Belonging to the Boss by Jenna Rose
Gracie
I lookat the ring on my finger and fill with warmth. It’s not a small stone, but it’s not enormous either; it’s tasteful. I should have known Derick would pick out something so exquisite after finding out he was a Wendy Peters fan like me.
After I said yes—and how couldn’t I?—he took me to the jewelry store to pick it out and get it fitted. We went home and made love, then fell asleep in each other’s arms, woke up in the middle of the night and made love again, and when I woke up this morning, I felt like a new woman.
A married woman.
Well, not quite. We still have the whole ceremony thing to go through, and Derick has given me full rein over planning whatever I want.
“As my assistant,” he chuckled, “you can hire as many assistants as you’d like to help you. We can go wherever you’d like. Italy, France, Spain. Or we can stay right here in New York. It’s up to you, my love.”
“How about all of the above?” I joked.
“If you’d like.” He smiled. “Oh, and by the way. You’re fired.”
I gasped. “I am?”
“Yes. I think it would be inappropriate for my fiancée to be working for me. Besides, I think you’ve proven that you can handle yourself. You’re more than ready. If you want to apply to any of the gallery jobs in the city, I won’t stop you.”
“I’m no longer blacklisted?”
He leaned in and kissed me. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”
It’s hard to explain how it felt to hear those words of approval from him, but even now, three hours later, I’m still buzzing. Is it weird to look at the man you’re going to marry as a bit of a father figure? Because that’s definitely happening with me. Just knowing that Derick thinks I’m capable of handling myself in my dream career makes me want to jump for joy and throw my fist in the air.
Seeing as how I’m no longer his assistant, and he’s gone to the office today, it looks like I have the day off. So I climb out of bed where I’ve been relaxing for the better part of the morning and go to spa room and indulge myself for a half hour. It has a built-in speaker system with Bluetooth that links up to my phone, which I leave outside, so I can play music the entire time I’m steaming.
“Yeah, I could get used to this.” I smile. “Mrs. Beaumont.”
After, I go down to the kitchen and make myself breakfast. Oatmeal with fresh blueberries and brown sugar and almond milk. The idea that I am now the owner, co-owner, of a Wendy Peters—the only Wendy Peters painting in existence—is still settling in when there’s a buzz from the penthouse door.
I go to the speaker. “Yes?”
“Delivery for Derick Beaumont,” a female voice responds.
“Just leave it at the desk, please.”
“It requires a signature actually,” the voice replies.
“Derick’s not here,” I say. “But I could sign for it if that’s all right?”
“Yes, that’s fine!”
“Okay, I’ll buzz you up.” I thumb the buzzer and clean my bowl as I wait for the elevator to arrive. It’s hard to believe how quickly things have moved between us. I don’t even feel like myself anymore. I may not be formally married yet, but I’m not Gracie Oliver anymore; I’m Gracie Beaumont.
I glance down at the ring on my finger and smile. Soon there will be a wedding band beside it, and the world will know I’m a taken woman. Taken by one of the most powerful men in the world. It’s beyond anything I ever could have dreamed of.
And how special am I? It’s not like I went after him like one of the countless women he must get constantly throwing themselves at him for a taste of the good life. No, he saw me at a restaurant and pursued me—sent one of his men to fetch me for him so he could shape me and mold me into a woman that he could see me being even if I couldn’t see it myself. I feel myself blushing just thinking of it.
I gaze out the windows at the city below and think back to my apartment where I haven’t been since I first came here. Is this really my new home? It’s almost impossible to believe. But seeing my reflection in the glass…it’s almost like a painting, a painting depicting the enormous changes that have occurred in my life since meeting Derick.
And if it were a painting, what would the title be?
I hear the sound of the elevator ding behind me and turn around as the doors open and an attractive delivery girl in her 20s steps out with a small package in her hands.
“Signature, please.” She thrusts the package rudely toward me as though I work for her and coming up here was a big inconvenience to her day. Taken slightly aback, I take it from her along with the pen and sign my name.
“Long day?” I ask, letting her know with my tone that her professionalism could use a little work. To my surprise, she snatches the pen back from me and stares at me like I’ve just challenged her to a duel.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
“Excuse me?”
“Your name,” she repeats.
There’s something strange about this girl. Something unsettling. Suddenly, I wish Derick was home. “Gracie. Why?”
“So you’re his new project.”
I don’t know why, I don’t know her, but the way she says this, combined with the way she looks at me, carves a deep hollow in my stomach and causes me to take a step back.
“P-project?” Her eyes narrow, then soften into a look of pity. She looks me up and down like I’m some kind of poor, lost puppy or something. Goosebumps immediately break out across my forearms. “You—you’re not a delivery person, are you?”
“No, I am. My name is Kass. I just asked for this delivery so I could see what Derick’s been up to since he ghosted me. I figured he had found himself a new girl to build up, and I was right!”
“Build up?” I repeat as a cold sense of dread fills me. “What are you talking about?”
Part of me wants to just tell this girl to get the hell out. Part of me wants to call the cops on her for this creepy stalkerish behavior. But a stronger, terribly curious part of me wants to know what she’s talking about.
Needs to know.
“Let me guess,” she says. “Derick was keeping you from getting some job you wanted because he said you weren’t ready. He played mind games with you, fucked you real good, you fell for him, he proposed to you, and then said you were ready? Do I have that about right?”
Her words hit me so hard I can’t even respond. But I don’t have to. The look on my face says it all. She nods in a way that physically hurts me. I grasp my chest and take a step back and brace myself against the wall.
“But you know what, Gracie? You won’t take that job. You know why? Because you’re engaged.” She points to the ring on my finger. “And you are probably already pregnant by now too because Derick only likes virgins. And when you realize how hard it is to be a mom and work, you will just stay home and raise your cute, sweet wittle babies,” she says in a mocking tone. “And at that point, Derick will get bored of you, and you will realize that in that marriage contract you signed there is a clause about being a sexy, hot wife who has all kinds of sex with him all the time, and when you don’t want to do that because you’re exhausted from being a mommy, he’ll divorce you, buy you a house in New Jersey, ship you and the kids off to it, and never come and visit ever.”
“Stop,” I whimper, barely able to speak.
“It’s the truth, Gracie,” she replies.
The pain grows, spreads down my arms like a virus. I’m having a hard time breathing and lower my chin, sucking shallow gasps of air that do nothing to alleviate the choked feeling in my chest.
“You—you’re lying,” I manage to stammer. “You have to be.”
“Am I?” Kass asks. “This is exactly what happened to me, Gracie. And if you don’t believe me, look.”
She steps forward and pushes her phone in front of me. “See this? That’s my engagement ring he gave me. Look familiar?”
A sob wrenches itself from my throat. Tears begin to well up in my eyes.
It’s Kass’s hand, and on her ring finger is an engagement ring very similar to the one I’m wearing.
She swipes left, and another photo appears: a house in the suburbs, her standing on the lawn with two children beside her.
“Okay, but how do I know that those are Derick’s—”
She swipes again, and a photo of her with Derick appears, his arm wrapped around her shoulders. They’re both smiling.
My heart breaks. Shatters like an icicle dropping on concrete. I feel like I’ve just watched an entire movie on fast-forward and am still trying to process what I’ve seen when Kass puts a hand on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry, sweetie. I really am. But someone had to tell you before you got yourself too deep in. I know you’ve got the rock on your finger, and you know what? Keep it. Get yourself the hell out before you sign anything and give him any more of your heart. Get out and get clear. Get out of the city so he can’t find you, because he will. That’s the best advice I can give you. Just don’t stick around and end up like me.”
I know I just met her, and I don’t know her, but right now, as the tears spill down my face and my world crumbles down around me, I need some form of comfort, so I reach out for her. But before I can touch her, Kass turns and walks away, and all I can do is watch as she steps into the elevator.
The doors close behind her, and I hear the soft hum as it begins its descent to the street. Crushed, I hang my head and watch as the tears fall to the floor like tiny rain drops. Slowly, I slip Derick’s engagement ring from my finger and place it in my pocket as the photo Kass showed me flashes back into my mind.
I have to leave him, but what if I’m pregnant?
This is worse than any horror movie. Not even Hollywood’s most skilled screenwriters could come up with something this terrifying. If Kass had just been some drunk girl at a bar or something, I could have written her off as a jealous gold-digger, but the specificity with which she described our relationship—the photos—it’s just too much. There’s no way she’s lying.
Derick has been playing me this whole time.
He stole my heart, but I’m nothing to him.
A thought occurs to me, and I swipe my bowl off the counter. It shatters against the wall, and I scream, “The Wendy Peters is a fake!”
He heard me talking at the restaurant when I was drunk, and he went and got a print made from some photo online then made up a story about how he met her and she gave him an actual painting—which she would never do—and used that as a genius way of proposing to me.
He really is a monster.
There’s no telling when he’ll be home. I race to my room, stuff a bag full of as many things as I can, and head for the door. My heart feels like it’s about to explode on the elevator ride down, knowing this is the last time I’ll be leaving the penthouse.
Kass is right; I’ll have to leave the city, which means I can’t go back to my apartment either. He’ll be able to find me if I do that. I’ll have to pawn the ring, which means getting way less than it’s worth, and use the money to get to Connecticut or maybe even Massachusetts. Or should I go to the West Coast? Maybe Los Angeles?
God, so much to think about.
But then, as the elevator doors ding and slide open, the unthinkable happens. I find myself staring at Derick’s smiling face. He’s back from the office early.
“Hey, baby.” He grins. Normally, this would warm my heart. But this time, knowing what I know now, my stomach twists like there’s a poisonous snake in it. “Thought I’d call out early and we could…”
His voice trails off. Something in my expression must be telling to my mood. His eyes narrow, and he examines me, causing me to shrink, feeling like a caged animal.
“I-I have to go,” I mutter, tilting my head down as I brush past him.
Keep moving. Avoid conflict. Get out.
“Baby,” he almost laughs as he takes my hand. “Where are you going?”
“Don’t touch me!” I snap. The words explode from my lips without warning, at a volume I hadn’t anticipated. Even the doorman, paid to be discreet and pay the residents of the building no mind, turns to look.
A bewildered look comes over Derick’s face. “Gracie? What—”
“Don’t even speak to me!” I snap as the tears flow and all of my pain and vitriol pours out of me. “I met her, Derick. Your other project. She showed me everything. The ring you gave her. The—the children you gave her too!” I can barely bear to say what I’m saying. The pain is just too much. “I thought what you and I had was special…”
“It is, baby…”
“Don’t!” I cry out. “I saw the proof. There’s nothing you can say that will change that, Derick. You’re sick. A sick and twisted man. And I am going to get as far away from you as possible.”
I turn and break into a run, knowing he’s not the kind of man willing to chase me. Not here at least. Not like that. He has a reputation to uphold.
I reach the door and burst out into the loud and busy New York streets, tears beating down my cheeks like rain. Without a plan, I turn left and keep running up the street, my heart pounding, my breath tearing at my chest like claws inside my lungs, and I don’t stop. I just keep running until my legs burn like my muscles are on fire.
But I just keep running, because none of that pain can compare to the pain in my heart. The pain caused by Derick Beaumont and his lies.
