Too Late For Regret: The Assistant's Revenge

The Manhattan rain did not fall; it attacked. Heavy, violent drops slammed against the windshield of the black Maybach, blurring the neon lights of the Upper East Side into a smeared, bleeding canvas.

Christina Chen sat in the driver's seat, the engine idling in the alley behind the Carlyle Club. Her fingers gripped the leather steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles jutted out like white marbles under her skin.

She stared at the digital clock on the dashboard. 11:42 PM.

Her stomach was a tight, cold knot. It was always like this when she waited for him. The suffocating blend of dread and that pathetic, stubborn hope she couldn't seem to kill.

Christina forced her hands to uncurl. She killed the engine.

She grabbed the heavy black umbrella from the passenger seat and pushed the door open. The cold November wind hit her instantly, stealing the air from her lungs. She popped the umbrella, but the rain blew sideways, soaking the hem of her pencil skirt and seeping into her black stilettos.

Every step through the puddles sent a shock of ice water up her calves.

She reached the heavy mahogany side door of the club. Leo, the night manager, stood just inside the awning. He pulled the door open, giving her a brief, professional nod.

"Miss Chen," Leo said.

Not Jackson's guest. Not Jackson's girlfriend. Miss Chen. The executive assistant.

"Thank you, Leo," Christina said, her voice steady, betraying none of the shivering in her limbs.

She stepped into the dimly lit whiskey lounge. The air inside was thick and warm, smelling of aged bourbon, expensive cigar smoke, and the distinct, arrogant scent of old money. It was a world she worked in, slept in, but never belonged to.

She walked past the velvet booths, her wet heels sinking into the plush carpet. She headed straight for the VIP corridor in the back.

As she turned the corner toward the private suites, her foot stopped mid-air.

The heavy oak door of Suite 4 was cracked open just an inch.

Jackson's voice drifted through the narrow gap. It was low, smooth, and completely devoid of warmth. It was the exact tone he used when stripping a bankrupt company down to its copper wires.

"The marriage is the most efficient route," Jackson said. "A merger between Booker Capital and Wall Investment Group secures the board."

Christina's lungs forgot how to expand. She pressed her back against the cold wall of the corridor, the damp fabric of her coat clinging to her skin.

A high-pitched, grating laugh followed. It was Rex, one of Jackson's senior partners. "And Carson Wall isn't exactly a hardship to look at, Jack. But what about your... current arrangement? The board won't like messy loose ends before a wedding."

Christina stopped breathing. The silence that followed stretched so long it made her ears ring.

Then, Jackson chuckled. A short, dismissive sound that felt like a physical blow to Christina's ribs.

"There is no mess," Jackson said smoothly. "Once the merger is finalized, I'll cut her a severance check. Have legal draft a supplemental NDA. It's a non-issue."

A severance check.

A non-issue.

The words hit her bloodstream like a lethal injection. The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet. Christina pressed her nails so hard into her palms that the skin broke, the sharp sting of pain the only thing keeping her knees from buckling.

Three years. Three years of his bed, his secrets, his whispered demands in the dark. Reduced to a severance check and a gag order.

A drop of rainwater slid down her hair and landed on the marble floor with a quiet tap.

She couldn't let him see her like this. Not shattered. Not pathetic.

Christina spun around and walked fast, almost running, toward the women's restroom at the end of the hall. She pushed through the door and braced both hands on the edge of the marble sink.

She stared at the mirror. Her face was the color of chalk. Her chest heaved, pulling in jagged, shallow breaths.

She turned on the faucet, letting the freezing water run over her wrists. She cupped the water and splashed it over her face, ignoring the way it ruined her makeup. The freezing temperature shocked her system, forcing her heart rate to slow down.

You are an employee, she told her reflection. Act like one.

She grabbed a paper towel, dried her face, and pulled a tube of red lipstick from her pocket. She applied it with a steady hand, painting on her armor.

Christina walked out of the restroom, her spine straight. She approached Suite 4 and knocked twice, firmly, before pushing the door open.

The room smelled heavily of scotch. Jackson was leaning back on a leather chesterfield sofa, a crystal glass in his hand. He wore a bespoke charcoal suit, the jacket unbuttoned.

His dark, predatory eyes snapped to her. They tracked over her wet hair, the damp shoulders of her coat, and settled on her face. His gaze was heavy, calculating.

"Mr. Booker," Christina said, her voice perfectly hollow. She held out his dry wool overcoat. "The car is ready."

Jackson didn't say a word. He stood up, his massive frame dominating the room. He didn't look at Rex. He just walked toward Christina, snatching the coat from her hands. His knuckles brushed against hers. His skin was burning hot; hers was like ice.

He didn't react to the temperature difference. He just walked past her into the hallway.

Christina followed him out into the rain. She opened the rear door of the Maybach. Jackson slid into the back seat, his jaw set in a hard line.

Christina got into the driver's seat. She started the engine, her hands trembling so violently she had to grip the wheel until her knuckles ached to keep them still.

The drive to the Booker Building was a suffocating nightmare. The silence in the car was thick enough to choke on. Christina kept her eyes glued to the road, but her peripheral vision caught Jackson in the rearview mirror.

He was staring out the window, his profile carved from granite. He looked completely unaffected. He looked like a man who had just closed a profitable deal.

The Maybach descended into the private underground garage of the Booker Building. Christina parked in his reserved spot.

Before she could even unbuckle her seatbelt, Jackson was out of the car. He walked toward the private elevator that led straight to his penthouse, not bothering to check if she was following.

She always followed. That was the rule.

Christina grabbed her bag and hurried after him. She stepped into the elevator just as the doors were closing. The mirrored walls of the elevator reflected her pale face and his broad, unyielding back.

The numbers above the door climbed rapidly. 50. 60. 70.

The doors slid open to the penthouse. The fingerprint lock beeped as Jackson pressed his thumb to the scanner.

He stepped inside, shrugging off his overcoat and tossing it onto the white leather sofa. He walked straight to the wet bar, grabbed a decanter, and poured two fingers of bourbon.

Christina stood awkwardly in the foyer, the rainwater from her shoes staining the pristine hardwood floor.

Jackson finally turned to look at her. He took a sip of his drink, his eyes narrowing.

"Your reaction tonight," Jackson said, his voice dropping an octave, slicing through the quiet room. "It crossed a line, Miss Chen."

Christina's throat closed up. He noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed the slight hesitation, the wet hair, the rigid posture.

"I apologize, Mr. Booker," Christina whispered. The words tasted like ash.

Jackson stared at her for a long, agonizing moment. He lifted the glass and drained the bourbon in one swallow. He slammed the empty crystal glass down on the marble counter. The sharp crack made Christina flinch.

He adjusted the Patek Philippe watch on his left wrist, a gesture he only made when he was done tolerating a situation.

"Eight AM tomorrow," Jackson said coldly, turning his back to her and walking toward the master bedroom. "Do not be late."

The heavy bedroom door shut behind him. The lock clicked.

Christina stood alone in the massive, empty living room. The sound of that lock turning was the final blow.

Her knees gave out. She sank to the floor, the cold hardwood biting into her bare legs. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, bending forward as the first sob tore out of her throat.

She cried until her chest physically ached, until there was no air left in her lungs.

When the tears finally stopped, she stared at the locked door. The pathetic hope was dead. He had priced her out, packaged her up, and prepared her for disposal.

Christina wiped her face with the back of her hand. Tomorrow morning, she wouldn't wait for the severance check. She would end it herself.