The sharpness in his voice reverberates through me, a chilling echo of a past I've worked so hard to forget. I'm paralyzed, my mind a battlefield of memories and emotions I thought I'd buried forever. The shattered coffee cup feels symbolic—everything neat and contained in my life now broken and spilling out for him to see.

  "Mr. Ronald..." My voice is barely audible, trembling as I force the words out. The title tastes foreign on my tongue. His gaze narrows, a storm brewing in those forest-green eyes that once felt like home. Now, they're darker, colder—a warning.

  "I asked you a question, Rose." The way he says my name—sharp, clipped—sends shivers down my spine. It's not how he used to say it.

  "I... I don't know what you mean," I stammer, feeling like prey under his intense scrutiny.

  Before the weight of his fury can crush me, Olivia's voice pierces through the tension like a lifeline. "Mr. Ronald, I'm sorry to interrupt." She steps into the room, her simple attire a stark contrast to the tension crackling in the air. Her calm, composed demeanor seems almost surreal against the storm brewing between us.

  Ronald's eyes dart between us, suspicion laced with barely contained rage. "Olivia, where the hell are your papers? And why is she standing here?"

  "She's your new secretary," Olivia states firmly, though I catch the brief flicker of an apologetic glance in my direction. "I've submitted my resignation."

  His jaw clenches, the muscle in his cheek twitching as he processes her words. "I don't recall signing any resignation letter." His voice is a growl now, low and dangerous. The kind that makes the air seem heavier, suffocating.

  Olivia straightens her shoulders, meeting his anger head-on. "Mrs. Laura approved it."

  The name drops like a bomb in the room, and my breath catches. Laura. Her shadow looms larger than ever, her influence inescapable. The mention of her name is enough to send a wave of nausea crashing over me. I take a shaky step back, the weight of old wounds pressing heavily on my chest.

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  Ronald exhales sharply, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, as though trying to temper his fury. "Fine," he snaps, his tone shifting, colder now, more calculating. "You can go. But don't expect a glowing reference."

  Olivia doesn't waver. "I'm here to inform you and ensure she's settled. After that, I'm gone."

  The tension between them is electric, thick enough to choke on, but I can't focus. My vision blurs, my thoughts spiraling as old fears claw their way to the surface. What was I thinking, coming here? This is a mistake. A terrible, irreversible mistake.

  "Rose." His voice cuts through my haze like a blade. "Leave. Now."

  "No," I whisper, surprising even myself. My fists clench at my sides, my nails digging into my palms for strength. Then louder, steadier, "No. This is my job. I need this."

  His smirk is slow, deliberate, and entirely predatory. "Your job? You have no idea what you've signed up for."

  "Give me a month," I counter, my voice rising with determination despite the tremor in my hands. "If I fail, fire me. But I deserve a chance."

  For a moment, he says nothing, his gaze boring into mine like he's trying to peel away my resolve layer by layer. Then he steps closer, his towering presence enveloping me, the scent of his cologne—rich and intoxicating—flooding my senses. The proximity is unnerving, memories clawing at the edges of my mind like jagged glass.

  "Welcome to hell, baby," he murmurs, his smirk widening as he leans down, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for me. "Let's see if you can survive it."

  His words hang in the air, a sinister promise that sends a chill racing down my spine. My knees feel weak, but I hold my ground, refusing to let him see how much his presence still affects me.

  He straightens and turns abruptly, striding to his desk with the kind of commanding presence that fills the room. "Your first task is waiting. Clean up this mess," he orders without looking back, gesturing to the broken coffee cup on the floor.

  Anger flares in my chest, momentarily overpowering the fear. I'm his secretary, not his maid. But now isn't the time to argue. Not yet.

  "Yes, Mr. Ronald," I say through gritted teeth, kneeling to pick up the shards. The sharp edges bite into my fingers, and I bite back a curse. This is only the beginning, I remind myself. Just a month. I can survive anything for a month.

  As I clean, I hear him typing away at his computer, the keys clicking with a rhythmic precision that's almost hypnotic. His presence is overwhelming, his energy filling the room like a living thing. I steal a glance at him, his profile sharp and perfect in the morning light filtering through the windows. The man I once knew is gone, replaced by someone colder, harder—a stranger wearing a familiar face.

  But as much as I try to deny it, a part of me can't help but wonder: Is the man I loved still in there, buried beneath the layers of anger and ambition? Or is he truly lost to me forever?