Chapter 8
578words
But the moment I stepped into the office, I was assaulted by a wall of perfume.
My nose wrinkled automatically.
The stench intensified with every step toward my desk.
Until I reached ground zero.
There, on my desk, sat a bottle of Chanel perfume.
I glanced around, asking whose it was, but everyone suddenly became fascinated with their screens.
I was utterly baffled.
Meanwhile, Vanessa, from her strategic position across the room...
If looks could kill, I'd have been a smoldering pile of ash under her death glare.
Then he appeared—Felix Hurst, Vanessa's trophy boyfriend and walking midlife crisis.
Suddenly, the puzzle pieces snapped together.
I chose the high road—shoving the perfume aside and powering up my computer.
"Hey there. That's Chanel's latest fragrance. Divine, isn't it?"
"Is it? Well, it's all yours then."
I thrust the bottle back into his manicured hands.
His perfectly groomed eyebrows shot up in surprise.
He stood there frozen, like his brain needed rebooting.
Several colleagues snickered behind their monitors.
Finally, his brain caught up with what had just happened.
"Well, well. Feisty little thing, aren't you? I like that—keeps things interesting."
...
Felix's ego was bulletproof, his skin thicker than the office walls.
"What's wrong? Not fancy enough for you?" he pressed, clearly irritated.
I looked him dead in the eye, my voice flat.
"No. I don't want it. Now please leave."
I flashed him my best customer service smile.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Vanessa rocket out of her chair.
Her stilettos machine-gunned across the floor—I winced for her ankles.
As she stormed past, she shot me a look that could curdle milk.
You'd think I'd been sending her boyfriend nudes or something.
Meanwhile, Felix barely noticed the dramatic exit of his "girlfriend".
He was too busy undressing me with his eyes.
I stared at him, thinking of that perfect saying—
"God creates a certain number of idiots each year, but this one's a limited edition."
Idiots are fine when they keep their distance, but this one seemed determined to orbit me like a satellite.
That day gave me a crash course in unwanted attention.
But I felt no satisfaction, no ego boost.
I just wanted to launch him into the sun.
"Sophie, the CEO is my buddy's dad. Would be a shame if you suddenly needed a new job, wouldn't it?"
He leaned against the printer, arms crossed, watching me like a predator.
He scrolled through TikTok at full volume, apparently unaware that headphones existed.
To top it off, he had a cigarette dangling from his lips.
I pointedly looked at the massive "NO SMOKING" sign on the wall.
Fed up, I plucked the cigarette from his mouth and tossed it in the trash.
"Feisty AND ballsy. I like that."
"Definitely my type."
Did this guy have a type beyond "female and breathing"?
I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly fell out. Like I gave a damn about being his "type."
Right now, I was fantasizing about feeding him into a wood chipper, piece by piece.
—
Somehow, hours later, I found myself in his Ferrari, remembering what I'd told James—
Are rich people really so superior?
From where I sat now, yeah, they kind of were.
Because money was power, and I was powerless.
I pulled out my phone and texted James that I'd be late—work dinner, wouldn't be home.
Minutes ticked by with no response.
