Mitchell's POV
The Corporation was like a very big elephant standing in it's glory and I felt like a very small, very nervous ant standing in its shadow. This morning, I wasn't just Mitchell the discarded daughter or Mitchell the new nanny. I was Mitchell the interview candidate, and my potential boss was the man who had looked at me last night like he wanted to either devour me or throw me out the window.
How would the interview go? What if I mess up? What if he's still angry about whatever I did wrong? My thoughts spiraled as I waited in the sleek lobby, and I didn't realize I was fidgeting with the hem of my blazer until a security guard gave me a curious look.
Then I saw him. Alistair Wright strode through the revolving doors like he owned the very air around him—which, technically, he probably did. His dark suit was immaculate, his dark hair slightly tousled, and those garnet eyes scanned the lobby until they landed on me.
"Come with me," he said curtly, already turning and walking toward the private elevator.
Does this man have a conscience? I muttered internally, scrambling to catch up in my five-inch heels. His legs were impossibly long. I was practically jogging.
The elevator ride was silent and suffocating. I could feel his presence beside me like a gravitational pull. When we entered his office—a sprawling corner space with floor-to-ceiling windows—I watched him loosen his tie. Gosh, that's unfairly sexy.
His eyes trailed over my outfit—a modest but professional blue blouse and black pencil skirt—and I took the opportunity to do the same. My gaze dropped unintentionally and caught the unmistakable outline of a reaction in his tailored trousers.
My face erupted in heat. Did he just... from looking at me? I didn't know whether to feel flattered or faint. He quickly moved behind his desk, sitting down with what looked like deliberate casualness. The air was thick with unspoken tension.
He cleared his throat. "Let's begin."
The first few questions were standard—experience, qualifications, why I wanted the position. But then he leaned forward, his eyes sharpening.
"As my personal assistant, you'd handle sensitive information. Confidential meetings. Personal matters." He paused. "How would you handle discovering something compromising about me? Something that could damage the company if leaked?"
Tricky. Was this hypothetical, or was he testing something real? I met his gaze steadily.
"I would assess whether it was a matter of personal privacy or public concern. If it was personal and irrelevant to the company's operations, I'd keep it to myself. If it affected the business, I'd bring it to you directly and work on damage control together." I offered a small, genuine smile. "Loyalty doesn't mean blind obedience, Mr. Wright. It means honest partnership."
Something flickered in his eyes—approval, perhaps. He continued with more questions, each one a psychological puzzle. I answered as honestly and thoughtfully as I could, even when my heart was racing.
Finally, he leaned back. "You will receive your follow-up tonight by email."
Tonight. I'd have to wait. I stood, smoothing my skirt. "Thank you, Mr. Wright."
As I left the building, my mind shifted to more immediate concerns. Tomorrow was Clara and Donald's wedding. The perfect surprise was already loaded on my secret phone, but I needed more. A backup gift.
From my understanding of scumbags like them, Clara was likely already entangled with someone else. I pulled out my phone and checked Clara's public blog—she'd posted from a luxury spa just five minutes ago. I knew the place. Exclusive. Private. Perfect for secret meetings.
But how to get in?
An idea struck as I approached the spa's back entrance. A pale, sick-looking cleaner was leaning against the wall, coughing. I approached him, offered a generous tip, and promised to finish his shift. He agreed without hesitation.
I changed in a supply closet, pulling on his uniform and tucking my hair into a tight bun under a cap. My heart pounded as I slipped inside, relying on my photographic memory of the spa's layout from Clara's previous posts.
I found the private suite easily. Peeking through a gap in the curtain, my suspicions were confirmed—and exceeded.
Clara lay completely naked on the massage table. And behind her, oiling his hands, was Mr. Williams. Donald's father.
"Harder," Clara moaned as his hands worked lower, sliding between her thighs. "Oh, yes... after tomorrow, I'll be your daughter-in-law and your secret. Think of all the family dinners."
"You'll give me more of this?" Mr. Williams growled, his fingers moving expertly.
"Whenever you want. Donald is a boy. You're a man."
I kept my phone steady, recording every moment—every touch, every filthy promise, every moan of his name. The evidence was damning, incriminating, perfect.
Then I shifted my weight, and the metal rod beside me clattered to the floor.
They froze. Clara's head whipped toward my hiding spot, her eyes wide with horror. She grabbed a blanket while Mr. Williams frantically pulled on his shorts.
I didn't wait. I slipped out the back, weaving through corridors I'd memorized, avoiding every camera angle I'd studied on the way in. Voices shouted behind me, but I was already gone.
Outside, I ducked into a blind spot between buildings, stripped off the cleaner's uniform, and let my hair loose from its bun. I adjusted my baseball cap, arranged my expression into casual innocence, and stepped back onto the sidewalk just as security guards rushed past me toward the spa's main entrance.
They didn't even glance my way.
I walked calmly to a nearby café, ordered a coffee with shaking hands, and pulled out my phone. The video was safe. Encrypted. Ready.
Tomorrow, I thought, a cold smile touching my lips. Tomorrow would definitely be a wonderful day.