The devil's secretary

Elaina’s POV The light hit me like a slap. I winced, my eyes fluttering open only to squeeze shut again against the sharp sting of the sun. Every muscle in my body throbbed. I felt sore, heavy, and… used. When I finally managed to open them again, I froze. This wasn’t my room. The sheets were far too soft, the furniture too expensive, the air too still. Everything screamed luxury—and danger. Where the hell was I? My hand fumbled lazily across the bed, searching for my glasses. But instead of cool metal, my fingers brushed against something warm. Hard. Alive. My heart stuttered. Slowly—terrified—I turned my head. And froze. There was a man in my bed. Naked. And my hand was resting on his manhood. Before I could even process it, a strong arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me effortlessly onto his lap as if I weighed nothing. And yes—he was completely naked. I stared, speechless, right into a pair of steel-grey eyes. Dangerous. Beautiful. A face sculpted by sin itself. God help me—what was I even thinking? “Let go of me. This instant,” I spat, struggling against his iron grip. He only chuckled. Low, dark, and amused. “That’s not what you were saying last night, little rose. You were such an obedient little slut.” His deep voice was smooth poison—mockery laced with satisfaction. And then, in one jolt, the memories started flashing back: The breakup. The bar. The stranger. Him. Adriano Moretti. The Adriano Moretti. My father’s friend. The Italian business tycoon. Ruthless. Untouchable. I’d slept with the devil himself. What had I done? His grip loosened, and I shot off the bed like a bullet. My body screamed with pain as I stumbled toward the bathroom. “Easy,” he teased behind me, his voice curling around me like smoke. I ignored him, locked the door, dressed as fast as my trembling hands allowed, and bolted. I didn’t stop until my G-Wagon’s doors slammed shut. Only when I reached my house did my pulse finally begin to slow. But the sight inside stopped me cold. They were all there. Waiting. My father sat like a judge at trial, his hypocritical wife perched beside him. My stepsister Theresa lounged on the couch like a queen, admiring her manicure, while her brother Evander smirked behind his phone. “Where are you coming from?” My father’s voice cut through the room like a blade. I froze, trembling. “You know I don’t like repeating myself,” he said, colder now. My heart raced. I knew that tone. I knew that look. “I—I…” The crack of his hand sent me sprawling to the ground. My cheek burned, tears blurring my vision. “You disgraceful child. The disgusting affair of your so-called fiancé is all over the news. I warned you about him, but you never listened. Now you’ve brought shame to me.” His voice was ruthless, each word a lash. My stepmother rushed to me with a syrupy voice. “Oh, honey—” I glared at her and shoved her off. “Now listen,” my father continued, eyes hard. “You’re going to start working at Moretti’s. If you do anything stupid, you’ll marry Mr. Jones.” My blood ran cold. No. I couldn’t. Not after last night. And Mr. Jones? He was nearly eighty. “No, Dad, I should be the one working there, not her!” Theresa’s voice sliced through the air. Her eyes burned with rage. She’d always had a crush on Adriano Moretti. “Yes, honey,” my stepmother chimed in. “Theresa should go instead—she’s more experienced.” “Adriano specifically asked for Elaina,” my father snapped. “I need his help, or why else would I send this disappointment to the Morettis? My decision is final. Go get ready, young lady.” His words stung deeper than the slap. Without another word, I picked myself up and went upstairs. Theresa’s stare followed me like a knife as I climbed. She hated this. I shut my door and slid to the floor, sobbing. Why did my own father hate me this much? My phone rang. Liora and Nyssa—my best friends. I wiped my tears and answered. “b***h! How dare you ignore our messages?” Nyssa’s voice was so loud I almost dropped the phone. “Nyssa, be quiet. How are you, love?” Liora’s tone was softer. “I heard everything. I’m so sorry. I always knew that Cassian was bad news.” “I’m fine, girls. Cassian’s in the past now. I really need to get ready for work at Moretti’s.” I forced a smile. Both of them blinked. “At Moretti’s? Like—the dangerous, handsome Adriano Moretti?” Nyssa asked, grinning. I nodded. “Ahhh, that’s so exciting! And just so you know, we’ll be coming over to London soon. Be ready. We love you!” Liora blew a kiss before cutting the call. I dragged myself to the bathroom. After the most refreshing shower I could muster, I dressed from my walk-in closet: a black pencil skirt, a crisp white shirt, Louboutin heels, and my black Birkin. Corporate armor for a shattered heart. I adjusted my glasses, ignored the stares downstairs, and left. --- The Moretti skyscraper rose like a monolith—intimidating, oppressive, impossible to ignore. I parked, walked in, and immediately felt every eye on me. A man in a tailored suit approached, his face neutral. “You must be Miss Elaina,” he said. “Yes,” I replied nervously. “I’m Alexandro, Mr. Adriano’s personal assistant. You’ll be his new secretary.” Secretary? My stomach twisted. “I’ll show you to your office.” We rode the elevator in silence until he opened a sleek door. “This will be your office. On the table is a list of Mr. Adriano’s likes and dislikes. He’ll be expecting his coffee in thirty minutes. The procedure is included. If there’s nothing else, I’ll take my leave.” And he was gone. I dropped my Birkin on the desk and stared at the stack of papers. Who even had a procedure for coffee? I opened the book. RULES 1. No physical touch with Mr. Adriano—or get killed. 2. No emotional attachment. 3. No personal talk. 4. No flirting. 5. No tardiness. I flipped to the coffee instructions. Black coffee. No sugar. No cream. Exactly 35 degrees Celsius. Rolling my eyes, I took the book and went to the coffee room. Voices whispered behind me. “I heard she’s the new secretary.” “Let’s see how long she lasts. The others didn’t even make it a day.” “Good luck to her.” My pulse hammered. I couldn’t lose this job. I wouldn’t marry Mr. Jones. I made the coffee and headed for his office, my heart in my throat. The man I’d just slept with—my new boss. I knocked softly. “Come in.” His deep voice slithered under my skin. I pushed the door open. There he was, perfect and lethal, his eyes cold, his expression unreadable. “You’re late, Miss Elaina.” His sarcasm dripped like oil. “It won’t happen again, sir,” I murmured, avoiding his gaze. He chuckled, low and amused. “Can I have my coffee now, little rose?” Little rose? My cheeks flamed. Why was he calling me that? “Sure.” I hurried forward, but the cup slipped from my trembling hands, spilling scalding coffee over his. His eyes snapped to mine. My blood froze. I was sure he was going to fire me—if not kill me—right then and there.