Chapter 2

I found Tiffany later, attempting to get into Marcus's private home office.

The door was always locked, and even I only entered with his express permission.

It was his sanctuary, filled with rare books and personal mementos, a place no one disturbed.

"Tiffany, you can't go in there," I said, keeping my voice low.

"Mr. Thorne is very particular about his office."

She spun around, a can of what looked like air freshener in her hand.

"It's not air freshener, it's my signature scent," she corrected haughtily.

"He needs to get used to it."

"Besides, a wife should know her husband's private spaces."

"He'll be furious," I warned, thinking of the Blackwood files probably on his desk.

"Seriously, don't."

She just scoffed.

"You're just jealous because you'll never be allowed in."

"Don't worry, I'll tell him you tried to stop me."

"He'll appreciate my initiative."

She turned back to the door, jiggling the handle.

It was, of course, locked.

She huffed in frustration.

My little alcove desk became her new staging ground.

She'd bring in flowers – always the wrong kind, too fragrant, too ostentatious – and leave them "for Marcus."

She'd hum loudly, practice lines from imaginary movies, and generally make it impossible to concentrate.

"You don't mind, do you, Sarah?" she'd ask, not waiting for an answer.

"I need to be where the energy is."

"And Marcus's energy is right through that wall."

She'd pat the wall to his office, a dreamy look on her face.

"He can probably feel my devotion."

I'd just nod, keep typing, and try to tune her out.

Arguing was pointless.

She lived in her own movie, and I was just a prop.

I watched her sometimes, when she thought no one was looking.

Her makeup was always a little too thick, her clothes a size too small, as if she was trying to physically force herself into the role of a Hollywood siren.

She looked less like a starlet and more like someone desperately playing dress-up, her smile a little too bright, her confidence a thin, brittle veneer.

I'd learned to just let her have her space, her pronouncements.

My silence seemed to unnerve her more than any argument.

Marcus Thorne was not a rom-com hero.

He was a predator in a bespoke suit.

I'd seen him dismantle careers with a single, quiet phone call.

I'd seen him eviscerate seasoned executives with a few well-chosen words, his anger a cold, controlled force that was far more terrifying than any shouting rage.

He valued loyalty and competence above all else, and he had zero tolerance for fools, sycophants, or emotional drama.

Tiffany, with her "manifested destiny" and clumsy attempts at seduction, wasn't just naive, she was playing with a fire she couldn't comprehend.

He would chew her up and spit her out without a second thought if she became too much of a nuisance, or worse, a threat.

The Blackwood deal she'd so casually mentioned could topple his empire if mishandled.

Her ignorance was a loaded gun.

The pitch meeting was for a major new sci-fi epic, investors and studio heads flown in from New York.

It was high stakes, high pressure.

Marcus was already on edge.

And then Tiffany made her entrance.

She wore a dress that was more suited for a nightclub than a corporate boardroom – neon pink, skintight, and covered in sequins.

It was an assault on the eyes.

She sashayed in, late, and tried to take a seat near Marcus, batting her eyelashes.

"Sorry I'm late, darling," she cooed.

"Traffic was a beast."

Marcus didn't even look at her.

He just continued his presentation, his voice level, but I saw the muscle jump in his jaw.

When he paused for questions, his gaze flickered to her, a brief, irritated glare that could freeze lava.

Tiffany, naturally, misinterpreted it.

I saw her preen, a small, self-satisfied smile on her face.

She probably thought he was captivated by her daring fashion choice.

I just sank a little lower in my chair at the back of the room, taking notes, and prayed for a meteor strike.

My daily ritual involved preparing Marcus's coffee.

It wasn't just coffee, it was a science: single-origin beans, ground to a specific consistency, brewed at a precise temperature, served in his favorite worn mug.

It was one of the few things I did that seemed to genuinely please him, a small island of predictability in his chaotic life.

One morning, Tiffany intercepted me on my way to his office, mug in hand.

"I'll take that," she said, reaching for it.

"Mr. Thorne is expecting it," I replied, holding the mug tighter.

"Of course he is," she said, her voice syrupy.

"But it's time his future wife started taking care of these little things."

"It's a wifely duty, you know."

"You wouldn't understand."

Her eyes were bright with a possessive, almost manic gleam.

She saw the coffee not as a beverage, but as a symbol, another scene in her romantic script.