Page 1 of Ruthless Mr. Ricco
Chapter 1
Brook Simons
One week.One fucking goddamn week.
I grit my teeth and slip the last of my personal items into my briefcase as I fight the fury rising in my veins.Heat creeps up from my toes, infecting every inch of me and damning my attempts at remaining stoic as my chest and face flush.Eleven years’ worth of blood, sweat, and tears circle the drain as I fit the strap of my briefcase onto my shoulder.I turn and face the balding man standing in the doorway.He wasn’t present during my interviews or visible during any of the onboarding process, but with his tailored suit and air of importance, I don’t doubt his authority.
The signature at the bottom of my termination paperwork must be his, but I don’t waste my time looking for his name.
“Thank you for the opportunity, and I’m sorry it didn’t work out.I’ll review the documents and get back to you.Excuse me,” I manage through my clenched teeth.
He doesn’t move out of the doorway.
As if being fired barely a week after being hired isn’t mortifying enough, the man adds insult to injury when he lifts his round chin and looks down his pompous nose at me.The clerks and administrative staff lean over their desks and crane their necks around corners to watch the spectacle.
“If you had been truthful from the start,Miss Prescott, we would’ve known you weren’t a proper fit for our law firm before it came to this,” he says.
My heart leaps into my throat and a red haze settles over the world.Hearing him call me by my father’s last name fills me with rage.I take a deep breath to calm my anger, but his cologne clogs my nostrils and sours my tongue.My words emerge clipped and hard.
“You may call me Attorney Simons, as is my proper title and legal name.If you continue this discussion as you’ve begun, I’ll note it toward a wrongful termination lawsuit and sue the company.Step aside, please.”
I’d much rather slam my briefcase into his face and stomp on his protruding gut as I step over him, but violence won’t get me the justice I seek.
Eighteen-year-old me would gasp in horror if she knew the train of my thoughts.Twenty-nine-year-old me yearns to see it through.
The man’s face purples with outrage.I tighten my grip on my bag’s strap but relax my shoulders and raise my voice so it carries throughout the office.
“You gave me termination paperwork but are preventing me from leaving.False imprisonment is both a criminal offense and a civil tort.Please step out of the doorway and allow me to exit.”
High heels click on the polished floor as Attorney Riley rushes down the hall.Older than me by almost two decades, the woman wears her skirt suit a little too tight and cakes her face with makeup.Her perfume arrives several seconds before she rests her hand on the man’s shoulder.
Disgust rolls down my spine as she bats her fake lashes and simpers out an excuse.
I understand the profession of law is a hard place for a woman to survive, but I will never placate a man when he’s wrong.Life is too short to waste my time stroking some jerk’s ego.
With what’s probably meant as a threatening glare, the man scoffs and stomps down the hall.I quirk an unimpressed brow as I swallow the nasty words building in my throat and leave the room without a backward glance.
I had no plans to decorate my first official desk, but sadness tightens my chest as I realize how fleeting my time here was.Part of me knew it was too good to be true, but to have my hopes dashed so mercilessly is cruel.
Which is precisely what I should expect from my father.It isn’t the first time he’s thrown his clout around to destroy my future since he kicked my mom and me to the curb eleven years ago, but it hurts all the same.
Men are pigs.The world would be a better place without them.
I stride through the halls, ride the elevator down to the lobby, and exit the building with my head held high and my anger wrapped tightly around my heart.
The sunlight gleaming off the high rises and pounding down on the busy streets does nothing to lighten my mood.
Chad Prescott, the man who stole my mom’s inheritance, divorced her because she was sick, and kicked me out of the house so his new family could move in, knows I changed my last name.He’ll make it nearly impossible for me to get a decent job in New York City now that he’s aware.I grit my teeth and drop my stoic mask as I turn and stomp down the sidewalk.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.I pull it out and check the caller ID.
Dread and hope war within me.I detour into the nearest coffee shop and answer my mother’s call.
“Hi, Mama, how’d it go?”
“Oh!Brook, honey, I didn’t expect you to answer.Aren’t you at work?”
The air thins.She didn’t answer my question.I squeeze my phone so hard my fingers ache.Bile burns the back of my throat, but I swallow and shove my emotions down deep.There may be tears in her voice, but she isn’t crying.She sounds happy.I force myself to smile, ignoring the trembling of my lips.
