Million Dollar Devil

20.

There are a lot of things in life I dislike...oysters, crowds, EDM music. But above all, the thing I despise most is this feeling right now. I stare down at the stack of contracts on my desk, neatly organized but somehow feeling heavier with each passing second. I've gone over them more times than I care to admit, double-checking every detail, ensuring everything is in order. They're done, finished and ready to be handed over. But I haven't moved from my chair. I can't bring myself to take them to him.

The thought of walking into Mr. Hayes' office makes my stomach twist into tight knots. I've been avoiding him all day, scratch that, all week. I've been a slipping in and out of my office, hoping he wouldn't notice I've been hiding. But the contracts need to be signed and scanned today.

I pick it up and flip through the pages again, pretending like it's some task I need to check off my list, but I know it's just an excuse to avoid facing him.

I don't want to feel that tension again, the way his eyes seem to weigh me down like I'm under a microscope.

I finally force myself to pick up the stack of contracts, holding them against my chest as though they could somehow shield me from whatever awkwardness is waiting for me. The clock ticks in the background, each second pulling me closer to the inevitable.

I glance at my desk one last time before walking toward the door. I take a deep breath and push it open, the click of my heels on the marble floor echoing in the otherwise silent hallway. My heart beats faster with each step, like I'm walking toward something unavoidable. Towards something that's been hanging in the air between us, thick and heavy.

He's siting at his desk, focused on the papers in front of him. I hesitate for a moment, "Mr. Hayes," I say, my voice steady.

He doesn't look up, just extends his hand toward me, waiting. I quickly place the stack of contracts into his palm, feeling a brief brush of his fingers.

"Thank you," he says, his tone clipped, still not meeting my gaze.

I nod, before taking the seat in front of him.

His jaw tightens as he scans the paper in his hands, the silence between us so thick it feels suffocating. It's been like this all week, tight-lipped exchanges, clipped, impersonal emails that feel more like automated responses than anything resembling human communication.

"Looks good," he says finally, quickly signing and handing the paper back to me without so much as a glance in my direction.

"Okay." The word barely leaves my lips as I rise from my seat, shoulders sagging under the weight of his cold indifference. The sharp staccato of my heels on the marble floor is the only sound as I retreat toward my office, frustration clawing at my insides. It was just a gala. Just one goddamn night. Why is he acting like I committed some cardinal sin?

Part of me wants to turn around and yell. I want to tell him that that night was supposed to be my escape, my night to pretend I'm not who I am. I wanted to drink champagne and wear a pretty dress. I wanted to feel like a little girl playing princess. All I wanted was just one night to step in a world that felt...different. And now he sits there acting like some privileged fucking asshole, completely unaware that my disappointment is far beyond whatever power trip he's stuck on.

But I say nothing, the words don't come out. Instead they sit there, heavy and suffocating, pressing on the back of my throat.

"Lillian."

His voice cuts through the room like a blade, low and commanding, stopping me mid-step. I freeze, my pulse quickening at the sound of my name on his lips. Slowly, I turn to face him, forcing my expression into one of polite neutrality. But my heart, the traitor that it is, flutters all the same.

"Yes?" My voice is polite, though the edge of impatience slips through.

For a moment, he doesn't speak, his brows furrowed as he chews on his lower lip, clearly weighing his words. I lift an eyebrow, impatience bubbling under the surface as I wait.

"I need to handle some business in Chicago this weekend. There's... a thing," he says, his voice  slow and  trained, "An event."

I blink, "Okay," I reply, trying to sound neutral. "Just email me the details, and I'll book what you need."

"No," he shakes his head and clears his throat. The next words are slow and strained, as if he has to push them to leave his lips, "I need you to come with me."

The words hit me and I freeze. "Me?" I say cautiously, my voice betraying my surprise.

"Yes." His tone has shifted, all business now, but this does little to tame the whirlwind in my chest "There will be meetings with shareholders. I'll need you to coordinate and take notes."

"I can do that from here," I counter, knowing that is how it's always how we've done it in the past.

"No." The single syllable leaves no room for argument. "We leave in the morning. You can go home now to pack your things. A driver will pick you up at seven tomorrow."

I open my mouth to protest. "I need at least an hour to schedule everything—"

"Lillian," he interrupts, his voice sharp enough to slice through steel. "It's already taken care of."

I exhale sharply, flustered. "Understood," I mutter, already turning back toward my office.

"Lillian."

His voice stops me again, though it's softer this time, yet no less commanding. I whip around, frustration bubbling over, ready to snap. But the look in his eyes stops me cold, dark, intense, unreadable and it roots me in place. My throat tightens under the weight of his gaze.

"The dress." His voice softens, but the command in it is unmistakable. "The red one. Bring it."

My breath catches. The dress. The one hanging in my living room the night of the gala, the night he showed up at my front door.

Heat rushes to my cheeks as the memory floods back—the way he'd shown up at my door that evening, guarded, rough and angry. The way everything seemed to shift between us in the span of a single heartbeat.

I nod stiffly, unable to form a coherent response. His gaze lingers on me for a moment longer before returning to the papers on his desk, dismissing me without another word.

***

Standing in my bedroom, I stare blankly at the open suitcase on my bed. It's not particularly large, just enough for a short trip, but the task of packing feels monumental. My mind races, replaying every moment of the day, every clipped word from Mr. Hayes, every piercing glance. How he is still so firmly lodged in my head despite every effort to keep him out, I do not know.

Sighing, I run a hand through my hair, and walk to the closet. What does one pack for a business trip with a boss who seemed to specialize in being emotionally unavailable and maddeningly attractive? Professional clothes, obviously. I reach for a few blouses, crisp and plain, sliding them onto hangers before pausing.

"The red dress," my stomach twisting at the thought.

There is was, hanging in the far corner of the closet. Untouched, unworn and still utterly gorgeous.

Grabbing the hanger, I pull the dress free and lay it on the bed, its rich fabric shimmering faintly under the soft glow of the bedside lamp. I neatly fold it, tucking it away into the corner of my suitcase.

I move to my dresser, pulling out undergarments and loungewear. My fingers brush over a silk camisole and lace underwear. What if...no, stop it. I shake my head, shoving the camisole aside and opting for a plain tank top and a pair of leggings.

I zip up the suitcase, tossing in a pair of black heels and my makeup bag. Practicality warred with something else, something reckless, as I grab my most expensive bottle of perfume and add it to the mix

The clock on my phone reads just past eleven. Seven a.m. would come far too quick or maybe far too slow, but all I know is I need to sleep.

I crawl into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. But deep down I know I wont be sleeping, because the truth is, no matter how much I try to push him out of my mind, Leo Hayes is already there—and he is not leaving anytime soon.

God save me.