Page 23 of Texting the CEO's Obsession
Standing in front of the elevator, I debate even going up. Maybe I’ll just take my time and go see Taylor instead. She’s in anentirely different part of the building and the last thing I want to do is rant via text. I’d rather go take all of this to her desk and demand that she beat Sloane up… or something.
Taking a moment to consider everything, a heavy sigh escapes me as I shake my head. I’m not that kind of person. I don’t do the drama and I sure as hell don’t act like a child. With reluctance and my stomach rolling, I push the button on the elevator and wait to rise to my doom.
The elevator is thankfully empty when I step on, so I swipe my badge and hit the button for the top floor. As soon as I feel it start moving beneath my feet, I pull my glasses off and press the heels of my palms to my eyes. Tears rim them, forcing past my thick lashes as I gasp for a breath that refuses to come. How could I end up in this mess? After all my hard work, it was all for nothing. My jaw trembles with the force of keeping my cries from slipping out of my throat.
I worked myassoff to get a position at this company. Not just this field, but D’Amico Global specifically.
From the second I realized halfway through college that financial analysis was my calling, I set my sights here and here alone. There was no partying for me in college, and the one boyfriend I bothered with—a biochemistry major named Dallas who took my virginity and then broke up with me a week later—didn’t take up much of my time either.
I’ll be gutted if I lose this job.
I don’t have a backup plan. Sure, I could probably get a job at most Fortune 500s with my resume, so that solves the issue of not having enough in savings to last me more than a few months, but it wouldn’t be the same.
It wouldn’t be what Iwant.
This place iseverything: the networking opportunities and the ability to make a difference in major companies that help change the world. It’s why I wanted to come here. It isn’t just about the logistics aspects of the company or the stock factors that it deals with. It’s about the medical research companies that it works with that are trying to save the lives of people all around the world.
People like my mother.
The elevator chimes far before I’m ready, and I hurriedly wipe at my eyes and paste on a smile as I step out. Hopefully I don’t look as terrified of getting fired as I feel. I allow myself five seconds to calm down in front of Nick’s door before raising my hand to knock, but it swings open before I have the chance.
“Right on time,” he says.
His eyes sparkle with an amusement that I’m not used to seeing on him, although his face is stuck in its normal expression of cool passivity. I stumble back a step, all too aware of how close he is when my heart rate kicks up impossibly higher in my chest.
He’s perfectly put together today—though there’s a dangerous edge to him that makes my thighs press together at the thought of him. Dark hair, thick and a little unruly, is swept back like it knows the rules but dares to break them. The sharp cut of his jaw is dusted with stubble, longer than usual, making him look less like the untouchable billionaire he is and more like a man who could ruin you in a back office and still walk into a boardroom minutes later like nothing ever happened.
Everything about him screams control. From his tailored suit that clings to the hard lines of his body to the kind of casual power that makes expensive fabric obey.
It’s everything about him that’s completely captivated me from the moment I met him.
Maybe it’s just the adrenaline rush from the fast-approaching moment of truth about my job security, but he’s almost glowing, radiating confidence and control even more than usual.
“Come with me, Riley.”
He steps past me without waiting for a response, breaking me out of my one-sided staring contest.
I fall into step behind him, trying to come up with something to say, some way to ask if I’m getting fired without just blurting it out. I hate the fact that I always seem to be at a loss for words around him. Especially when it comes to things that are important. We don’t walk far, not even a quarter of the way down the hall before he stops me, glancing back with one hand on the doorknob of the room that shares a wall with his office.
I’ve always assumed it was a meeting room, but I’m disillusioned of that idea as soon as he swings the door open and gestures me inside.
I squeeze past him, my panic giving way to confusion as I look around.
It’s an office nearly double the size of Sloane’s, with a massive mahogany L-shaped desk taking up half a wall. The windows stretch from floor to ceiling, showcasing a breathtaking view of the cityscape beneath.
“I told Julie not to unpack any of your things. You’re free to decorate as you see fit.”
Wait… what?
He nods to the single box resting on top of the glossy wood desk, and I go a little faint when I see the familiar leaves of my Monstera peeking out over the cardboard sides.
“Decorate?” I ask weakly, my mind reeling as I try to figure out what’s going on.
“It’s your office, after all.” I whirl to face him, my eyes wide with shock, but he just raises a single shoulder in a careless shrug. “I don’t care how you organize things as long as you get your work done.”
Panic rears its ugly head again, unbidden and entirely uncontrolled. My stomach flips unpleasantly as understanding slams into me, and I shake my head frantically.
“What?” The word comes out far sharper than I intend, and I take a deep breath to center myself before continuing. “Mr. D’Amico, you promised to keep my name out of things when you talked to Sloane. You have to understand how this will look!”
