Chapter 2

Isabella Roosevelt

My heart beats in my chest as I refuse to turn around. I have worked here for five years, and I have never been so unprofessional in front of him, not even for a second.

“Ms. Brown,” his deep voice sent shivers down my spine, “I’d like to see you in my office.”

I turned around, but he had already vanished. With a resigned sigh, I followed him into his office. He settled into his seat, gesturing for me to take the chair opposite him.

“Ms. Brown, do you have a problem with me?” he asked, his gaze probing. I found myself at a loss for words. I couldn't bring myself to lie, yet I was too terrified to speak the truth. I needed this job. My father would be so disappointed if I get fired.

Also working for LucasHarrington came with its perks. Not only was the pay generous, but he also provided assistance with student loans and offered regular appraisals. It was no wonder people were willing to endure the chaos of the workplace for the financial security he provided.

“I mean… But I love working here,” I replied, my fingers fidgeting nervously.

“So is this what happens? I leave and you people bitch about me?” he asked in a monotone, returning to his laptop and resuming work.

“No, not always. We gossip about everyone. I read somewhere that it's good for workplace morale. So don’t worry. If people are bashing on you, it's only bringing the team closer. Also, you're not very bad. You're okay,” I rambled, realizing mid-speech that my words might not be as comforting as I intended.

He glanced at me, his eyes closing momentarily as if needing a moment to process my nonsense, "Thank you, Ms. Brown," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "You can stop trying to make the situation better. Please leave now for your lunch; you need to come back in half an hour."

Feeling the need to redeem myself after my earlier remarks, I blurted out, "Oh, and by the way, I defended you when people started spreading rumours about your 'surgically removed smile muscles’ and that being the reason behind why you don’t smile. They also said that you don’t have a heart. But I defended you and said you have one but you don’t like to use it. I mean, sure, you're not exactly the poster child for warmth and sunshine, but you are not that bad. You are okay."

But it didn’t help. I cringed inwardly, realizing I really need to start thinking before I speak.

“I am not firing you, so please leave,” he said firmly, closing his laptop.

“But I-“

"What can I do to end this very heartwarming conversation with the world's worst therapist?" he asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm, leaving my jaw hanging in disbelief.

“Okay, so we cool?” But his expression remained stern, sending a shiver down my spine.

Without waiting for a response, I awkwardly waved goodbye and fled the office before he could change his mind. As I walked away, my thoughts tangled in a knot of confusion.

How could someone so ruthless, so cutting in his words, be the same man who quietly funds scholarships for underprivileged kids? The same man who anonymously donates to families in desperate need?

It didn’t make sense.

He was an asshole, a tyrant who made my life hell. But there was a part of him, hidden deep beneath that cold exterior, that seemed to care in a way that caught me off guard. My heart twisted with conflicting emotions—how could my mortal enemy, this man who my father told me was the devil, be so nice?

The line between hate and something dangerously close to admiration blurred with every step I took away from his office.

I shook my head, guilt gnawing at me as I questioned whether my father was wrong.

Could he actually be a good person?

Was what I’m doing—trying to ruin his life and everything he’s worked for—completely wrong?

My father would slap me if he heard my thoughts, but I couldn’t shake the doubt creeping into my mind.