Page 37 of The Unplanned Wedding

He spent the rest of the day offloading various projects for me to lead on. And these weren’t simple tasks. They involved intricate negotiations and maneuvering with his senior team, and he put me in charge of it. He knows I can’t resist a challenge and that I wouldn’t refuse. He’s testing me in a different way, and I'm determined to deliver. Just as I have these last few weeks. The more he tests me, the more I’m resolute that I’m going to pass with flying colors. I’m not going to let him down.

Besides, if this is the only way he’s going to give me any attention, I’ll take it. I know he’s making me work for his approval, and that should make me feel pathetic but honestly, it doesn’t. I know when he does finally acknowledge me, it’s going to feel amazing. It’s going to be worth all my hard work.

At least, his grandfather wanting to see him yesterday gave me a legitimate excuse to get his attention, even if it was only for a few seconds and it ended with him telling me off... At least, he noticed me. For a little while there, I was the sole object of his interest, and it felt so good.

He worked non-stop, not even taking a break when I went into his office to drop off his lunch. I left without disturbing him and focused on my own jobs. I made enough progress that I was able to carve out time to search online and identify the adoption search specialist I want to hire. Of course, considering the costs involved, I stopped myself from emailing her. I can’t afford her...yet. But perhaps, once I get paid for my second month here... I can set some money aside for her services. Or maybe, I’m simply putting it off. Maybe, I’m delaying. Perhaps, if I really wanted to do it, I'd prioritize this over anything else.

I clicked out of the window, then focused on my to-do list.

When 5 p.m. rolls around, he heads out of the office. He nods at me to follow him, and I jump up at once to obey. I follow him to the gym in the basement of his luxurious condominium in the most sought-after postal code in the city.

I stand to the side, holding his bottle of water. I should hate beingreduced to his minion, but I don’t. I’m happy he’s using me as sees fit. At least, I’m here with him, instead of in the office, and I feel so damn grateful for that.Does that make me less of a feminist? Maybe. But I’m being honest with myself, aren’t I?I flick a glance in his direction, and my mouth dries.

He’s divested himself of his suit and tie and is now wearing gym shorts. They circle his lean waist and hint at the package tenting the crotch. They also outline every coiled muscle in those powerful thighs and highlight the scars on his left leg. There are more on the left side of his chest that travel up and over his shoulder. The skin is puckered in a fashion similar to that of the scar on his cheek. Not only was his face hurt in what happened, but also his body.

It should revolt me, but his injuries only add to his appeal. That image of him as a marauding warrior injured in battle is cemented in my brain.

I slide my glasses up my nose and take in his naked torso.Whoa!It’s better than anything I imagined. I feel...like I’m being granted a special treat. A part of me is sure he doesn’t reveal the scars on his body openly, which is why he prefers to book out the entire gym, so he has privacy when he works out. But he‘s sharing that part of himself with me, and I feel so grateful. Then a thought occurs:Is he doing it to compensate me for all the arduous work I put in today?Before I can follow through this line of thinking, he drops down on his palms and toes. He begins to work out, and I’m riveted.

His biceps bulge. His triceps do that tightening thing where his entire arm seems to be sculpted from stone for a second. He proceeds to pump out a hundred push-ups—I know because I count—before he springs up to his feet and holds out his arm. I slide the bottle of water into his waiting palm again.

He throws his head back and chugs down the contents, then tosses me the empty bottle. Some of the water drips from his chin onto his chest, and I swear, my nipples almost poke their way through the blouse and jacket I’m wearing.

He glances down at my heels and frowns. "That’s not safe to wear in the gym." He glares at me, and I can’t stop the shiver that runs up my spine. I forgot how gravelly his voice is. How my body reacts to the rich timbre. How my bones seem to dissolve at the dark edge to his tone.

"Stay here," He points a finger at me, then heads to the changing room,returning with a pair of sneakers. He goes down on one knee and holds out his hand, palm face up.

I gape at him. "You can’t be serious."

He merely raises his eyebrow at me as if to say, “Of course, I’m serious. Have you ever known a time when I’m not serious? So, do what I say, right fucking now."I understand without him saying the words.How annoying. And how freaky is that?

I place my foot in his palm, then am forced to grab his head and latch onto his hair to support myself. Gosh, the strands are thick and silky, yet also springy. He slides off my stiletto—Ferragamo, since you asked. And yes, I’m wearing the clothes he sent me, only because I do care about the image I project. It has nothing to do with the fact that the footwear is all original brand names and so comfortable to wear. He slides a sock onto my foot, then slips on a sneaker, it fits. He does the same with my other foot.

"How did you have these on hand?" I can’t stop myself from asking. The socks are made of very comfy material—not like the ones I purchase at the discount store.

"I had them ordered," he snaps.

I purse my lips. "So, you knew you were going to ask me to come to the gym."

He shoots me a glare. "Yours is not to question why?—"

"But to do or die?" I wriggle my toes in the sneakers. "Paraphrasing Alfred Lord Tennyson, I see. Didn’t know you had a secret crush on a dead English poet?"

His glower deepens.Jeez, what crawled up his arse?He’s the one who said, I’ll only be his employee from now on, and nothing else. I’ve tried my best to follow his rules. I’ve been good. I’m doing what he tells me, not that he notices. If anything, he seems even more pissed-off. The man has been an absolute tyrant to me and the rest of his team. So much so, the department leads have approached me individually to say they’re pleased they don’t have to deal with him.

They’re routing all their communication for my boss through me. It puts even more strain on my time.

He rises to his feet, then nods at the refrigerator in the far corner. "Get me another bottle of water."

Guess I’ve been put in my place.

"Good talk." I spin around and walk over to the recycling bin, dropping the empty bottle before grabbing a full one from the refrigerator and walking back to him.

He’s at the push-board bench, pressing weights many times his own. I stand with the fresh bottle of water and a towel, trying not to ogle the way his abs flex, and his shoulder muscles bunch, and his thigh muscles ripple each time he pushes up the weights. Beads of sweat glisten on his torso. One slides down his concave stomach toward his waistband.

I gulp. Feel my own forehead moisten.Is it hot in here?The gym is air-conditioned, but you wouldn’t know it, given the way my palms are sweating. I raise the bottle of water and press it to my heated cheek, and I’m not even working out.

I shoot my boss a glance and find his jaw hard, forehead wrinkled as he glares at the weights he’s grappling with. The scar on his cheek seems to protrude with the effort.

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