Chapter Nine- I'm never lucky

He sleeps with all his secretaries...

You're next...

Anyone who refuses will be fired...

Is all of it really true? I mean, that kind of explains why I'm being isolated in this office so I'll never get to hear anything. But would he really ask me to do that? Is he keeping me close so he can make a move on me? 

I'm starting to get it. The "untypical things" he mentioned? Oh boy, I didn't sign up for a 50 Shades of Grey sequel here. I mean, I'm open to unconventional work environments, but this is pushing it. I said I'd do anything to keep this job, but come on… this is a whole new level of desperation. 

This is way too much.

Meanwhile, the air in the room is thick with tension, and I sit stiff as a board, trying to meet Mr. Crane's icy glare without losing my cool. My palms are sweating like I just finished a marathon.

"Ms. Harper," Mr. Crane's voice rumbles like a distant thunderstorm, deep enough to make the walls quiver—or maybe that's just me. "What exactly were you discussing with Miss Cole?"

Jessy blinks, panic flashing in her eyes before she quickly masks it with a tight smile that screams, 'I'm totally not freaking out right now.' "Oh, just introducing myself. Friendly office chat," she says, waving her manicured hand dismissively.

I almost snort. Friendly? More like gossipy.

Mr. Crane's eyes narrow like a hawk spotting its prey. "I already warned the whole staff, and I'm sure you're aware, Miss Harper. No one except me is to talk to or have any form of discussion with my secretary unless I tell you to."

Wait what?

He continues "Keep that in mind, or prepare to start scouting for new jobs. You're dismissed."

Jessy's confident smirk slips for just a second, but she recovers, tossing her hair over her shoulder like she's auditioning for a shampoo commercial. "Of course, Mr. Crane," she says, shooting me a look that says, Good luck, you're gonna need it, before strutting out like she owns the place.

The silence she leaves behind is thick, and I swallow hard, forcing myself to breathe evenly. Mr. Crane stands at the door, glowering at me. Oh Lord, if I could just melt into the floor like ice cream on a hot day, I would. 

"I warned you not to discuss or talk with anyone."

"I—I..."

Before I can gather my thoughts, my phone buzzes on the desk. Once. Twice. Three times. 

I ignore it, my eyes glued to Mr. Crane as he walks across the room and sits at his desk, me facing him. He opens his mouth to talk when my phone buzzes again.

"Miss Cole," Mr. Crane's voice is sharp. "Pick it up."

"I-it's probably nothing important," I say, hoping he'll drop it. But his eyes are already on me, daring me to defy him. I reach out, fingers trembling as I accept the call.

"Hello?" My voice is barely more than a whisper, like I'm confessing to a crime.

A raspy voice crackles through the speaker. "You should watch your back, Aria. I know all about your new place of work, and I have my eyes on you all the time. I could come for you anytime." The call ends with a click.

My blood runs cold, and I nearly drop the phone. I feel the color drain from my face as my stomach twists into a knot that could put any pretzel to shame.

I recognize that voice. But how does he know where I work?

"Miss Cole, what is it?" Mr. Crane's brows furrow, voice laced with suspicion.

"It was... uh..." My voice falters, as I'm thinking of how much I should let him know. I'm about to tell him about the call when a dangerous thought strikes me: What if I tell him the truth and he digs into this? He's the kind of man who'll do it without batting an eye. What if he decides to look into it and in the process, he finds out who I truly am?

"My... grandmother," I blurt out, the lie slipping out before I can stop it. "She... she just passed away."

The room goes silent for a beat. Mr. Crane's eyes soften—is that a trick of the light?—and his expression shifts just slightly, but enough for me to notice. "My condolences," he says, the edge in his voice dulled for once. "You should contact the family. Find out where she's being buried. I'll send flowers."

"Uh, no need," I stammer, heat creeping up my neck. "She's, um, being buried in a field, a uh...very big field very, very far away at the countryside. It isn't worth the hassle." 

"A field?" His eyebrows shoot up like they're trying to escape my lie. "And you were given all this info in a five-second call?"

"Actually, a message was sent to me earlier with all the details, but my cousin just called to confirm if I received it." Just when I think he's going to question my bizarre answer, his desk phone rings, breaking the charged silence.

He picks it up without breaking eye contact. "Yes?"

A soft, professional voice filters through the receiver. It's the receptionist. "Sir, your visitors have arrived. Shall I send them to the conference room and arrange refreshments?"

Mr. Crane glances at his watch then shifts his focus back to me. "Send them in and have everything set up. I'll be there in five minutes."

"Understood, sir," the voice replies before the line clicks off.

He stands, the motion of a man accustomed to command, and his eyes find mine again, their chill making me shiver. "Grab a notebook, Miss Cole, and follow me."

Before I can move, he walks to the intercom and summons two of his top employees. "Edwards, Patel, meet me outside my office."

Edwards, the financial advisor, is a tall man in his late forties with salt-and-pepper hair, sharp eyes hidden behind thin-rimmed glasses, and a look of calculation on his face. Patel, the finance auditor, is in her early thirties, wearing a crisp navy-blue suit that screams "I mean business" and a stylish bob cut. Both are brilliant and intimidating in their own ways, perfect for Mr. Crane, unlike me—who is still figuring out how to breathe without sounding like a deflating balloon.

Notebook clutched in my trembling hand, I follow Mr. Crane through the polished halls, Patel and Edwards trailing behind. My mind races, trying to steel myself for whatever is about to happen. 

As we approach the conference room, Mr. Crane's voice breaks the silence, addressing Edwards and Patel. "The lead visitor is Richard Gaines from Gaines Enterprises. We've already gone through what you have to say. Ask the wrong questions, and it's over. Got it?"

They chorus "Yes, sir," like soldiers ready for battle.

My heart slams into my chest. Richard Gaines. I recognize the name immediately; it's like a punch to the gut. A titan in the business world and one of my father's former buddies before everything fell apart. Of all the people to run into, it had to be him. My palms grow clammy, and I nearly trip over my own feet.

If he recognizes me... The thought makes bile rise in my throat. I can't afford for him to know who I am, not here, not now. He spills who I am, and I can say goodbye to this job. 

Mr. Crane's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "All of you, follow me."

I have no choice but to follow, nerves coiled tight as a spring. In the conference room, the blinds on the windows have been pulled down and the overhead lights are all on, illuminating the big room.

Richard Gaines sits at the head of the table, surrounded by an entourage of suited men and women, each radiating executive authority. His personal assistant, a young man with slicked-back hair, stands behind him, tapping away on a tablet like he's trying to unlock a secret code.

Gaines himself is exactly as I remember: silver-haired, impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, his presence filling the room effortlessly. I feel his eyes on me as soon as we step in, a sharp, assessing look. But then he shifts his attention back to Mr. Crane.

"Miss Cole, sit here," Mr. Crane gestures to the seat beside him. The leather creaks as I sink into it, trying to make myself as small as possible. I feel Gaines' eyes slide over to me again, lingering as if trying to place me before looking away.

The meeting begins, a whirlwind of investments, projections, and negotiations. Mr. Crane's voice is commanding yet cool, and he occasionally leans over to murmur instructions for notes. My pen scratches across the paper, as I struggle to remain focused. Intermittently, Edwards and Patel chip in questions and jot down things too. 

After an hour, the meeting winds down. Handshakes are exchanged, and a hum of polite chatter rises as the executives gather their materials. I move quickly, eager to blend into the crowd.

"Mr Crane's secretary. Hold on." a deep, authoritative voice calls out. I freeze mid-step, the air knocked out of my lungs. The room falls silent, the other attendees pausing their exit to glance back. Richard Gaines stands there, eyes fixed on me with the familiarity of recognition.

"I'd like a word."

The others file out, leaving only me, Mr. Crane, and Gaines in the room. Mr. Crane's brow furrows slightly, but he nods once and exits, the heavy door closing with a soft click behind him.

Please let him have severe memory loss, I think. Or maybe, I don't know, some selective amnesia that only affects memories involving a girl named Aria. Would that be too much to ask?

Gaines' eyes narrow like he's piecing together a puzzle, and my stomach flips. Just my luck. Of all the CEOs in the world, I had to run into the one who might actually remember me. But hey, maybe he's mistaken. Maybe he just needs glasses. Yes, please, let it be bad eyesight, I silently bargain with the universe. I know I'm never lucky but please, let this be an exception.

"Aria," he says, his voice low but unmistakably firm. "What are you doing here?"

Nope. I'm never lucky.