Page 12 of Bossy Wicked Prince
I don’t have casual drinks with my employees, and I know what Raven wants from me is anything but casual.
I live by a set of rules. I don’t flirt at work. I don’t blur lines. Boundaries are how empires stay standing.
Raven pouts, and the guilt-trip is way out of line. I pay my assistants well because I expect them to be available twenty-four seven. If Raven has complaints about her compensation, she can take them up with payroll.
I glare at where her ass is still fused to my desk and she slips off as if pushed.
My fingers move quickly over the keyboard, following Cat as she goes through the kitchen and to the staff room to get her things. She’s about to walk home by herself again, on a Saturday night, when the streets are full of drunk partiers and predators looking for easy prey.
Does she careat allfor her own safety?
“Do you even care that I completely sacrifice having a social life to do this job?”
She’s still here?
“If I remember correctly—” Ialwaysremember correctly. “You said during your interview that you were happy to work late. I believe your exact words were ‘I’m not much of a socialite, anyway.’”
And that is officially the largest number of words I’ve ever spoken to her at one time. She should be flattered. Instead, she looks like I pissed in her cornflakes.
I return to watching Cat chat with another waitress in the staff room. Hopefully, they’re making plans to walk home together. I doubt either of them knows how to spot and disarm a threat, but at least there’s safety in numbers.
The contract I just handed Raven slams down on the desk. “You know what? Submit this to legal yourself. I quit.”
When I don’t look up, she groans, and in my peripheral vision, I notice her hands ball into fists that have to hurt with nails so ridiculously long.
Her motivation for lingering is obvious: make me beg her to stay. It won’t work, because I don’t fucking care. Personnel will send me another assistant within a few days, one smart enough not to distract me when I’m clearly busy.
“Fine,” I say coolly. “Drop off your key card at the front desk. HR will send your last check in the mail with your personal items.”
Raven lets out a caw of frustration before storming out of my office, slamming the door behind her.
Finally, I’m focused enough to follow Cat more closely. I watch as the other waitress she was talking to heads to the bathroom, pulling a silver dress from her bag. Probably changing to let off steam in the nightclub downstairs. That leaves Cat walking to the back exit alone.
I push away from my desk and grab my suit jacket from the rack.
Cat might have refused my driver, but would she say no to me directly?
I’m about to find out.
4
CAT
Shit.
Should’ve brought the damn umbrella.
Peering up at the sky as I leave work for the night, I send a silent plea for the rain to hold off until I get home, and grimace when the clouds rumble an ominous reply.
I hustle harder, pulling my cute but admittedly not very warm jacket tighter around myself, wishing I went for function over tiny foxes stitched into emerald fabric.
At least you have a coat,I remind myself.Andahome to go to when it rains.
So many people at the shelter don’t have that option—there are only so many beds, especially on nights like this.
I’m only a block away from work when a dark gray Porsche pulls up next to me, slowing to match my walking pace.
I frown, monitoring the flashy thing in my peripheral as I pretend not to have noticed and look for an escape route.
