Page 40 of Duplicity

I’m the one in control, and she’s a sure thing.

She’s no longer some elusive, artsy angel to be admired from afar in her creative milieu but very specifically a seraph. Now we’re in my milieu, and I’m paying a shocking sum of money to admire her up close.

Fuck, the thought has me hardening in my seat.

Can’t get in there soon enough.

I’m springing out of the car as soon as Yan’s pulled into my designated bay in the basement of our building. Mark, who’s found the journey just as boring as I have, bounds out after me, no doubt happy to be back in his second home with hundreds of adoring fans.

We take the lift up to the main reception, and I stride across the polished palatial space. I fucking love this building. Our footprint in this part of London tends to straddle both ultra-modern new builds and sensitive but ground-breaking restoration of old industrial buildings, and this former Victorian tea warehouse is a stellar showcase for our capabilities, if I say so myself.

Our architectural team designed the double-height ground floor around the original, unapologetically industrial features, keeping the weathered brick walls and the enormous cast iron girders. The timber columns and beams have been lovingly restored and lit to perfection, while a sleek poured concrete reception desk reaching across the far wall provides the necessary modern contrast. Behind it, huge illuminatedblack and white photographs celebrate the building’s illustrious history at the centre of Britain’s tea-trading heritage.

It looks like we’re arriving just as the first outflux of staff leaves to grab lunch. In an industry known traditionally for being pale, male and stale, I’m proud of the energy, the diversity, we’ve cultivated among our workforce, which is young and hungry. Our initial public offering a few years back has proven a fantastic way to lure in the smartest, brightest minds with stock options, and I can’t deny the changing of the guard (Dad to me, basically) has attracted new talent, too.

I’m used to causing a stir wherever I go in the company, and today is no exception. As Marlowe, Mark and I proceed across the vast lobby, the women of Sullivan Construction react in ways as predictable as they are varied: the more brazen among them tossing me knowing smiles while eye-fucking me with indecent indiscretion, and the more timid clearing a path with those deer-in-the-headlights eyes that my presence always seems to trigger.

As we approach the bank of lifts, Serena, our front-of-house manager with legs longer than some motorways, finds an urgent need to rise from her chair and lean over the reception desk, conveniently displaying both her cleavage and her ability to make eye contact through her lashes. The gaggle of women checking their phones by the lifts suddenly fall silent, their whispers replaced by not-so-subtle glances. Even that pain in the arse from Legal, who spent last year's Christmas party telling me how much of a liability I am, suddenly develops an intense interest in smoothing her skirt while stealing glances my way.

It's the usual parade. I’d like it stated for the record that I have never, ever dipped my nib in the office ink—I’m not that fucking stupid—and normally I'd find these reactions tedious or amusing depending on my mood.

But today there's an added edge to their behaviour. These women aren’t just eyeing me; they're assessing Marlowe too,this stunning blonde in pristine Dior walking beside me. The calculation behind their eyes is transparent: sizing up the competition, measuring how long she'll last, wondering what makes her different from the others. Little do they know she's both my EA and my plaything, and I've got plans for her that would make HR spontaneously combust.

Plans that are making my fingers twitch with impatience as we cross this endless fucking lobby.

Still, it’s a solid reminder that whoever I’m seen with regularly will assume a certain level of profile by association, and I’d do well to make my interactions with Marlowe as discreet as possible. The last thing she needs is every woman in the building staring daggers at her because they think she’s caught my eye. And the last thingIneed is the guys standing by the lift checking her out, even if a part of me can’t blame them.

I catch one guy behind her openly ogling her arse until he clocks me next to her. The smirk on his face vanishes as he visibly pales and clears his throat.

‘Mr Sullivan.’

I don’t grace him with anything more than adon’t even think about itfrown—I have no fucking clue who he is. Usually, I make an effort to engage with my employees, even when I don’t feel like it. Even when I don’t know their names or their faces. It’s important. Our success depends on everyone here feeling invested in this firm, and if a kind word or smile from me can help with that, then I’m all for it.

I’m all for it unless they’re mentally undressing my EA, that is.

We enter the lift, everyone else yielding to me, Marlowe and Mark, who trots obediently by my side. I nod my thanks to the person holding the doors for us and settle at the back of the metal box, allowing myself a quick glance at Marlowe. Shewas here fleetingly for her interview, of course, but it’s always different turning up somewhere for your first day of work.

She’s taking everything in with her quick, darting gaze. I suspect she has no clue she’s the object of both male and female scrutiny, but there’s no question that she stands out. It’s not like I can parade her around—the entire basis of success for this relationship will rest on our discretion—but it doesn’t matter, because the kick I get from knowing that this woman is bound for the executive floor with me, to be my secret little reward whenever I choose, is hot beyond belief.

And I want to remind her of that.

There’s no one behind us. I put a hand on the small of her back and let it slide down until it’s cupping the curve of her arse.

Fucking glorious.

She stiffens and shoots me a quick, alarmed glance that I return with a neutral, professional smile. Nothing to see here, folks, just a horny CEO groping his sexy-as-fuck EA with benefits… because he can.

As soon as we get to the executive floor, Mark scampers off in search of love, validation and treats. He’ll get all three here. I practically drag Marlowe past the bank of desks that house the various administrative roles supporting the management team.

‘This is Marlowe, everyone. I need to go through some urgent paperwork with her—I’ll introduce you properly later.’

Marlowe smiles and gives them an apologetichias she trails after me into my office. The wall facing the main area of the executive floor is glass, but it turns translucent or opaque at the flick of a switch and, thank fuck, is currently fully opaque.

I pull her into the room.

Take her bag from her and put it on the floor.

Slam the door shut.

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