Page 47 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

SALVATORE

I take a seat at the conference table on Monday morning, issuing Robert a throat-slitting motion as I draw my hand across my neck. “Rough weekend.”

“A fucking heart attack? Could you not have killed Wilson the salesman in a better way?”

“It was the first thing that came to mind.”

“And the memorial service?” I continue flashing Robert a glare. “This was supposed to be nipped in the bud.”

“Your employee passes away and you want to nip it in the bud?” Robert laughs, shaking his head. “That is the worst thing you can do when we have someone in the shadows potentially trying to overthrow us.” Robert nets his hands, staring across the conference table at me like we’re in a meeting of our own.

The four attendees waiting outside seem to think so as they wait to be let in.

“It’s causing a fuss.”

“No,” says Robert. “We’re taking preventative action. We spoke about this before. Perhaps you were too busy thinking about fucking your assistant at the time.”

“You’re walking on thin ice with me, Rob.”

“The ice would have cracked by now. You’re lucky you have me,” says Robert. “If we sweep Wilson’s death under the rug, people will eventually start asking questions. A boss should care about his employees and offer sympathy when one of them sadly passes away.”

“Sadly,” I scoff.

“The truth always comes out, so you may as well announce the truth before it does its rounds. The last thing you want is people calling you heartless.”

“A memorial is too close to home.”

“No,” says Robert. “It shows you care about your employees.”

“Whatever,” I grumble, flagging my men in. “We should get started with this meeting.”

The door opens, attendees filtering in. Ophelia is one of the last to enter, blonde locks bouncing over her shoulders.

“Good morning, Miss Bennett,” I say, welcoming her in.

I take a look at her outfit, wondering why she has chosen to wear a skirt this long, draping all the way down to the floor. The high-neck blouse is also very peculiar. She looks like she’s attending a church service, not a business meeting.

Ophelia walks straight past me, taking a seat at the conference table as the rest of the team get settled.

I clear my throat, pinning her a glare across the table. “You’ll be sitting beside me, Miss Bennett,” I say, snapping my fingers, untucking the chair.

“Most certainly, sir.”

The meeting runs smoothly. Ophelia returns to being my assistant, pen scratching against paper as she keeps her head down, eyes focused on the notes in front of her as I liaise with my senior leadership team.

When we end the meeting, Ophelia’s the first to close her notebook and wriggle out of the room.

One glance at her has her stalling, frozen on the spot. She turns around rigidly, eyes eventually finding mine, like she’s waiting to be punished. That will come later if she is lucky.

She turns around, heading toward me as the room clears, men filtering out of the door.

“Sir,” she acknowledges me, nodding her head courteously.

“I should hope you learned your lesson on Friday, Miss Bennett,” I say, clasping my hands on the glass table. “No more funny business. You follow my orders, staying on the path I have put you on.”

“You know,” she begins, clutching the folder to her chest. “Bosses typically fire their assistants when they act out of line. Perhaps you should take another look at my resignation letter.” She angles her head to the side, playing me. “I could always write you another one.”

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Bennett.”