By 7:59am, Adrien was in. I had coffee on his desk by 8:03. He didn’t say thank you. He barely looked at just grabbed the mug and started reading.
His secretary had walked through everything earlier. Passwords, Email protocols, Security cards, Dress codes, Etiquette. Then she handed the rule sheet—typed, signed, stamped. I counted more than twenty rules, but honestly, it read more like a military command manual.
By noon, I was already drained. He hadn’t once raised his voice, but the sheer volu of tasks was insane!!! Notes to transcribe, Files to organize, Calls to field...etings to schedule. Errands and Constant emails.
He worked like a machine, and I had to keep up or get crushed.
But I didn’t complain.
I smiled when I needed to, stayed quiet when I didn’t and ticked off every damn task like my life depended on it because maybe it kind of did.
****
It’s been a week.
Seven damn days of being the assistant to the devil’s reincarnate. My body hurts in places I didn’t know existed. My fingers ache, my eyes burn and I’m about two spreadsheets away from losing my sanity.
Adrien Walton is a walking nightmare. He doesn’t shout. No, that would be too human. He just has this way of looking at you like you’re a disappointing error in a perfectly written code. Cold, calculated and Clinical.
But thank God it’s Sunday. Blessed holy untouchable Sunday. The one day he has his oh-so-private family eting, and I get to sleep in without waking up to his passive-aggressive post-its or last-minute eting reminders.
I sink into my mattress like it’s a lover I haven’t seen in decades.
I deserve this. I earned this.
And just as I’m about to roll back into the arms of my beauty sleep—
My phone rings. Ughhhhhhh.
I stare at the screen in disbelief.
Adrien Walton.
Is he possessed? Haunted? Cursed?
I answer already dreading what fresh hell he’s cooked up. "Hello?"
His voice is cool...Emotionless. Business as usual. "et at the airport in thirty minutes. We’re traveling for a business trip."
My brain paused for a mont.
"Wait—what? Which airport?"
He’s already hung up. Great. Just great.
I blink at my phone like it just slapped .
"Oh, Mary mother of cheesecake," I whisper. "How the actual f**k am I supposed to get to an airport in thirty minutes when I don’t even know which one?"
My room looks like a hurricane passed through. My work heels are under the bed─My suitcase is... sowhere in the storage room.
I bolt out of bed, tripping on a hoodie, slapping on moisturizer like it’s a serum of salvation. I shoved whatever I could find into my travel bag—no folding, no planning, just chaos in motion. Toothbrush? Sowhere in there. Power bank? Thrown in. A random pair of socks that don’t match? Already packed.
I throw a blazer over my pajamas, grab my tablet, power bank, and passport, and pray I don’t die before I figure out what the hell kind of business trip requires zero notice and a side of suffering.
This man is going to kill .
And I’m pretty sure he’ll call it a performance review.
I grabbed my phone, ordered a ride with the speed of a desperate woman on the edge, then opened my tablet to check his location.
But guess what?
His location is turned off!!!!
Turned. Off.
I stared at the screen, blinking.
No signal. No little blue dot on the map. No anything.
He really said, "Find if you can." Haha. I might just run mad at this point.
"Adrien freaking Walton," I muttered, dragging a hand down my face. "I hope your jet runs out of fuel midair. I swear to God."
I was going to cry.
No, scratch that—I was already crying on the inside as I threw myself into the back of the ride like it was a getaway car in so high-stakes action movie.
"Airport," I said, breathless. "Just—just go. Fast."
"Which one?" the driver asked, clearly confused.
I blinked. "What?"
"There are four airports around here. Which one are you going to?"
Oh. My. God.
I wanted to scream. Instead, I pulled out my phone again and tried calling Adrien. Straight to voicemail. Again and again I called three more tis.
Still nothing.
His royal ice-hearted highness had the audacity to turn off his phone and his location.
"Try Skybridge Airport first," I said, praying to every deity I’d ever heard of that I guessed right.
Ten minutes later—nothing.
He wasn’t there.
"I’ll pay you triple," I told the driver. "Just get to Eastern Point International. Now."
He didn’t even blink. I guess money made miracles happen.
Airport number two? Sa story. Not even a hint of Adrien Walton’s devilishly expensive cologne in the air.
"Again. Northside Regional," I groaned, tossing more cash his way. By the ti I got to the fourth airport—an secluded private one tucked behind so golf club—I was ready to lie down on the road surfacing and let a plane run over.
And guess what?
There he was. Resting against a piller holding his suitcase like he hadn’t just ruined my Sunday, my bank account, and possibly my will to live.
I was going to kill Adrien Walton.
With kindness.
Or maybe with my bare hands.
Adrien’s pov
I leaned against a pillar by the private terminal, one hand in my pocket, the other loosely gripping the handle of my suitcase. My jet was already prepped. My assistant? Nowhere in sight.
Typical.
I checked my watch again an hour and counting. A whole sixty minutes.
Then, finally, I saw her─charging through the glass doors like a storm wrapped in human form. She looked insane, furious, and exhausted, with hair she clearly hadn’t had ti to ta and clothes that scread "I got dressed with my eyes closed."
But she was here.
She spotted instantly and her eyes narrowed. Her fists clenched around the handle of her bag as she stord toward like she was ready to murder in front of airport security.
I felt a smile tug at the corner of my lips, amused despite myself.
But I didn’t let it last.
I let it fall the second she was within earshot.
"You’re one hour late," I said flatly, my tone clipped and unreadable. "Try that again, and I’ll leave you behind."
She opened her mouth probably ready to throw hellfire in my direction.
But I was already walking toward the boarding gate.
This was business. I didn’t have ti for tantrums.
Isabella’s pov
"You’re one hour late," he said, deadpan, like I hadn’t just crossed four damn airports sold my soul to an taxi driver and almost had a breakdown in the process.
I stared at him. This annoying, arrogant, heartless—
Deep breath issa. Don’t punch your boss in a public airport. Don’t commit murder.
He turned without giving a second glance and started walking toward the boarding gate, as if I was nothing more than an afterthought.
You spawn of Satan’s left toe.
I dragged my suitcase after , still clutching my phone like I could strangle it for not working earlier. My shoulders ached, my feet were screaming, and my hair─oh, don’t even get started on the frizzy chaos my hair had beco.
All because Mr. Adrien freaking Walton decided to call thirty minutes before takeoff. Who even does that?
The jet glead like a goddamn floating mansion, of course. Because rich, emotionally constipated n loved their toys.
I followed him up the stairs muttering curses under my breath with every step. If this jet didn’t have coffee I was throwing myself out mid-air.
He didn’t even help with my bag. Not that I expected him to. Gentlemanly conduct probably wasn’t listed in his demonic skill set.
The mont we stepped in cool air and the scent of expensive leather hit . Plush seats, polished wood, and a mini bar. Of course.
He sat down, pulled out his tablet, and didn’t even look at .
Okay. Fine. We’re doing silent torture now. Cool cool cool.
I sat across from him resisting the urge to throw my bag at his head.
This was going to be the longest business trip in the history of the universe.
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