

The black Maybach melted into the night, gliding smoothly into Serano Bay with a practiced familiarity.

This was the most coveted real estate in Deep City—prime land worth its weight in gold. From here, across Blue Sky Lake, one can see the most dazzling night view the city has to offer.

After driving into the garage, Claire Delaney stepped out with her bag in hand.

As his assistant, she had been to his home more than a few times—helping arrange suits and ties, restocking his wardrobe—but at this late hour, there was clearly nothing for her to do. She shouldn’t have followed him up. She wasn’t even sure why she’d taken the bag out of the car.

Lucien Thorne, however, treated her actions as if invisible, not bothering to ask a single question.

At the door, Claire stepped ahead, quickly entering the password to open it for him.

The crystal chandelier overhead flicked on, flooding the spacious, pristine living room with light.

The apartment’s design carried a distinct air of cold austerity. A pale gray sofa set dominated the center, while the snow-white walls bore only a few paintings. Among them was one shocking piece—the last publicly exhibited work of a famous foreign artist, The Banquet. It portrayed naked men and women lounging together in brazen, decadent poses—provocative and indulgent.

Professional housekeeping kept the apartment spotless; though Lucien hadn’t returned in a month, the place was immaculate.

Claire fetched a bottle of water from the fridge, twisted it open, and handed it to him. She then took his discarded suit jacket, carefully smoothing it out and hanging it up. Her service was flawless, her gaze lingering on him with unspoken intent.

Lucien acted as though he hadn’t noticed. He accepted the water, took a slow sip, and then set the half-empty bottle on the marble counter. Tapping his long fingers against the stone, he finally lifted his eyes with deliberate indifference.

“What now?”

Just moments ago in the parking garage, she had been full of resentment—even citing labor laws against him. Now, suddenly, she was eager and attentive, in no rush to leave.

Unsolicited kindness.

That was what she was waiting for—a chance to speak. “I don’t mean anything else, really. It’s just that you’re such a generous, considerate, kindhearted boss—”

Lucien cut off her flattery with a dismissive glance, already unbuttoning his shirt. “Speak like a human.”

Claire clasped her hands together. “I’d like to stay here tonight. In the guest room.”

It wasn’t as if she wanted to. But driving another hour home would mean risking drowsy driving—and an early grave. And tomorrow morning at nine, there will be an exchange conference with the Chamber of Commerce and several universities. If she went home, then came back to pick him up, she’d barely get three or four hours of sleep.

Lucien was the very definition of a ruthless capitalist—he’d work her to the bone without a second thought. Whether she collapsed from exhaustion or not wasn’t his concern. Capitalists lacked humanity; Lucien Thorne was the prime example.

Still, his apartment was safe.

People often speculated about impropriety between powerful men and their female assistants, but such rumors would never apply here.

Yes, she was a beautiful woman—but Lucien had no interest in her. Of course, it wasn’t true, as she’d once jokingly claimed, that he hated women and preferred men. The truth was simpler: he possessed the innate arrogance of the ultra-wealthy.

Was Claire outstanding? Certainly. Young, strikingly attractive, a top university graduate, making a million a year after just one year of work—already the kind of success most ordinary people could only look up to.

In romance novels, Cinderella fantasies were a dime a dozen—rich heirs falling in love with beautiful ordinary girls.

But in the world of true elite families, beauty in a woman was the cheapest, most easily acquired commodity. Nothing more than a disposable accessory to their wealth.

And to Lucien Thorne, Claire was just that—an accessory.

A noble person would never stoop to pick up something so cheap.

Lost in thought, Claire nearly forgot herself.

Lucien, worn down by a long day, caught her overly eager expression and gave a faint, mocking smile. He had no interest in probing the petty thoughts of his assistant. His lips curled faintly as he tossed out a lazy, “Do whatever you want,” before heading into the bathroom.

The slam of the bedroom door echoed down the hall.

Claire immediately turned toward it and discreetly flipped him her middle finger.

….......

She was really exhausted. Too tired even to fuss about her skincare routine after running around all day. Entering the guest room, she quickly removed her makeup, peeled off her suit, and collapsed onto the bed.

No woman could stay perfectly polished at all times—unless she wasn’t a staff at all.

Just before sleep claimed her, Claire muttered curses under her breath: May Lucien eat pasta without a fork, and drink coffee without sugar.