Empire of Hate (Empire #3) by Rina Kent

“Did you just call me—your boss—a bastard?”

“You’re the one who brought up the past. Why would you? Do you like tormenting me for fun?”

“Maybe I do.”

“Maybe you have too much time on your hands.”

“Not nearly enough to turn your life into hell. I have a wish list of the things I’ll do to you every day.”

“I hate you.”

“Careful, Peaches. Hate is a mixture of love and jealousy on steroids.”

Her mouth falls open and I realize my mistake too late.

I called her Peaches after vowing to never use that nickname again.

Before I can retract it or think of an insult to erase it, she clears her throat. “I suppose the fact that you’re not reading the file means you’re not in a hurry. So, I’ll take my leave.”

Then she’s practically jogging out the door, leaving her cherry perfume behind.

It’s cheaper, not nearly as strong or authentic as back then.

But just like eleven years ago, I’m left confused, angry, and with a fucking hard-on.





12





NICOLE





“You’re fired.”

My mouth falls open in an O.

If I hadn’t been a zombie who didn’t sleep for the whole night and had to hug a small box I shouldn’t have kept, I would’ve probably processed the words better.

Or maybe I did, but my brain is unable to catch up.

Jay has had a nasty fever and, even worse, asthma that made him wheeze for breath without his inhaler. I found him squeezed in a ball beside the sofa while Lolli fussed around him.

I had to take him to the emergency room at midnight and monitor his fever all night long.

Apparently, he’s been feeling sick for a few days, which is why he went to sleep early. When I asked him why he didn’t tell me, he said he didn’t want to worry me or distract me from my “twat” of a boss.

My eyes are puffy from so much crying by his bedside. I cried for not being there for him, for making him an adult trapped in a child’s body, and especially for not seeing the signs of his sickness.

The doctor told me his asthma will get worse with the fever and I should keep a better eye on him.

I only breathed a sigh of relief this morning when the temperature went down and Jay even got up and took a shower.

I made him food, gave him his pills, and told him I’ll try to come back early today.

The chance to bring up the subject to Daniel hasn’t even risen yet, and he just told me I’m fired.

Ever since that night in his flat a week ago, he’s been colder than usual, standoffish. Proper insufferable.

However, I took it all in.

The jerk attitude and the snobbish tendencies.

I even became accustomed to it and his dark sense of sarcasm that he showers me with on an everyday basis.

It’s become a routine, especially since he completely abandoned Katerina’s restaurant and started to eat the meals I make. He even let me surprise him with what type of dish it would be.

Good thing is, I now bring in my food and his. Bad thing is, I shouldn’t be feeling a sense of pride every time he licks the dish clean. Not once has he thrown out my food, unlike what he sometimes did to Katerina’s.

The worst part of all is that I can’t stop thinking about the way he touched me that night or his tone when he asked me what happened after I left.

A question that made me mad and sad at the same time. A question that I carried with me for eleven damn years and still can’t find the answer to.

What really happened?

How did fate bring me to his doorstep to be his glorified slave just so he’d fire me?

I stare at his imposing presence behind his desk, clad in a dark gray suit and his groomed lawyer look. “Excuse me?”

“You are excused. Take your stuff with you on the way out. If you leave anything behind, I’ll throw it away.” Daniel shifts his attention to his laptop and completely erases me from his vicinity.

As if I were insignificant.

Unimportant.

Invisible.

If it were the past, I would’ve tucked my tail between my legs and left. I would’ve accepted my “not seen” status and just disappeared.

Or watched from afar.

Not now, though.

Not when Jay’s future depends on it.

“Why are you firing me?” I ask in a clear, neutral voice.

“I don’t need a reason to determine that you failed the trial period.” His concentration is absorbed by whatever’s on the monitor.

“But I want to know.”

“I don’t explain myself to you or anyone else, Ms. Adler. Don’t forget to pass by HR so you’ll get paid for the average work you’ve been doing these past three weeks.”

A hot fire courses through me, and I have no clue if it’s because of his scathing words or the fact that he completely ignores me as he says them, or maybe, just maybe, this is an overflow for all the pent-up energy that’s been building inside me for weeks.

Slamming my palms on his desk, I lean over so my face is right above his stupid screen. “My work isn’t average.”

“You’ve been consistently late in some way. My coffee isn’t always one gram of sugar—that is, if it came on time. You have the habit of talking back and offering your unnecessary opinions. I called your work average as a form of a parting gift. If you want the truth, your work for the past three weeks has been nothing short of disastrous.” He checks his watch, then slides his attention to me. “And you’re five minutes late.”