Beyoncé Knowles can't believe her annoyingly perfect personal assistant has actually resigned from her cushy, highly paid position, and she intends to tell her exactly what she thinks about it.
But when she gets to her place, she comes to realize s...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Beyoncé's soundless sleep was interrupted by her alarm at six-thirty; she immediately rolled over and got to her feet. Some people loved to stay in bed, holding on to their dreams just a little longer. Beyoncé didn't need to; she lived them out every day.
Or so she told herself.
Leaving the warm, exquisite, naked body of her girlfriend under the covers of her California King bed, she went to her en suite and entered the massive shower that could easily fit a cheer leading squad. She would know; she'd done it in her wild days, post Kehlani.
She immediately switched gears, dismissing all thoughts of her ex, like she did every time her mind went back to the break-up she still didn't understand.
They'd been perfect together; they'd made sense. If she hadn't walked away, she would have put a ring on her finger by now, she was certain of it.
It didn't matter. She had Michelle now, and they worked just fine. The woman could have been a supermodel, or an actress, but she opted to use her brains rather than her body, and she was a journalist. She'd traded in for a better model, that was all.
Although she was pretty certain she convinced herself, she'd arrived at the office in a foul mood. Damn Kehlani.
She didn't think of her very often-it had been five years since she'd left her-but when she did, shaking the annoyance was no easy feat.
She was over it; she didn't want her back, in any case. The problem was that she still didn't understand it, and her analytical mind demanded an explanation; closure, perhaps. And if that made her sound like a little girl, so be it.
"You'd better have Reginald's answer ready," was the growl she used to greet her annoyingly perfect personal assistant.
She was always on time, she always wore the right thing, remembered people's name, and, more infuriatingly, she always sent her that smile. The one that said, "I'm going to pour arsenic all over your damn bagel someday, but, in the meantime, you pay the bills." So professional she couldn't fault it, yet fake as fuck; they both knew it. She'd seen her real smile often enough; she bestowed it upon delivery boys, other assistants, various executives - basically anyone but her.
Beyoncé wished she could have found a real flaw, a reason to fire her, but she knew a mere excuse wouldn't have worked-not when her father had stepped in and made her employ her in her first place.
That had been a hard pill to swallow: the reminder that while she was CEO of Knowles investment's, her dad still held a majority share and a seat on the board of directors that rarely intervened. Worse yet, it angered her to admit that her father had been right.
She hadn't wanted her because she was a society girl, one of those whose actual job consisted of finding the right husband and having the right nails, the right hairstyle. One look at her last name brought back memories of her in her debutante attire, and that had been it, as far as she was concerned; she'd been ready to send her packing, but Matthew Knowles pulled strings, forced his hand, and now she was saddled with the best damn assistant she'd ever had. Chosen by her dad.
See? Annoying.
"He emailed last night, ma'am," she replied evenly, like she hadn't just jumped down her throat for something that had nothing to do with her.
If Reginald Sanders had dragged his feet, there was nothing that Onika could have done at eight-thirty on a Monday morning, and it wouldn't have been her fault -she knew that she'd sent Sanders an urgent reminder, as she'd made sure to copy her on it.
Damn perfect robot.
That was when she should have said something along the line of thank you, or well done, or even a belated good morning.
"Right. Get some coffee going then."
Yes, she was a ass. But Onika got paid plenty to make it worth it, as her wardrobe showed.
The woman was always wrapped in professional, well-cut clothes, showing just the right amount of skin and curves. She and her credit card had accompanied Kehlani on enough shopping trips to know that those outfits cost a fortune. Then again, mommy and daddy probably helped Onika Maraj.
She was the daughter of one of her father's best friends, something they'd never discussed. She'd remembered enough about Robert Maraj to have zero doubt that he spoiled his little princess rotten.
That was why she preferred the likes of Michelle. At least she hadn't been born with the proverbial silver spoon in her mouth. She'd worked her way up, and joined society on her own merits. She told the little voice whispering that she had purposely looked for the very opposite of Kehlani to shut up and go to hell. So what if she had? It worked, that was all that mattered.
Kehlani had taken everything in her life for granted, her included. Michelle knew better.
"Yes ma'am," Onika Maraj said, with a secret smile that just infuriated her.
She wasn't in the mood for dealing with it right then.
"And when you're done, you can start filing the paperwork in the archives."
Now it was her turn to grin, remembering the state of the handwritten piles of crap left in the room next to the office. No one ever went in there for fear of getting lost or swallowed up whole.
When Onika first started working for her, she'd taken the grand tour of her floor, and she would never forget her expression when she walked into the damp, stuffy, room left by her father's personal assistant. Tamar had been good at her job, she didn't doubt it, but, not unlike her father, she'd been old-fashioned and it showed.
As she'd shadowed her father for close to a decade before taking the reins of the company, his own staff had gathered and filed the information she needed online. The pile of junk in that room was useless, in all probability, but somewhere at the back of her mind, she just refused to throw away anything before checking it. She intended to take on the job sometime, when business needs permitted. Asking Onika to do it had never been the plan, but the woman was sassing her. She'd all but begged for a suitable punishment.
"The archives," she repeated, her voice breaking a little bit.
Beyoncé should have thanked her; all thoughts of Kehlani disappeared, obliterated by a mixture of irritation, reluctant admiration, and perhaps a little bit of lust.
Kehlani, Michelle, her father-they all faded into the background, because nobody got under her skin as much as her assistant.
"The archives," she repeated, feeling her lips baring her teeth. "You can go to lunch after you're finished."
