Ruined by My Ruthless Boss

Camille Laurent

I never thought that running my mouth would land me on a yacht trip to Boston. But here I am, surrounded by expensive suits, glasses of wine, and conversations I don't even want to understand—I couldn't care less about any of it tonight. All because my dear boss—note the irony—decided to eavesdrop on my phone call.

"It wasn't that big of a deal, was it?"

I just called him Hades and said I'd steal another bottle of wine from his cellar to celebrate a proper weekend. Nothing he hasn't earned.

But of course, Adrian Vale has no sense of humor. What he does have is a shitty temper and an uncanny ability to ruin my plans.

What made it even more humiliating was that he threw it in my face. Because instead of letting it go, he said to me in that no-nonsense voice of his:

"If you have time to insult me and make plans, you have time to travel with me to Boston."

That was right before he boarded his private jet, because the great devil himself couldn't let it go.

And here I am, sitting next to him at a business dinner that has absolutely nothing to do with me, because he didn't even ask me to pay attention or take notes as I usually do during the day. I haven't said ten words all evening. I just nod and smile when someone tells a lame joke; or I stare at the sea out the window to keep from dying of boredom.

Adrian hasn't spoken to me since we boarded the yacht either, but he's by my side, imposing in his black suit, with that look that silences anyone, speaking only when necessary to others.

As far as he's concerned, I'm invisible tonight.

The worst part is, I still don't know why he wanted to bring me. I understand the part about ruining my weekend, but he could have just left me bored in his huge house in the city. I have nothing to do here. I'm doing nothing but occupying a chair next to him.

"And if that was the idea, frankly, he could have brought a briefcase."

When dinner finally ends, I breathe a sigh of relief. The few guests, powerful men who practically lick the pavement for my odious boss, begin to leave in the tenders taking them back to shore.

And I can already see myself in one of them, forgetting this circus, until I hear her voice.

"Camille, tell the staff to send a bottle of my wine to the cabin. And to clean everything up before you leave."

He fixes those dark eyes on me for just a fraction of a second, wearing that sour expression he favors when something irritates him, and then he walks away. That's all he says. Not a second glance, not a goodbye. Just the curt order, as if I were part of the cabin crew.

"The son of a bitch doesn't try hard to be a bastard, it just comes naturally to him."

She leaves, leaving me with the glass in my hand and anger knotting in my stomach.

Grumbling, I walk to the yacht's kitchen. I move with the forced elegance of someone trying not to kick the table out of sheer spite.

Because, of course, what am I now? His personal assistant or the server on duty?

And why does that bastard want wine in his room? Does he plan to get drunk by himself and then jump into the sea? Because if that's his intention, I can help him with the second part and spare him the first.

The chef greets me with a friendly smile, but as soon as I relay Adrian's order, his expression tenses up.

"The waiter had an emergency and already left on the last boat," he tells me, raising his hands in apology. "You'll have to take it to him yourself, miss."

I close my eyes for a second and breathe. I breathe again, deeper. And again.

"Relax, Camille, it's not worth it."

But it is worth it, because I'm here on a trip I didn't ask for, at a dinner that was completely out of place, and now, on top of everything, delivering wine like it's my favorite pastime.

"Of course," I reply, with the best fake smile I can muster. "Of course not."

The chef seems relieved. I, not so much.

I take the bottle Adrian asked for and, and casually take a second bottle just like it and hide it between my bag and my coat.

"If I'm going to be the wine messenger, I deserve a commission."

I leave the kitchen minutes later, pushing the cart with as much dignity as my resentment allows. And when I'm halfway down the hall, I realize something the chef told me.

The boats have already left. The server left on the last one.

"Perfect. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't get back to shore tonight. And it's all thanks to him," he grumbled, frustrated.

The corridor feels endless, mostly because of the bad mood that's consuming me. The wine clinks in the cart with every movement, and I can't stop thinking that if I trip and it breaks, Adrian will probably send me straight to the bottom of the sea.

I reach the door of his cabin and sigh. I knock with my knuckles. Once, twice, three times, and I wait.

Nothing.

"Great. Just another thing to add to my list of tonight's annoyances," I mutter under my breath.

I roll my eyes, knowing I can't just leave the wine out here, and prepare to go inside. I slowly open the door and step in and wheel the cart inside.

The yacht's main room seems bigger than my entire apartment in New York. All luxury, all order, all too square and perfect, like Adrian Vale. I place the bottle on the table, next to the glasses, wondering where the hell he went.

An intrusive thought makes me believe that he decided life was no longer worth living and threw himself into the sea, but God would never make anything that easy for me, so I don't believe it.

I tell myself I'm wasting my time and turn to leave, but then I hear something. Something I obviously shouldn't be hearing.

A low murmur. A muffled voice. And a dull thud that sends shivers down my spine.

I'm freezing.

I shouldn't look. I really shouldn't. But my feet move on their own toward the sound. The half-open door in the distance gives me the answer I wasn't looking for. I don't need to open it all the way; just a crack is enough for me to see.

And what I see takes my breath away.

"That's not my stuck-up boss, is it?"