Mr CEO - Daniel Ricciardo

Five

Claudelle's POV

What do you wear to your boss's house?

What do you wear to your boss's house for a study session?

I had no idea, so I stared blankly into my wardrobe, pulling out random items and examining them with such disdain that I tossed them onto my bed in an untidy heap. Soon, the bedspread disappeared under a colorful mountain of rejected outfits.

I didn't want to give Mr. Ricciardo the wrong impression. He was formal, a stickler for the rulebook. Compared to some of the other partners, though, I wasn't as worried about going to his home. Richard, who thankfully was retiring soon, was the biggest slimeball imaginable.

A few months ago, we had to attend a formal dinner to congratulate him and his wife on their ruby wedding anniversary. It spoke volumes about Richard that, despite being married to Pauline for forty years, he still found time to sneak women into his office.

Or those occasions when he'd have someone lie to his wife, who often dropped by the office for lunch, only to be told he was in a meeting.

In reality, he was probably balls deep in Tina, our office bike.

I didn't want to be rude to Tina, but she was notorious for making advances on any man in our firm with a little seniority. I wouldn't be surprised if she had tried it on with Mr. Ricciardo—or worse, if they'd already had something going on.

Finally, I settled on an oversized orange jumper and plain jeans. I pulled my hair into a loose ponytail and perched my glasses on top of my head before grabbing my bag and workbooks. My apartment was tiny, nothing to boast about, which is why I'd immediately refused when my boss offered to come over.

I didn't realize just how much money he was making until I arrived at his apartment complex—one of the most sought-after properties in all of London. As I buzzed the number he'd texted me this morning, my nerves started to fray.

"Come on up," he said quickly, without a hello or friendly welcome. It set the tone of panic within me.

My hands grew clammy as I traveled up in the lift, so I crammed them under my sleeves, trembling in silence. Floor by floor, my anxiety grew.

Stepping out of the elevator, I looked around, disoriented. Everything was a pristine mosaic of white marble, with ornate artwork displayed on platforms every few meters. It was almost surgical.

"Hey, Claudelle!" His voice called out as the lift door shut behind me.

"Hey, where are you?" I shouted back, unable to see him.

Footsteps approached, growing louder until Mr. Ricciardo emerged. I almost dropped my jaw. Dressed in an oversized black tee and casual grey bottoms, he looked more relaxed than I'd ever seen him.

His hair was a little messy, and his glasses perched on his nose. "Come on through," he prompted, waving me forward.

I took cautious steps, taking in the surroundings as the small hallway opened into the most spectacular living area I had ever seen.

"Wow," I breathed, craning my neck to take in the floor-length glass panels that framed a breathtaking view of London. The entire room was bigger than my whole apartment.

"I've set up a little work area here," he said, pointing to a table he had specially placed in the lounge for today. "I hope you find it comfortable to work here."

I nodded with a smile, gaining confidence from nowhere. "You're so kind. This is wonderful, thank you."

He blushed slightly at my appreciation before helping me with my books, taking the load from me. "Your jumper is a nice color," he complimented, his eyes lingering on the vibrant knit.