Page 36 of The Secretary Volume II

A woman steps inside.She’s wearing a gray uniform.I don’t recognize her.But why would I?She’s just another figure in the anonymous army Ellis commands.

“I’ve been waiting for you to wake” she says briskly, setting a silver tray on the table.“Your eggs got cold, so I tossed them.I hope these are acceptable.”

“Thank you,” I manage, pulling the sheet tighter around me.It feels ridiculous—expressing gratitude while sitting naked in front of a stranger who won’t even look at me.

She doesn’t acknowledge it, her face perfectly neutral.Just moves to the closet, pulling out a garment bag.“I believe this should fit.”

She unzips it, revealing a simple black A-line dress.Understated.Elegant.Perfect.

Like someone knew exactly what I’d need.Like someonealwaysknows exactly what I need.

She finally looks at me, just for a second, as if assessing whether I’ll be a problem.

Then she smiles.

“Mr.Harrison asked me to give you a message.”

A cold knot forms deep inside me.

“He wanted me to tell you,” she says, hanging the dress, “that it’s important we see things clearly.”

She waits.But I don’t respond.

The words hang there, heavy.Loaded.

She leaves.

It’s important we see things clearly.

I look at the dress—of course, it fits.Perfectly.

Still, a gift from Ellis never comes free.

I slide into it anyway, because what choice do I have?

19

Gillian

Imanage three polite bites of eggs—just enough to be convincing—and let them sit uneasily in my stomach.It feels oddly like a last meal.I’m halfway through wondering if paranoia has calories when the door chime rings softly from the hallway.I take a final glance around the room—spotless, impersonal, sterile—and move toward the exit, grabbing my purse as if it might somehow protect me from whatever comes next.

The driver stands beside the sleek black sedan, door already open, his expression neutral in that practiced way all of Ellis’s people have mastered.I slip into the backseat and feel like I’m stepping into the quiet mouth of a predator.The interior smells faintly of leather and antiseptic—luxury mixed with something colder, more clinical.

“Straight to the office?”I ask, already knowing the answer in my gut.

The driver’s gaze lifts to meet mine in the rearview mirror—polite but chillingly detached.“Not today.”

I sit back slowly, my heart kicking into a rhythm I don’t like.The car pulls away smoothly, and though I don’t know where we’re headed, I recognize the route just enough to dread it.It’s not Shergar’s headquarters or the apartment Ellis keeps in the city.

When we arrive, the building looms stark and modern, all glass and polished steel—a façade so aggressively bland it practically screams nothing to see here.No name, no branding, just an address and a cold anonymity that sends my pulse quickening.

As soon as I step out, the doors slide open automatically, and I’m greeted by yet another stranger in another gray uniform.She smiles warmly, but there’s an emptiness behind it—a practiced veneer of comfort stretched thinly over something colder, darker.

“Miss Martin,” she says pleasantly, as if we’ve known each other forever.“Right on time.”

“I think there’s been some mistake.”I glance back toward the car, nerves flaring.The driver waits calmly, watching me—as if daring me to run.As if knowing I won’t.

“No mistake,” she assures me cheerfully, like I’ve simply forgotten a scheduled haircut.“They’re ready for you now.”

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