Page 7 of His Scarlette Obsession
“I—that was just a draft,” I stammer, frantically clicking to close the document. “It’s not—”
“I expect you in my office in five minutes, Miss Hood.”
“Your office?” My voice comes out half-strangled. “But I don’t even know where—”
“Top floor. End of the hall.” He cuts me off, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Five minutes.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone.
The same phone that just delivered what might be the most humiliating professional moment of my entire career.
And yet...
And yet my skin still feels too tight. My face is still burning. My thighs are still pressed together like I’m trying to contain something embarrassing and unwanted.
Because apparently my body thinks getting fired by the most intimidating man in Manhattan is...exciting?
Five minutes,he said.
I grab my phone, my notebook, debate whether to bring my purse, decide against it because I’ll probably be escorted out by security anyway, and sprint for the elevator.
As the doors close, I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall. Flushed cheeks. Wide eyes. A strand of auburn hair has escaped my normally neat ponytail, the deep red contrasting vividly against my pale skin.
I look exactly like what I am: Little Red, racing straight into the wolf’s den.
Scarlette
I’ve never actually been chased by a bear, but I imagine this is what it feels like.
Heart battering against my ribs. Lungs burning. A primal certainty that something large and dangerous is about to devour me whole.
The executive floor is eerily quiet compared to the chaos of my normal floor. The carpet is thicker. The lighting softer. Everything whispers money in a way that makes my Target clearance outfit feel like it might spontaneously combust from inadequacy.
I stop in front of the massive double doors at the end of the hallway. There’s no nameplate. No sign. Nothing to indicate that beyond this threshold waits the man who now owns my company and, apparently, my career’s death warrant.
Just breathe, Scarlette.
I raise my hand to knock, but before my knuckles can make contact, a voice calls from inside.
“Enter.”
Sweet mercy, even through a door his voice does that...thing. That electric, tingling thing that makes my insides feel like melting caramel.
I push the door open and step inside, trying desperately to channel the confidence of someone who didn’t just compare their new boss to a predatory animal in a company newsletter.
The office is exactly what you’d expect from a man worth billions. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Manhattan like it’s his personal chess board. Furniture that probably costs more than my student loans. Art on the walls that looks like it should be in a museum.
And there he is.
Sheikh Lykan Qahiri.
Standing by the window, his back to me, a dark silhouette against the city skyline. He doesn’t turn immediately, which gives me an unwelcome moment to notice how his bespoke suit fits his shoulders like it was painted on. How his hair, dark as midnight, curls just slightly at the nape of his neck. How he stands with the kind of confidence that comes from never having been told no.
“Miss Hood.”
He turns, and I nearly swallow my tongue.
