Page 1 of Controlled By the Virgo

CHAPTERONE

Van

I stepinto my luxurious office, the scent of polished mahogany and leather filling my nostrils. The vast space is both a testament to my success and a reminder of the control I crave in all aspects of my life. Every piece of furniture has been chosen with meticulous care, from the imposing mahogany desk at the center of the room to the sleek leather chairs that surround it. On one wall, floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the city skyline, while the other walls are adorned with abstract art and a few awards I've won over the years.

"Mr. Carter, here are the latest reports on our acquisitions," Derek, my personal assistant, says, shuffling through some papers as he stands next to my desk. I can sense his resentment simmering beneath the surface, but I don't have time for his petty grievances.

"Thank you, Derek," I reply curtly, taking the documents from him and scanning their contents. "We need to move quickly on the Emerson deal. Their board is getting antsy."

"Of course, Mr. Carter," he responds, his tone as polished as his perfectly combed brown hair. "I'll arrange a meeting with their representatives immediately."

"Good," I say, satisfaction coloring my voice. It's essential that everything runs like clockwork under my command. I glance up at Derek, who is watching me with those sharp brown eyes of his, waiting for further instruction. His efficiency is commendable, but I know he's always looking for an opportunity to advance his own position. It's tiresome, really.

"Is there anything else, Derek?" I inquire, raising an eyebrow.

"Actually, yes," he replies hesitantly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Gerry wanted me to remind you about your lunch appointment with him today."

"Right," I sigh, rubbing my temples. Another fucking business meeting. I get tired of the rat race. It’s always the same old song and dance.

"Please confirm with him that I'll be there," I instruct, my tone clipped. Derek nods and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

As I return my attention to the papers on my desk, I can't help but feel the weight of the tension between Derek and me. It's like a storm cloud hovering over our interactions, threatening to unleash a downpour at any moment. And for now, I have no choice but to weather it.

I really need to put out an ad for another personal assistant, but I don't want to deal with the headache of interviewing new hires either, so I keep putting it off.

I sigh as I run a weary hand over my face and then glance at my wristwatch.

I'll deal with Derek's shit later. For now, I've got to meet Gerry for lunch.

CHAPTERTWO

Valerie

As I walkinto the small-town diner where I work, the familiar smell of coffee and bacon greets me. At nineteen, I should be in college studying for the career of my dreams—whatever that is. I don't even know what I wanted to be when I grew up anymore. When Mom got sick...well, that changed everything. There was no more room for daydreams. There was just instant responsibility.

So, this might not have been my dream, but I'm thankful for this job. This job is more than just a means to pay the bills.

It's a lifeline for my ailing mother.

"Morning, Val," Cassie, my coworker and best friend, chirps as she wipes down the counter. "How's your mom doing today?"

"Same as always," I sigh, tying my apron around my waist. "But we're getting by."

"Good, that's what matters." She pats my shoulder reassuringly before returning to her task.

The diner starts filling up with the usual breakfast crowd – construction workers, office employees on their way to work, and sleepy-eyed parents with their equally drowsy children in tow. I grab a pot of coffee and begin making my rounds, pouring steaming cups for those nursing hangovers or struggling through the early morning hours.

"Hey, Valerie, can I get a refill over here?" asks a regular, Mr. Thompson. His voice is gruff but warm, like an old flannel blanket that's been washed too many times.

"Of course, Mr. Thompson," I reply, forcing a smile as I pour him another cup. I know he's just trying to be friendly, but every time someone asks about my mother, it feels like a weight pressing down on my chest.

"Thanks, sweetheart," he says, taking a sip and grimacing. "Ugh, this coffee tastes burnt."

"Sorry about that," I apologize, making a mental note to check on the brewing pots. "I'll let the kitchen know."

"Much appreciated, dear," he nods, turning his attention back to his newspaper.

As I weave through the tables, refilling coffee mugs and scribbling down orders, my thoughts drift back to my mother. The cancer treatments are taking a toll on her, both physically and emotionally. It's hard to watch the woman who raised me so strong and vibrant reduced to a frail shadow of her former self.

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