Alex pov
This early morning, I woke up to a continuous ping of messages from my group chat with my friends.
We played football together back in school, and our lives kind of tangled into one messy knot of brotherhood. And by that, I mean they're the annoying bunch who interfere in each other's lives like overzealous mothers-in-law on steroids—
Besides, since my friend Ashley—who I got to know through Natalie while in college—married one of the wankers, I was dragged into the middle of their unholy circle of demons.
Not that I'm some kind of saint or anything. But there are levels to being a little shit, and I'm pretty sure I'm the mildest of the bunch.
Anyway, Aiden and I are usually the heart of the group chat, so the fact that it was pinging while I wasn't in it was the first red flag.
The second red flag was finding that David, the spawn of chaos himself, was wide awake in the middle of the night just to catch their time zone.
And what I found when I opened the chat was enough to make me lose sleep altogether.
David: Remember when Alex came here not long ago with some announcement about the state of my shagging life?
Ronan: Oh, yeah. Turns out your dick wasn't broken after all.
Aiden: And I was right, you were shagging one person.
David: As they say, karma is a bitch and I'm here to expose him.
Xander: Don't tell me his dick is broken too? What the hell do they feed you in the States?
Levi: Ouch. I wouldn't know how to deliver that type of news to Ashley.
Cole: Is it just me who thinks this unorthodox fascination with each other's dicks is weird and should be frowned upon?
Aiden: Crawl back into your boring life and let us have our fun.
David: No, his dick isn't broken. And no, this isn't fascination. It's payback time so Alex will stop being a dick on Viagra. So here's the trivia moment. Guess who started working as his assistant?
Ronan: One of the blonde hookers you've been sending him?
David: Something close to that.
Xander: Fuck me, his assistant is really a hooker?
David: No, she's a blonde.
Ronan: Isn't he allergic to those?
David: He is, but this isn't just any blonde. She's the original blonde. You know—the one who broke his heart.
Xander: You don't mean…?
David: The name is Natalie Brooks.
Levi: What the actual fuck? I thought she disappeared off the face of the earth.
David: Apparently not. She's right here at Pierce Holdings & Titans, currently working as Alex personal slave—sorry, I mean assistant.
Levi: I didn't know Alex had a thing with Ashley's ex-friend, and I need to tell Ashley that.
Cole: Since when do you care about anyone but yourself?
Aiden: You fuck off.
Ronan: Me neither. I thought it was harmless flirting or whatever. I remember Alex boy saying she's a major bitch and that's it.
Xander: I saw them coming out of a room together once. I didn't think much of it. Who would've thought she was the blonde who traumatized him into a lifelong phobia?
David: He was pissed drunk during uni, and when I asked why he avoided blondes like they carried the plague, he told me one of them ruined everything. I had to stop him from hopping on a plane to England in his state. He said—and I quote—he wanted to find her, strangle her, revenge-fuck her, and maybe do it all over again.
Aiden: Sounds exactly like Daniel.
Xander: Now I'm intrigued. Hey, Lev, did Ashley mention anything about them?
Levi: Vaguely. Apparently, Ashley is closed off about anything to Natalie. She doesn't like any subject that includes her.
David: I'll keep you posted on the state of things here.
Ronan: Send us pictures, dear brother-in-law.
David: At your service, Ron. Here's to Alex curing his blonde phobia.
Xander: Amen.
The group breaks into a fit of chaotic laughter that practically vibrates through the screen.
These bastards live to see me suffer.
I send them screenshots of each of their embarrassing moments—drunken karaoke, failed pickup lines, Ronan crying when he lost a match—but that only makes things worse. Their sarcasm levels skyrocket like they've been injected with espresso.
To say I'm grumpy this morning would be the understatement of the bloody century. Not only did David, the traitorous rat, send me another blonde hooker last night, but he also decided to turn my life into the latest Netflix comedy.
The hookers are his idea of "payback" for how I called him out for not wrapping it up for the first time in his life. He's a cunt like that.
Or maybe I'm in a foul mood after what happened yesterday.
After I saw Natalie's tears for the first time… and touched them. After I heard her voice tremble when she said she's only tolerating my existence to keep a roof over her family's head.
Family.
When the fuck did she get a family?
Her father's gone. Her mum's gone too.
She was alone. Just like me.
But maybe—unlike me—she built herself a family. Maybe she became a functioning human, while I've been busy collecting demons like trophies.
I reach the office with those demons perched on my shoulders like smug bastards.
And because I'm in this mood, the urge to make someone else feel it too is stronger than caffeine.
Specifically, her.
I glance at my watch, counting the seconds until she misses the 8 a.m. mark. But of course, she walks in at exactly 8:00 like a punctual little menace. A cup of coffee in one hand, files in the other, looking like trouble wrapped in silk and tight fabric.
She's wearing a dark blue blouse that's criminally tight against her chest. The top two buttons are undone, and when she leans forward to place everything on my desk, I get a front-row seat to the creamy line between her tits.
My jaw clenches, my teeth grind. My dick hardens like it didn't get the memo that this woman is not allowed to affect me.
Being attracted to Natalie Brooks should be the last item on my agenda—right after "don't burn down the building."
"Here's your coffee and the contract drafts that you asked for. I also emailed you a digital version in case you need it," she says, voice infuriatingly calm.
"Are you a fucking whore?"
She jerks back, eyes wide, like I slapped her. "What is wrong with you first thing in the morning?"
"I should be the one asking that. Is seduction your next scheme?"
"W-what?"
I tilt my head toward her chest and her gaze follows. Her fingers fly to the loose buttons, cheeks blooming red like she's been caught.
If I didn't know her better, I'd think she was blushing. But Natalie Brooks doesn't blush. She detonates.
"That wasn't on purpose." She buttons her shirt, glares at me. "And you're the last man I'd ever attempt to seduce."
"That's because I won't be seduced by you."
"Perfect. We finally agree on something." Her chin lifts like the stubborn princess she's always been. "Now, if you'll excuse me."
Then she turns and walks out like she hasn't just set my brain on fire and punched my ribs on the way.
I almost call her back—just to piss her off. Just to keep her close for a second longer. But I swallow the urge.
Maybe I should throw her out. Go back to the empty version of my life before she waltzed back and cracked it open like a grenade.
But then I remember every fucking thing she did. How she turned my world upside down. And I shut those thoughts out.
I flip through the contract, red marker in hand, crossing out words that piss me off just because I need something to bleed my mood on.
When I'm done, I don't call her over. I go to her. I like catching her off guard. I like that little jolt she makes, the way her green eyes widen, her lips part.
It's pathetic. I know it. But it's mine.
Before I open the door, I see her—leaning against her desk, phone pressed to her ear, shoulders tight. She doesn't notice me. Her foot taps anxiously on the floor.
"…I know. I'm sorry, hon. I promise to come a bit earlier today, so wait for me and don't fall asleep, okay? I'll make your favorite dish."
Red fog. A punch of heat in my chest. My fist twitches.
I don't punch the wall. I want to. But I don't.
"Are you having personal calls while working, Ms. Brooks?"
She startles, stumbles forward, catches herself. The phone dangles at her side. Her expression freezes the way it always does when I blindside her.
Only this time, it hits differently.
This time, the sight of her blinking at me doesn't make me smug. It makes something raw twist in my gut.
"I…" she trails off.
"You're what? Does the firm pay you to talk on the phone?"
"I didn't think—"
"Obviously. Are you daft?"
"I'm not daft." Her voice hardens. "Stop calling me that."
"Then stop doing daft actions. Have another personal phone call while working and it'll be your last. Are we clear?"
"Crystal."
"And drop the fucking attitude. I mean it, Nat. You're not the one with superiority here."
She presses her lips together, silent. A soldier swallowing a bullet.
I throw the document on her desk. "I need that back in twenty minutes. Get to it."
I return to my office and close the shutters before I do something stupid—something like storming out there and demanding to know who the hell hon is.
Hon.
Who the fuck gets to call her hon?
Wait for me.
She used to be this unreachable, untouchable thing in my life, wrapped in sharp edges and soft lies. But someone else gets that warmth now. Someone else gets her at the end of the day.
And it feels like someone just shoved a knife through my ribs and twisted it.
She's always been a princess. Always had people serving her. So who the hell did she start serving? Who the fuck became the person she waits for?
I press my palms into the desk, breathing through my teeth.
She's going to drive me mad.