Chapter 17: Worse

The words hit me like a slap.

I froze mid-sentence. “…What?”

Cassian leaned forward, eyes scanning the screen with cold precision.

“This,” he repeated, voice flat, “is trash.”

My pride shattered into a thousand pieces.

“I, ” My throat tightened. “I followed your instructions. I included everything you asked for, ”

“You included the data,” he interrupted. “But the structure is a mess. The flow is disjointed. Half of these slides are redundant.” He scrolled through, and I watched in horror as he pointed out mistake after mistake.

“This chart? The axis labels are wrong. This section on competitive positioning? You buried the lead three slides too late. This risk assessment? It’s surface-level at best. Any investor worth their salt will tear it apart in seconds.”

Each word was a knife.

“And this, ” He tapped the screen. “This color scheme is goddamn hideous.”

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to cry.

I wanted to set this entire building on fire with him inside it.

Instead, I stood there, jaw clenched, fists balled at my sides, forcing a smile so wide it hurt.

“Understood,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’ll fix it.”

“You’ll redo it,” he corrected.

My eye twitched. “Redo it.”

“From scratch.” He leaned back again, taking a slow sip of whiskey. “I want the structure completely overhauled. Follow the notes I’m about to send you. Tighten the narrative. Make it compelling, not just informative.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And don’t bury the ROI projections on slide forty-three. Lead with them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fix the charts. All of them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And for God’s sake, change the color scheme. This isn’t a children’s birthday party.”

My smile was now a rictus of barely concealed rage. “Yes, sir.”

He watched me for a long moment, amusement flickering in his eyes.

“You can’t leave until it’s done, by the way.”

My soul left my body.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.” He stood, shrugging on his suit jacket with infuriating grace. “I need this finished tonight. So you’ll stay here and finish it.”

“But you’re leaving,” I said, voice rising slightly.

“I am.”

“That’s not fair!”

He paused, turning to look at me with one eyebrow raised, but said nothing.

And I stood there, fuming, my brain short-circuiting somewhere between outrage and exhaustion.

This is bullshit. Complete bullshit. If he’s going to treat me like his plaything, force me into this insane arrangement, I might as well get SOME favoritism out of it, right? Special treatment? Easier workload? Something other than having a monster dick shoved down my throat.

But no.

Of course not.

I realized, somewhere in the middle of my internal rant, that I was staring at him.

At the way his suit fit. The sharp line of his jaw. The way the smoke curled around him like he was something out of a noir film.

Stop it. Stop staring. Stop…

“Having dirty thoughts, Noah?”

His voice snapped me back to reality, and I found him smirking at me.

“Unfortunately,” he continued, voice dripping with mockery, “I can’t get turned on if you do trash work like this. So maybe focus on fixing the presentation instead of fantasizing.”

My face exploded in heat.

“I’m not… ”

“Good.” He brushed past me toward the door. “Then get to work.”

And he left.

I stood there, alone in his office, trembling with a mixture of fury and humiliation and something I absolutely refused to name.

Then I grabbed my laptop.

And got back to work.

It took another four hours.

Four. Hours.

By the time I finished, it was past ten. The office was empty. The building was silent except for the hum of the air conditioning and the occasional creak of settling floors.

I saved the file, sent it to Cassian’s email, and closed my laptop with shaking hands.

He wasn’t back.

Good.

I didn’t want to see his stupid, smug, infuriatingly handsome face ever again.

I grabbed my things and left.

The moment I stepped outside, my phone buzzed.

A text from my mom.

Mom: Your father’s birthday dinner is this Saturday. 6 PM. Don’t be late. Your brother will be there. The neighbors are joining too. Dress appropriately. And try not to embarrass us this time.

I stared at the message.

No “how are you.” No “hope you’re doing well.”

Just expectations. Obligations. Guilt wrapped in passive-aggression.

My chest tightened.

I wanted to ignore it. To delete it. To throw my phone into the nearest trash can and pretend my family didn’t exist.

But I couldn’t.

Because despite everything, I still wanted them to love me.

Even if they never would.

I shoved my phone into my pocket and hailed a cab.

Home was exactly as depressing as I’d left it.

Small. Dark. Empty.

I heated up leftover takeout, ate it standing over the sink, and tried not to think about how pathetic my life had become.

My phone buzzed again.

Mason.

Mason: You alive?

Me: Barely.

Mason: Hang in there, man. Tomorrow’s a new day.

I didn’t respond.

Instead, I opened Instagram.

And, like the masochist I apparently was, I went to Lila’s profile.

She’d posted again.

A photo of her at some upscale restaurant, wine glass in hand, laughing at something off-camera.

The caption: “Living my best life. No regrets. 💕”

I stared at it until my vision blurred.

Then I locked my phone and went to bed.

I was just drifting off, finally, finally about to escape this nightmare of a day, when my phone rang.

I groaned, fumbling for it in the dark.

11:46 PM.

Unknown number.

I almost didn’t answer.

But something made me pick up.

“Hello?”

“Do you have a death wish?”

I froze.

That voice.

Cold. Sharp. Unmistakable.

Cassian.

“Who told you,” he repeated, voice dangerously soft, “to leave work without my permission?”

My brain stuttered.

“What the fuck, ”

“You heard me.”

I sat there in the dark, phone still pressed to my ear, heart hammering.

And realized, with sinking certainty, that my life had just gotten so much worse.

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