Trillion(7)

I’ve sat in on some meetings, amongst a hundred others, and we’ve passed in the hallway a time or two, never making eye contact. Other than that, nothing about our dealings have been remarkable or memorable, at least not for him.

I slip my work badge around my neck and lock up my office, mentally calculating how long it’ll take to get from the eighth floor of the southwest corner of our extensive corporate campus to the northeast section where I’ll hitch a ride on a private elevator to a penthouse office suite where Mr. Westcott spends no less than seventy hours a week.

Five minutes later, I check in at the desk outside his office where his number one assistant works behind a shiny black desk so gargantuan it nearly swallows her whole.

“Mr. Westcott wanted to see me,” I say. “Sophie Bristol, from Payroll.”

Spa-like music plays from hidden speakers but the air is particularly icy. I heard this is how he works. The hospital-grade air purifier combined with the frigid sixty-six degree thermostat keeps Westcott clear-headed and helps him do his best thinking.

The nameplate on the assistant’s desk identifies her as Mona, and while I’ve seen hundreds of emails go out on his behalf—all with her name on them—I’d yet to put a face with it. She’s stunning. Wide set hazel eyes. Inky dark hair that shines like lacquered glass. Pouty, mattered lips. Lingerie model body. Baby face. Barely twenty-three if I had to guess.

She taps a button on her phone, lifts her fingers to the microphone of her headset, and mutters something low before pointing to the double doors behind her with the hand-carved Westcott monogram: a giant W flanked with a P on the left and an A on the right.

Pierce Ainsworth Westcott III.

The third in a line of successful, old-moneyed men, the world has only ever known him as Trey.

“You can head in,” she says, gaze careful yet curious. “Mr. Westcott is ready for you.”

I press my fingertips against the gold-plated door handle and give it a push.

It swings open and in a flash of a second, I know how Alice felt when she went down the rabbit hole.





Four





Trey



Present



The doors glide open, presenting a beautiful bombshell of a woman backlit by the soft lighting of the reception area.

“Ms. Bristol.” I check my watch. She isn’t late. Quite the contrary. She came as soon as I called. But it’s crucial she learns I don’t like to be kept waiting. This will benefit her going forward.

She clasps her hands softly in front of her hips, drawing my eye toward her delicious hourglass frame, and pulls her shoulders back.

Clearing her throat, she accepts my gaze head on.

I like her already.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Westcott?” Her voice is smooth and unshaken. If I make her nervous, she’s doing a superb job of hiding it.

“I’m told you work in Payroll.” I come around the front of my desk, taking a seat on the edge and folding my arms across my chest.

She hasn’t taken a single step closer, keeping a careful distance of ten, maybe twelve feet between us. Either she’s quietly intimidated by me or she’s got a thing for personal space. If it’s the latter, we already share something in common.

“I do,” she says. “Going on three years next month.”

“And you love your job?” I ask.

Without pause, Sophie answers, “Of course.”

I don’t buy it.

Her brows meet. She’s confused. Understandably so.

“Tell me, Ms. Bristol, what are your long-term goals here at Westcott Corporation? Where do you see yourself in five years? Ten?” My attention shifts to her glossy pale waves and the glistening lips that deliver her words on a breathy velvet cloud.

She’s a walking, talking juxtaposition of vulnerability and confidence.

An enigma.

I’m too distracted by the way she carries herself to listen to the words coming out of her mouth. Besides, her answers don’t matter. I’ve already chosen her. Once my mind is set, there’s no changing it.

Sophie is in the middle of waxing on how long it took her just to get an interview here when I lift a palm to silence her.

“Thank you for that information, Ms. Bristol,” I say. “I’ve heard enough.”

She half-squints before righting her posture.

“I’m going to cut to the chase,” I say, drinking in her Coke-bottle figure. The subtle nip at her waist, the elegant way her heels lift her calf muscles, the shiny, flawless set of teeth I’ve yet to see overtaken with a full smile, the regal posture—either she’s pedigreed and hailing from a respectable family or incredibly self-assured and disciplined.

Either way, I’ll take her—she’s perfect for what I need.

“I’m relieving you from your current position,” I say, the way I’ve said to countless souls who’ve stood in her very position. I never apologize. I never break eye contact. I never sugarcoat.

The only difference now is I’m about to dump the opportunity of a lifetime into her lap, and she hasn’t the slightest.

I resist a smirk.

A sharp intake of breath passes between her open lips, but her expression is impossible to read. Her eyes—a steely Atlantic blue—don’t show a hint of emotion. Still as a statue, she lingers. Or maybe she’s hardening herself. This is a girl in complete control of her emotions. So much more than a pretty face and a marathon-sex worthy body.