Page 20 of Texting the CEO's Obsession
I flick through the folders briefly before nodding at Julia, and she ducks out without waiting for anything further, already back to soothing Mrs. Fourneaux’s worries.
Neurotic, that one, but she’s managed to put together one hell of a portfolio. Investing in her was a good choice.
I glance at my phone, tempted to go back to my fantasies, but I didn’t make D’Amico Global a household name by slacking off. I’ll have plenty of time to tempt Riley into indulging me later. With the thought of having her all to myself once she’s off tonight to motivate me, I bury myself in work.
The data before me is nothing new—I keep my finger on the pulse of what goes on around here. This, though? This level of detail is almost unprecedented. The comparisons listed in the reports I flip through are researched back almost five years, and projections are given for multiple trajectories, each with their own timelines and their own likelihoods. If I were working Riley’s job, I never would’ve even considered doing half of this.
She’s like a one-woman analysis, marketing, and development team.
If I wouldn’t feel guilty for overworking her, I’d insist she have a hand in every single high-profile project we touch. Her competency is only serving to make me want her more.
As I scan through them, my eyes catch on a specific phrase, one that instantly sticks out to me.
In the instance of depreciation occurring at the expected rate, capital gain at the time of reallocation is likely to range…
It’s something I expect all my analysts to look into. We sell assets on behalf of our clients all the time, and it’s important to keep trends in mind along with physical wear and tear. While it’s not an unexpected addition, everyone phrases their findings a little differently.
People write reports the same way they talk—repetitively.
The only issue is this isn’t a phrase I’ve seen in Riley’s reports before. In fact, I’ve rarely ever read any of Riley’s analysis reports, at least not until I put her in charge of the current projects she’s working on. But this phrase isn’t new to me.
I’m fairly certain it’s one I’ve seen used inSloane’sreports.
Her quarterly analysis, specifically.
I turn to my computer, pulling up the last quarterly report she sent in. The phrase I’m looking for is easy to find, sticking out like a sore thumb. It takes me less than five minutes to find six instances of that phrasing in her reports.
It only started showing up about a year and a half ago.
If Riley were anyone else, I’d assume she was having her superior help her with her work. But she’s not.
I’ve seen the way her face crumples when Sloan talks to her through the cameras, and it’s no secret that Sloane’s desperate for my attention. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if she’s been having Riley do her work for her, hoping to catch my attention with her skill since she was failing at getting me to look twice by shoving her tits in my face.
Not to mention that this would explain all the overtime Riley’s been working. She got the longest Fourneaux files to me within a day, and she’s already working on the last one. It’s obvious she’s not a slow worker.
While I’d be pissed atanyonein the company abusing their subordinates, it’s even worse that it’s Riley being forced into all this work.
I could wring Sloane’s neck.
I swivel to the landline on my desk and punch in Riley’s personal extension, positively fuming. She answers on the second ring, sounding distracted.
“Hello?” she asks, the clatter of her keyboard muffled through the phone.
“Riley.” She squeaks in surprise, the sounds of typing stopping immediately. “I need to see you in my office. Immediately.”
“Mr. D’Amico!” she says breathlessly. “Yes, of course. I’ll be right up.”
I hang up before I can call her a good girl, my anger soothed just by the sound of her voice. It’s not enough, though. Nothing short of Riley admitting the truth and knowing that I won’t let Sloane keep this up is enough.
Riley ismine, and I take good care of what’s mine.
She makes it up in record time, tapping out a hurried knock on my door barely two minutes after I hang up the phone.
“Come in.”
Her ponytail is frizzy, and she smooths a hand over it as she steps into my office, a nervous smile tugging at the corners of her lips. The sight of her calves beneath the hem of her skirt conjures up the memory of that leg peeking out of bubbly bathwater. I have to grit my teeth to stop myself from growling at the thought.
“I’m so sorry it took me so long, sir,” she says, rushing over to my desk to place a file in front of me.
