Oh god. What have I done?
The realization crashes through me: this wasn’t about the job, or the desk, or even the eight minutes. This was about getting me to surrender. To choose the chains. To sign on the dotted line and hand him the power he didn’t even have to demand.
And right behind that panic comes a second, more disturbing realization that hits like a slap: he’s fucking hot.
Not in the conventional, Instagram-model way. Hot like a storm system. Like something dangerous you shouldn’t stand near but can’t look away from. The kind of hot that makes you hate yourself a little for noticing.
I hate it. Love it. Want to crawl inside it and smash it all at once.
His eyes hold mine as he takes the phone back, our fingers brushing in a contact that shouldn’t feel like anything but somehow feels like everything.
“Excellent choice, Miss Rourke. Let’s begin.”
His words hang in the air like a threat. A promise. Something in between.
I swallow hard, trying to figure out what exactly I’ve signed up for. The desk looms between us, a sleek chrome and glass monstrosity that feels more like an altar than office furniture. I resist the urge to take a step back.
“Begin what, exactly?” I ask, aiming for professional detachment but landing somewhere closer to wary confusion.
Giovanni walks around the desk, trailing his fingers along its surface like he’s introducing two old friends. “Your job, Miss Take.”
I stiffen, my spine going rigid. “My name is Emmaleen Rourke.”
He stops. Looks up at me. And then—he laughs. Not the controlled, calculated sound I’d expect, but something full and genuine. Low and dangerous, like thunder rolling in from miles away.
“Mistakes,” he says, green eyes gleaming. “That’s all you’ve been making. Little Miss Take.”
The nickname burns into me like a branding iron. It’s not just the casual cruelty of it that stings, but the potential for public humiliation. I can already hear it echoing through the restaurant, following me like a shadow. His private ownership stamped on me for everyone to see.
I open my mouth to object, but he continues speaking as if the matter is settled.
“To burn your ten demerits for being late this morning, you will not have a chair today.” He gestures to the empty space beneath the desk where the chair should be. “You will stand at the desk and complete the tasks I assign you.”
His tone is clinical. Dismissive. Like he’s reading nutritional information off a cereal box. Not even worth negotiating.
“You’re serious?” I say, but the words lack conviction. We both know I have no leverage here.
“I’m always serious about business, Miss Take.” The nickname slides off his tongue with practiced ease now, like he’s been using it for years. “And this is business.”
The rational part of my brain knows that my irritation is absurd—standing for a few hours isn’t exactly torture. Cashiers do it all the time. Waitresses. Catering staff. I’d say half the population stands all day at work. It’s not unusual.
It’s just... thecontext.
The control.
The casual way he’s established dominance over something as basic as whether I get to sit down.
“And if I refuse?” I ask, though we both know it’s an empty question.
Giovanni doesn’t even bother answering. He simply raises an eyebrow and glances toward the door, reminding me without words that I’m replaceable. That the temp is just a phone call away.
I think about Sister Margaret and the shelter. About my three-week deadline. About my empty bank account and the impossible math of finding an apartment with no job and no references.
I look at the desk again. Standing for a day won’t kill me.
My pride, on the other hand, feels like it’s bleeding out on his expensive hardwood floor.
“Fine,” I say, the word tasting like surrender.