Oh shit.
He's actually considering it.
I swallow hard.
I'd mapped out at least five outcomes where I'm escorted out of the building followed by 'Crazy Secretary Ousted From Major Company' headlines tomorrow. But he's not kicking me out. He's just a connoisseur of train wrecks and wants to see the full derailment before calling security. Either way, I can't back out now.
"You must have noticed I no longer wear my engagement ring."
He's silent for a beat. "I noticed," he says quietly.
I nod. Of course he did. Everyone did.
"And if you've been listening to the gossip around the water cooler, you probably know why."
"I don't partake in office gossip," his voice is ice. "Enlighten me."
Fuck.
I knew that if I managed to get this far I'd have to narrate this but that doesn't mean I want to.
"My wedding was two months ago. It… it didn't work out."
It more than 'didn't work out', it blew up in my face and broke me in ways that would've been impressive were it not painful. "My fiancé— ex fiancé decided that my sister was more his type than me."
As I narrate the tale now, I watch it all play out like some pathetic, clichéd story. Me, standing at the altar in a white dress with a price tag so high I still gag to think about it. The guests getting restless, wondering why the ceremony is starting so late. Then Liam, my fiancé, stumbling down the aisle, reeking of champagne, and announcing to me, my family, and everyone we know that he's sorry, but he can't go through with it. He's been cheating on me with Chloe, my sister, and it would just break his heart if I never get to find love the way he did with her.
The worst part is: no one cared that I was hurting. My parents, his parents, our so-called friends. They all said I was too serious. That I was hyper fixated on work and they could all tell I didn't really want to start a family. So of course it was no surprise he went for someone as perfect as Chloe. There I was, in tears and wondering how to pick up the pieces of the 'forever' I'd envisioned with him, and they still had the gall to repeat the same shit I'd heard my whole life; 'why can't you be more like your sister.'
"Their engagement party is coming up and, by year's end, they'll be married. I can't exactly skip any of that, considering I'm her maid of honour. So…"
He raises a brow. "So?"
I am not backing down.
"So, I need to show them," I hiss. The sting of betrayal is still fresh and sharp. "I need to show them that I'm better off without them. That Liam isn't the prize he thinks he is. That I can do infinitely better."
That I'm worth the love they don't think I deserve.
I don't care if it's not real. I just care that they think it is. That's enough for me.
Malachai observes me with that quiet calm he usually reserves for business meetings. The one that tells me he's considering all the pros and filing away the cons.
He shrugs one broad shoulder. "I'm sorry about all that, Miss Monroe. I truly am. But it sounds distinctly like a you problem. What, in any of that, made you think I would want to marry you?"
A smile tugs at the corner of my lips.
I really didn't think I'd get this far. That doesn't mean I didn't come prepared.
I sit across from him, crossing my legs so my skirt rides up. As sure as the sun shines, so too does Malachai's eyes find the skin above my knees. You poor, horny man.
"You're sexually attracted to me," I deadpan.
His eyes flicker up from my thighs to my face in a slow, deliberate appraisal. I'm dressed as I normally would if 'normal' meant that my usual knee-length pencil skirt had been replaced by one that ended a good four inches above my knees. My standard-issue silk blouse is a size too small, clinging to every curve with a significantly lower neckline that reveals a hint of the black lace camisole beneath. I spent an hour on my hair and makeup.
"You're a beautiful young woman, Miss Monroe," he says simply. "Any man with blood in his balls would be sexually attracted to you."
I scoff internally. Not Liam, apparently.
"That being said," Malachai continues, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble that doesn't belong in this office, "I am an attractive man with a great deal of money. I have no shortage of beautiful women vying for the… pleasure of my company. There's no way I would get married for that. Try again."
I had a feeling he'd say this. He's right, afterall. Malachai Shaw's long list of exes consists of models and pop stars and actresses, none apparently good enough for him. I prepared for the possibility that if— and that was a massive 'if'— I wasn't fired on the spot, he'd counter my first point with that.
I pull out card number two.
"Because you're stuck. Just like me."
He raises that infuriatingly perfect eyebrow again, a silent command to continue.
My mind flies back to one week ago. I'd brought in his afternoon coffee and found him on the phone, his back to me, his voice a furious, low snarl. A single document was lying open on his desk. The header read: Shaw HOLDINGS - CLAUSE 7B: SUCCESSION PROTOCOL. I wasn't supposed to see it. I'd only caught a few phrases before I'd hurried out, my heart in my throat. '...must be legally wed by his 35th birthday…' and '...failing which, controlling interest reverts to Silas Shaw…'
His brother. The most obvious and frequent cause of his bad moods.
Judging by the fact that I, his ever-efficient secretary, sends a discreet reminder to my own calendar every year to order a birthday card for him, he has exactly four months and twelve days until he turned thirty-five. A deadline that landed just two weeks after Liam and Chloe's disgusting engagement party.
"Your grandfather's will," I say, my voice gaining confidence. "You have to be married by your thirty-fifth birthday, or the company goes to Silas. You have until March 14th next year."
The air in the room goes cold. His expression doesn't change, but I feel the shift, the way an animal senses a coming storm.
"You're right," he concedes, his voice dangerously soft. "I am in a precarious situation. But unlike you, who seems to have no other options, I have someone lined up for that particular role. Someone who is not my secretary."
My heart plummets straight to my expensive, inappropriately high heels. "A girlfriend?"
Last I checked (i.e this morning) he was single.
"No," he replies simply. "Not yet, at least."
So I still have a chance. I reach for my third and final card. The nuclear option. It's reckless. It's probably suicidal. But it's all I have left.
"Okay. I see," I feign nonchalance. "Then I suppose she probably doesn't know what you actually do for a living."
His eyes go arctic. The carefully constructed wall of civility crumbles, revealing the dangerous man I know lurks beneath. "What did you say?"
I stand and place my palms flat on his cold, glass desk and lean forward, levelling him with a stare I hope conveys more bravery than I feel.
"I don't think your prospective fiancée would be too happy to know the real source of your capital, Mr. Shaw. But I'm sure the press and the SEC would be absolutely thrilled to know about Shaw Imports'… specialised logistics arm. The one that deals in things a lot more valuable than consumer electronics."
He's perfectly still. A predator assessing its prey.
"Are you blackmailing me, Miss Monroe?"
I shrug one shoulder, a pathetic imitation of his earlier gesture. I am blackmailing him
"I'm just a secretary, asking her boss for a… favour."
He leans forward, mirroring my posture until our faces are only a foot apart. I can see flecks of silver in his grey eyes. "If you know what I do then you know that I am a dangerous man. What makes you so sure that poor, little Miss Monroe, stressed and depressed from heartbreak, won't simply tragically take her own life tonight? Much to the bereavement of her family and her… caring boss."
A chill, colder than the Seattle rain, slithers down my spine. He's threatening me. Directly. I'd expected it, but hearing it is different.
"Because," My voice trembles. I force it to be steady, "when the police come snooping around, it would be a real headache for you when they find out that poor little Miss Monroe knew a little bit too much about big, powerful Mr. Shaw. I've been a very good secretary. I keep detailed notes."
He looks at me in silence for what feels like an eternity, his cold, calculating eyes scanning my face, searching for a lie, for weakness.
He will find none.
"Any more questions, Mr. Shaw?"
"Just one," his voice is barely audible. "Why me?"
I thought that would be obvious. He's Malachai Shaw. The Malachai Shaw. One of People magazine's worlds hottest men. Cited as Business Insider's most elusive CEO. The rich, single playboy loved by all straight women and envied by all straight men who knew of him.
Liam worships men like Malachai. Men with more money and power than his pathetic daytime trader life could give him.
It has to be him.
"Because our story will be more believable than whatever you can spin with some actress or rando you met at the club," I say, the practical answer tripping off my tongue. "Think about it; what's one more secret office romance in an industry that's full of them?"
"That's true," Malachai muses, tracing his jaw. "But you're not being completely honest with me, Miss. Monroe. I will not build a relationship on lies."
A 'relationship' huh? Props on him for not calling it a hostage situation.
I sigh. "Because when Liam hears it's you I'm with, he's going to feel like the insignificant, pathetic speck of dust that he is."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
For a moment, we just stare at each other. His dark eyes to my green ones.
My heart stutters as he stands up. He looms over me, his height and presence suddenly overwhelming the large office.
"And here I thought you were a quiet, unassuming woman," he murmurs, a strange, almost appreciative note in his voice.
I take an involuntary step back as he lifts his hand. I flinch, half-expecting… I don't know what. But he simply holds it out, palm up, between us. A gentleman's offer.
He looks at me, and for the first time, I see something other than anger or calculation in his eyes. It looks like… respect.
"Alright, Juniper Monroe," my name is a vow on his lips. "Let's get married."