Page 9 of Billionaire Alien Boss Daddy

CHAPTER4

CLARICE

Isit on the edge of my bed, fully awake, staring at the flashing numbers on my alarm clock like they’re taunting me. The shrill beeping starts, and I slap it off before it can fully erupt. I take a deep breath, the kind that’s supposed to steady you but just makes you hyperaware of how tight your chest feels. I barely slept last night, tossing and turning, my brain a whirlwind of what-ifs and how-did-I-get-here’s.

First day on the job. Simon’s job. The man I’m supposed to spy on, to uncover proof he’s the one who broke into Silas’s office. I know it’s not going to happen today, probably not tomorrow either. I need time to earn his trust. How long that’ll take, I have no idea. And that’s the part that keeps my stomach in knots.

I shower quickly, the water just shy of scalding, hoping it’ll wake me up and wash away the unease clinging to me. It doesn’t. I pull on one of the outfits Simon bought for me—the ivory silk blouse and the black pencil skirt that stops just above my knees. The fabric feels luxurious against my skin, but it also feels wrong. Like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes, someone who’s more confident, more daring, more… okay with this kind of thing.

I tug at the hem of the skirt, trying to make it longer somehow. It doesn’t work. The blouse, buttoned up to the collar, fits like it was tailored to my exact measurements, which of course it was. It clings to me in a way that feels intentional, not just fashionable. I catch my reflection in the mirror and stop, my hands hovering over the edge of the sink.

The heels I slip into are strappy and black, with a four-inch heel that makes me feel like I’m teetering on stilts. I look at myself, really look, and something clicks. The outfit, the shoes, the way it all fits—it’s too perfect, too calculated. Like I'm an adult film parody of a secretary rather than the genuine article.

“He dressed me up like his doll,” I mutter to my reflection, my voice low and sharp. “Why should I feel guilty about spying on him?”

The words hang in the air, but they don’t make me feel any better. I grab my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head for the door. The heels click against the hardwood floor, each step echoing in the silence of my apartment.

The lobby of Simon’s office building is eerily quiet at this hour, the kind of silence that makes the click of my heels sound like gunshots. The reception desk is manned by Miranda, her dark hair pulled into a severe bun, her green eyes sharp and assessing. She doesn’t smile when I approach, just stares at me like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve—or a threat she’s evaluating.

“Morning,” I say, forcing a brightness I don’t feel into my voice.

Miranda’s gaze sweeps over me, taking in the silk blouse, the pencil skirt, the heels. Her expression doesn’t change, but somehow it feels like it does. Like she’s cataloging every detail and filing it away for later. She slides a lanyard across the desk without a word.

I pick it up, the plastic cool against my fingers. My name is printed in bold letters:Clarice Redding.I loop it around my neck, the weight of it settling against my chest like an anchor.

“Elevator’s to your left,” Miranda says, her voice flat. No warmth, no welcome. Just facts.

“Thanks,” I say, though it feels unnecessary. She’s already looking back at her computer, her fingers tapping away at the keyboard like I’ve ceased to exist.

The elevator ride is short, the hum of machinery the only sound. When the doors slide open on the top floor, I step out into Simon’s corner office. It’s as lavish as I remember, the French Quarter decor softening the sharp edges of modern tech. Simon is at his desk, his back to me as he flips through a stack of documents.

I clear my throat softly. He doesn’t turn.

“Good morning, Sir,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

He finally looks up, his gray eyes locking onto mine. His gaze is slow, deliberate, moving from my face to my heels and back again. I can feel the heat of it like a physical touch, and my cheeks burn. I look away, my fingers fidgeting with the edge of my blouse.

Simon snorts, a sound that’s equal parts amusement and disdain. He looks intense, arms crossed over his chest. “You waltz in here at five twenty and have the audacity to say good morning?”

I blink, thrown. “You said work starts at five thirty. I’m actually early.”

He shakes his head, a small, humorless smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “No. Successful people get up earlier than anyone else. If the job starts at five thirty, you’d better be there by five at the latest.”

The irritation bubbles up unbidden.

“What time didyouarrive?”

His smile vanishes, replaced by a look that could freeze molten lava. He’s silent for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as he studies me. I feel myself shrinking under that gaze, my knees going weak for reasons I don’t entirely want to examine.

“Four thirty,” he says at last, his voice low and measured. “Perhaps you’ve heard the human saying, the early bird catches the worm?”

I laugh, a short, nervous burst of sound that escapes in a rush. “Yes, I’ve heard thathumansaying before.”

His face darkens, embarrassment flickering across his features before they harden into anger. He points to the floor in front of his desk. “Come here.”

My body moves before my brain can process the command, every step sending a jolt of heat through me. I stop a few feet away, close enough to feel the weight of his presence but not so close that I can’t breathe.

He’s terrifying. He’s magnetic. And I’m in so much trouble.

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