Chapter 2 – Pleasing the Boss

My stomach drops. “I’m receiving one of those local awards.” I turn to mirror him, sighing as I p**ss my back into the wall behind me. I don’t know if I’m more disappointed about potentially missing my moment in the sun or about Hadrian Seymour not knowing who I am.

But why would he know who I am?

SNC has hundreds of stations across the country. Hadrian can’t know everyone who works for him. Even ones that are here tonight to be honored for excellence.

He studies me a second, and I wonder if I was wrong, if he’ll recognize me now. But his gaze looks more predatory than perceptive, and all he says is, “Whoops.”

Again, what did I expect? These events are probably everyday for him. He was born at the top of the ladder. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have to start from the bottom, what an achievement it is to even get up one rung.

It occurs to me that this might be a perfect opportunity to introduce myself. That was the goal for the night, after all—make him get to know me. Make him remember me.

But what if that’s too forward? Too eager? I’ll get the chance to meet him later.

Or I will if I don’t miss the f**king ceremony. “Should we hit the emergency b**ton?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think we should hit the emergency b**ton?”

He’s staring at me intensely, so I know he heard me, but it seems to take him a second before he comprehends my words. “Oh. I was too busy thinking about how tempting the zipper is on your dress.”

Heat runs from my decolletage to my cheeks. Truthfully, it was the point of this outfit. A Dolce & Gabbana splurge that Elvis picked out, the dress is a modern reinterpretation of a classic black sheath dress, with a double slider zipper that runs all the way from my cleavage to the bottom hem and another one that matches in the back. It means I can make the neckline—and the backline—as low as I’d like. Elvis had suggested I go low enough to not be able to wear a bra. He said men would be thinking about unzipping me all night.

I didn’t go quite as low as Elvis had wanted, but apparently the dress has still done the trick.

I guess that’s something to be happy about.

I might be if I can get over my shock. The dress was supposed to be sensual so he’d remember me. I didn’t expect him to come on to me. I’m a stranger to him. A stranger except that he knows that I work for his company. Who would have the audacity to say something so forward?

Oh. That’s right. He’s a Seymour.

“I suppose with your name, you don’t have to worry about Cancel Culture.” And I suppose that was probably a thought better left in my head instead of spoken aloud.

He seems as surprised by my comment as I am. His brows raise, and his jaw flexes as though he’s considering. His shock gives me the opportunity to really look at him, and I was right—face-to-face, he’s devastating. His cheekbones are cut high, but not too sharp. A closely trimmed beard darkens his jaw, preventing him from looking too pretty, which he might otherwise. Especially since his skin is flawless. No makeup or photoshopping needed.

And those eyes.

They’re deep set under a severe brow line, but not so deep that his forehead overtakes his features. The color is unreal—a blue-gray that I wasn’t sure existed in nature. In fact, I’m not sure they aren’t contacts, and I almost take a step toward him to see before remembering that he’s Hadrian f**king Seymour, and I’m practically a no one who needs to mind herself.

“I guess I didn’t realize what I’d said was inappropriate.” By now, his exp**ssion has become more sly than mystified—most likely because I’ve been staring at him like a fangirl for the last thirty seconds—and of course he didn’t realize he was inappropriate. Privilege with a capital P. I mean, he is practically American royalty.

With that in mind, I should probably backpedal on the accusation. “I’m sure I took—”

He cuts me off. “If I’m going to be canceled anyway, I might as well say what I was really thinking.”

I shouldn’t ask. I should not ask. “What were you really thinking?”

He pushes off the wall and steps toward me. Two strides is all it takes before he’s right in front of me, practically caging me in. So close I can smell his wood and musk and citrus scent. “I was really thinking, I wonder if we’ll be stuck in here long enough for me to unzip her and find out what’s underneath.”

His eyes fl**k down to my cleavage. This close, he has a good view. “Or what’s not underneath.”

Holy. f**k.

This is what it’s like to be a celebrity. Not just the kind of confidence he exudes, but also the reaction it draws from me. I should be appalled—and a little bit, I am. I should feel threatened—and that I am, for sure.

But the tremor of my pulse is not from fear—it’s from excitement.

Ridiculous, I know. I don’t have time to examine it closely because just then, the elevator jolts into movement.

“I guess not.” Hadrian is still very much invading my personal space. His teeth graze his bottom l*p. “Shame.”

It’s only seconds before we reach the sixty-third floor. The doors open, and Hadrian steps out, abandoning me without a glance back, as if we hadn’t been stuck alone in an elevator together. As if he hadn’t said what he’d said. Done what he’d done.

What even was that?

I blink as I step out after him, trying to get my bearings.

“Thanks for the rescue,” I hear Hadrian say to another sharply dressed man who seemed to be waiting for our arrival.

So he was able to text for help. Was he just messing with me to fill time?

“There you are!” Of course Elvis is waiting at the elevators. He’s probably been here all night, freaking out every time a car arrived without me in it. “Was that—?” He darts his eyes in Hadrian’s direction. “Did you ride up together?” He can barely contain his excitement. “Did you get to talk to him?”

I’m still reeling from the him in question. My gaze follows as Hadrian rushes off with the other man, presumably heading to his designated spot for the occasion.

“Brystin?”

I force my attention back to Elvis.

“Never mind.” He ushers me into the event space. “You can tell me later. You’re just in time. They’re about to start. You look stunning, by the way. Well worth the wait.”

I’m grateful he lets the subject go. I’m not sure what I’d say, or what he’d say in response. Or what he’d do to Hadrian in my defense.

One thing is certain, though—I have to change my entire approach where a promotion is concerned. Because at this rate, Hadrian Seymour will eat me alive.

“Smile on,” Elvis whispers. “VIP headed in our direction.”

If I wasn’t so giddy from the excitement and champagne, I might be annoyed. First, I haven’t dropped my smile once in three hours—my aching cheeks can attest to the fact—and second, it seems that everyone who has spoken to us during the after party has been a VIP. I feel like I’m in a receiving line. One executive after another has passed by with congratulations and nice-to-meet-yous. Every part of my body is exhausted.

But when I glance at the group walking our way, I see why Elvis nudged me, and any hint of irritation dissipates. “Oh my God, it’s Samuel Seymour!” I barely have time to put my professional face back on before he’s upon us.

“Brystin Shaw.” Samuel extends his hand toward me. “Pleasure to meet you. Congratulations on the award. Well deserved.”

I imagine that the chair of Seymour News Corp has probably been thoroughly prepped. There have been too many awards given tonight, too many mentions of outstanding work in journalism for me to feel like he might be able to single me out without the help. Still, I’m thrilled to hear my name come out of his l*ps. In many ways, it’s a dream come true.

Hopefully, I’ll make a good enough imp**ssion that he won’t need the prep next time we’re face-to-face. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Seymour. It’s an honor just to be in the same room with so many notable people in the industry, yourself being at the top of the list. I’m really a tremendous fan.”

He dismisses the compliment with a wave of his hand. “Samuel, please. My father doesn’t even go by Mr. Seymour.”

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