Page 3 of Bad Boss

As if sensing my train of thought, he cocks his head and jabs those stern blue eyes into mine. Then he turns to stare from the floor-to-ceiling window behind him.

“A decade ago, this company was a floundering label with no prospects. I’m the one who took charge of the board from those lazy, money-grubbing bastards my father had installed. I’m the one who spearheaded a new direction of innovative design. I’m the one who…”

“Staked a claim on the heart of high-end fashion and uniquely melded style with a business acumen,” I recite, spewing a line more or less from the company website. It’s the kind of blather I’m used to including in emails when trying to browbeat a positive news story from a journalist. Oddly enough, though vain he may be, I rarely have to pump this kind of fluff into Graeme Bellamy himself. He isn’t the type to require a pep talk.

So why now?

“If image wasn’t so damn important in this city, I would have kept our headquarters in the old warehouse near the docks,” he grouses, naming the very spot his great-grandfather had founded the company nearly a century ago. “I can’t deny that this location is impressive.”

He’s right, though he doesn’t sound happy about that. It’s a breathtaking view. From this height, a gleaming swath of the city lays before the office building like a kingdom ripe for the taking.

And, as long as we stay on schedule, it is.

“Sir?” I glance at my watch as well and mark exactly six seconds before he turns and strolls past me for the door.

“Evelyn,” he snaps, as though calling a dog to heel.

And we’re back on track.

Out in the hallway, a still-shaken Branden is rewarded with a terse, “Good morning, Aiden,” for his trouble before Mr. Bellamy commandeers an elevator that takes us to the lower level.

As the elevator doors open, I take five seconds to ready myself. It’s always chaos in the office this early, with plenty of opportunity for someone to do or say something to piss off Bellamy and ruin ten minutes of hard work. Again, I glance at my watch. We have exactly five minutes to spare. Ready. Set. Go.

“Good morning, Mr. Bellamy!” The greetings come almost as soon as he steps out onto the polished marble floor of the main lobby. The open, modern design cost thousands to implement—all sleek metal and polished surfaces. A throng of workers, dressed to the nines, is clustered nearby, and the moment they spot Bellamy, they stand at attention. Luckily for me, his still surly expression warns most of them off, but a few lines are muttered regardless.

“Good morning, Sir.”

“How are you, Sir?”

“Thank you for the flowers, Mr. Bellamy,” a perky blond in a beige pantsuit gushes as we pass. I’m close enough to notice how Bellamy’s eyes curiously cut in my direction.

“Birthday,” I mutter. “That’s Catherine Howard, and you—through me, of course—arranged for roses, her favorite flower, to be hand delivered to her desk last Wednesday. As the head of the legal department, it pays to keep her happy.”

“I hope you had a lovely day,” Bellamy says at normal volume while reaching out to shake her hand. He sounds so sincere that one might think he remembered to send the gift himself.

Regardless, the distraction only costs us two and a half seconds, and we still reach the front of the building on time. Then, all my planning goes to shit. The traffic is murderous for a Monday morning, and James, the driver, does his best to navigate the shitstorm of taxis and town cars, but I calculate that we’ll be at least seven minutes late. Seven whole fucking minutes.

Deep breaths.Like any beast, Bellamy can sense fear. Therefore, I disguise my irritation by flipping open my planner and scanning the details with a religious focus. My boss, on the other hand, isn’t as subtle in disguising his emotions.

Now that no one else is there to witness his tantrum in full swing, I notice that he’s clenching his jaw and fiddling with his tie—two warning signs that an explosion is in the works without immediate intervention.

“This meeting,” I start, thumbing quickly through the details. “It’s with one—”

“Adrian Riley,” Bellamy fills in, his tone murderous and his accent delectable. So much is conveyed through the sinister utterance alone, and I suspect that poor Richard Morris was just a proxy for the true source of Graeme Bellamy’s latest case of manly PMS.

Adrian Riley. Right. I run through my mental database of all things related to Atelier Noir and come up blank.Wait, what?

I blink, rack my brain… once again, nothing. Even my notes for the meeting merely state the time and address. Strange. I know everything about Bellamy’s life. I know about Gloria and when to wire her weekly allowance of hush money. I know about his sister Stella, who is currently backpacking through Germany on a quest for “self-enlightenment,” and apart from that…

Well, that is pretty muchit, as far as his personal life goes. Graeme Bellamy has no wife, only a handful of ex-girlfriends—all of whom kept their distance… mostly—and no children or friends to his name. Adrian Riley is a mysteriously round puzzle piece that doesn’t fit into the neat, square grid I’ve meticulously studied.

“Do you know him?” I ask, already wrapping my fingers around my pen. I wait to jot down whatever details he might rattle off, but Mr. Bellamy merely grits out a harsh sigh and glares from the window.

Another daunting sign. If there is one thing, out of many, that Graeme Bellamy isnot, it is secretive. Moody? Yes. Hostile? Always. Obsessive? Compulsively so. Ruthless? Check, check, and triple check. But guarded? No… never.

My mind spins as I watch my pen rest against the page of my planner. The rapidly spreading ink mirrors how my nerves unravel. Discovering something new about someone as predictable as Graeme Bellamy is not a good sign, to say the least. In fact, it’s a terrible fucking omen.

The knowledge haunts me as James barely escapes a traffic citation to bring us to our destination, only five minutes behind schedule. It’s not ideal, but I’m still counting it as one positive in an already shitty day.

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