No means No

•||• Ryan

Hitting the chair arm with my fist, I harshly stand up, not wanting to hear any more of my old man's bullshit. "Dad, no, I'm not doing it; I told you before, and I'll tell you again." I finish the water, harshly throw the cup away, and storm out, not up for an argument right now.

I'm a busy man, and this is what my dad called me for on my lunch break, as an emergency?

I sit in the car, taking a breather, as I run my hand through my slicked-back black hair. I need a haircut.

I start the engine and drive off, heading back to my company with a tight grip on the steering wheel.

I am more than frustrated, hearing dad's sick proposal each week for the past two months. I'll marry when I feel the need to. Heck, I'm not even thinking about dating.

Well, not exactly.

Be quiet.

"Afternoon, sir." A score of employees greet me as I walk into the building, and I greet back with a simple nod. Once inside the elevator, I loosen my tie and adjust my jacket, then bury my hands in my pocket and wait.

As soon as the elevator dings and opens, I step onto my floor and make my way directly to my office, but as I pass by the cabin next to mine, I notice the door is closed. She must still be on lunch break.

I close my office door behind me, and I immediately notice a few food packages on my desk. Walking over to the table, I analyze them and see a little note.

Your lunch, sir. Beef wasn't ready, so I got chicken.

A smile breaks out on my face, and I quickly catch myself and clear my throat.

I'll thank her later.

Sitting in my chair, I relax in the coolness of the air-conditioned room for a while before I dig in. I really made the right choice when I chose my personal assistant.

I know I say that for every little thing she does, but it's nothing short of the truth. She never fails to surprise me with something new.

...

"No." I uninterestedly turn down his request once again as I swirl the whiskey in the glass, paying more attention to it than to my old man.

It's only been a day since I last saw him, and it's like he won't give up. He's always been determined to get what he wants, and I know he'll resort to something else to trap me. I'm just waiting for him to use that card.

"Son, please, I'm dying. I know we don't see eye to eye, but please." I sigh, looking back at his pleading face, and it moves me just a millimeter. He's not exactly dying; he just has heart disease. He should have about a year or so left, maybe less with his drinking habits.

"You know I don't like that family. I don't even want a wife." "Ryan, it's your mother's last wish for you to start your own family, remember? And I need a promised heir to continue our family business. Moreover, I need a grandchild before I pass." I sigh, covering my face with my hands.

He's right; it was mom's wish before she passed that I settle down and start my own family, but this is nothing close to settling down; it's just a ring and a contract with the last family I'd ever choose.

He really did trap me. Fucker used my own mother to trap me.

I chuckle, looking down, before I gather myself and look back up at him. "Fine, but I need a deadline, and I can't promise you a grandchild." I snicker, downing my glass of whiskey and storming out of the old man's office, hearing him cough a little from a distance.

I've never liked the Smiths. They are the type of people who will step on everyone else just to get to the next level, and I don't work like that, so getting married into such a family puts my reputation at risk and my own life in discomfort.

It's not every day you hear that the son of the #2 billionaire and #1 CEO is getting engaged to a member of the Smith family, at least not from a man like me. And a grandchild? Father can consider his request impossible because there is no way on this Earth am I going to sleep in the same bed as that woman, let alone have a child with her.

I drive until I end up in the city. There are hundreds of cars passing by and making a lot of noise, as well as people chattering and arguing all around, but I can't seem to focus on the problem at hand and be bothered by any of it like I usually am. Instead, my mind goes to my P.A. like it has always done over the last few months. Nothing in particular, just her.

Returning home, I take a shower and head to the kitchen, simultaneously drying my now shortened hair with a towel and looking around for what I'm in the mood for: a granola bar.

Taking what I want, I go to my home gym and begin my workout routine as I watch the morning news.

Tip for being a successful businessman: keep updated with the business world.

Finishing my workout, I change out of my sweats and into a full-black suit, leaving a button loose, and head for my office.

It's best if I enjoy the days I have as a single and partially happy man; very soon I'll have an annoying wife and her family, nagging at me for attention and money.

At the thought comes a familiar yet unknown feeling that appears each time I think about the proposal and my personal assistant.

I watch the minutes of my watch tick by, waiting for my assistant. Always inconsistent.

Why haven't I fired her yet? I don't know; maybe a certain someone has taken a liking to her, and besides, she knows how to keep me in a good mood despite my cold exterior.

You mean, she knows how to keep your cold heart beating?

Piss off.

In her first month at this company, she had found a way to captivate me with her extreme and flawless beauty, as well as her cute and silly ways. And over her tenure, I've grown more and more fond of her. I've always tried not to pay attention to it and keep myself distracted from thoughts about her, but I always find myself failing. And no matter how much she messes up, I still want her around.