I take my seat in front of the H.R. manager and place my hands primly on my lap. Every time I’m called to Maria Fairfax’s office, I feel like a schoolgirl being sent to detention…and I’m not quite sure what I did wrong.

Like now.

The silence in Maria’s office is hard to read. I feel like she’s not mad at me (for a change), but I also feel like she’s about to make this dire announcement I’m guaranteed to hate.

I try to rack my brains for what possible misdemeanor I’m guilty of that warrants HR’s attention. Is it because I had exchanged words with old Sarah from accounting, who’s not just miserly and nasty but also a bit of a klepto?

Or maybe it’s because of last week’s team building in Orlando, and certain skeletons about my past had suddenly resurfaced? So I once suffered from domestic abuse. It’s not like I’m the only such victim in the world. Everyone had made such a huge fuss over it, but the thing is, I’ve long gotten over the everyday beatings my step-aunt used to subject me to.

I’m a fairly resilient person, not to mention practical. Even without the help of a therapist, I had long figured out there were two kinds of people in this world: those who were just plain nice…and those who weren’t.

Obviously, my step-aunt and stepbrother fell in the latter category, and as soon as I turned eighteen I had left my uncle’s home and never looked back.

It’s been a closed book since then, but apparently people at my workplace didn’t believe I could get over my past. Remembering the pity party that followed last week’s anonymously orchestrated exposé makes me shudder even now. Most of them thought I’d appreciate them treating me like I’m fragile, but honestly it just made me feel I’m a freak.

All those poor-little-you looks---

It had pissed me off so much, I might have, umm, thrown out a fuck-you-asshole or two, along with a couple of middle fingers, to, umm, supposedly well-meaning individuals?

I steal a look at Maria. Could that be it?

Maria looks back at me, her poker face made picture-perfect after two decades of managing labor relations has made her poker face.

The silence in the room becomes increasingly unbearable, and I start to fidget.

Maria clears her throat.

I straighten. Shit. That sounds bad.

She opens her mouth to speak---

But I beat her to it. “Whatever it is that was said about me,” I blurt out defensively, “it’s probably because of a misunderstanding.”

Maria lets out a huge sigh.

“I mean it,” I stress earnestly. “You know how I am. I’m like, all bark and no bite. So if someone lodged a complaint against me, it’s probably just a misunderstanding---”

“It is,” the H.R. manager says dryly, “but the misunderstanding is all on your side.”

Oh.

“I called you here because executive management asked for a recommendation for our CEO’s personal assistant---”

I sit up at the words. Is this what I think it is?

“And I chose you.”

Oh my God, it is what I think it is.

I shake my head, amazed and incredulous. “No shit?” Maria winces at the words, and I apologize right away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m just shocked.”

“In a good way, I hope.”

“Oh yes. I’m happy as fuck---”

Maria scowls. “Language!”

Oops. “Sorry,” I say again, more meekly this time, but inside of me I’m doing somersaults and cartwheels.

Clearing her throat, Maria goes on, “Should you choose to accept it---”

I almost snicker, thinking how she makes it sound like babysitting the CEO is some kind of mission impossible.

“---then the promotion will come with a salary upgrade and a more lucrative compensation package overall. You will also be working from the penthouse, with your own work area---”

“I accept,” I say eagerly.

Maria frowns. “Don’t be so hasty.”

“But salary upgrade, Ms. Fairfax!” I grin. “It’s everything to me.”

“Oh, Ms. Reed.” The older woman sighs. “Money isn’t everything.”

“Only rich people say that,” I mutter under my breath.

Maria ignores this, which of course is something also only rich people can do. “I know you don’t believe me, but there will come a time when you’ll realize that money truly isn’t everything.”

“I already know that,” I say patiently. “I know it very well, and I know you know that, too, Ms. Fairfax. In my job interview six years ago, you used your psycho mumbo-jumbo to hypnotize me into telling you my life story---”

Maria rolls her eyes. “For the last time, Ms. Reed, no hypnosis was involved. I’m simply paid to prevent the unwanted from working here, and that’s why I needed to ferret out your past. Moreover, I am not worried – as you have mistakenly assumed – that money will make you greedy. What I am worried about is the way you seem to be using money as an excuse to keep other people away.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say automatically.

Maria wags a finger at me. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how confrontational---”

“You mean bitchy?” I ask innocently.

Maria gives me a pointed look. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

Shit. She totally got me there.

“Now, you’ve been working for us for six years and throughout it you’ve had a succession of bosses as you climbed your way up.”

I can’t see where she’s going, and I say warily, “There’s a but, isn’t there?”

“They may have let you gotten away with a lot of things because they appreciate your hard work, but---”

“I knew it,” I grumble.

“Our CEO won’t be the same.” Leaning forward, the older woman settles her elbows on her desk and laces her fingers under her chin. “Mr. Rochester is different, Mary Jane---”

I cringe. “Reed please.”

“Mary Jane,” Maria says even more firmly. “And you better get used to it. Mr. Rochester happens to be the traditional and conservative sort---”

“Is that the H.R. term for chauvinist?” I quip.

“My point is,” Maria says diplomatically, “it’s possible that Mr. Rochester won’t call you ‘Reed’ like you’ve convinced your other bosses to do so, and you must be prepared for this.”

“So he is a chauvinist.”

“No.” But Maria is visibly fighting off her smile, and when I snort, she loses the battle and the sound of her barely smothered laugh fills the room. “Oh, Ms. Reed.”

Every time she says that, I think wryly, I feel like I’m a hopeless case for Hell.

“Working for Mr. Rochester is a once-in-the-lifetime opportunity, and I want it for you. I really do. But I also know you’ll end up fired within the first five minutes if you don’t at least try to---”

“Act like a sweet little idiot around him?”

“Mary Jane!”

“Sorry.” I gnaw on my lower lip. “I’m grateful you recommended me of all people, but I don’t know if I can meet your expectations. I’m not sure if I have the stomach to pretend being someone I’m not.”

“Which is good,” Maria surprisingly concurs, “since I’m not asking you to do such a thing. Rather, I’m imploring you to give Mr. Rochester a chance---”

“Oh, please, Ms. Fairfax. You make him sound like I can bully him.” I snort at the mere idea of it, which is utterly preposterous. If what I’ve been hearing is even half-accurate, then someone like Mr. Rochester is the exact opposite of what he’s suggesting. Rather, he’s the type who throws his weight around on a whim, and of course no one has the power to stand in his way when he does.

When I notice Ms. Fairfax’s lips purse, I say defensively, “I only know what I’ve heard.”

“Then I’m disappointed,” she counters severely, “that you put so much stock in the office grapevine. I thought you were smarter than that.”

Shit. She has a point. “Sorry,” I mutter, properly chastened. I barely know anything about Mr. Rochester, and what I do know I’ve only picked up from workplace gossip, like the fact that our 35-year-old boss is considered one of Britain’s most legendary playboys (The Daily Mail used that exact same word!), and that he always leaves a string of broken hearts wherever he goes.

But to be fair to him, it always takes two to tango, and I don’t think he’s ever forced any woman to go out with him. Those women whose hearts Mr. Rochester allegedly broke were women who chose to play with fire in the first place.

“Perhaps we should clear the air now,” the H.R. manager suggests, “so we can avoid any preconceived notions about Mr. Rochester from affecting your job.” Maria reaches for a pen and taps the end of it against a pad of paper, saying, “To start with, tell me what you know of Mr. Rochester.”

Startled by her words, I stammer awkwardly, “Women think he’s hot?” But even though I know it’s true I can’t help wrinkling my nose as I speak. I’ve seen enough photos of Mr. Rochester to know he’s more than passably attractive, with his ebony black hair and sapphire eyes, and that his six-foot-plus frame is built more like a professional athlete. Supposedly, he’s this ridiculously wild animal in bed, too---

“Dare I even ask what you’re thinking now?”

“Nope.”

Maria sighs. “This is going nowhere. I can see that you don’t like Mr. Rochester, so may I just go straight to the point and ask why?”

“It’s nothing personal,” I say uneasily. “It’s just…I hate the idea of him.” I shrug again. “Bad boys have never been my taste, you know?”

“Ah.” The older woman’s fingers tap on the desk. “I’m beginning to understand what you meant earlier. You are thinking about the previous PAs, aren’t you, Ms. Reed?”

I nod warily.

“And you’ve heard rumors about how he’s bullied and mistreated them, taking advantage of the fact that they’re in love with him. Yes?”

“In a nutshell.”

Maria sighs. “I want you to enjoy working for Mr. Rochester, Mary Jane, but I don’t see that becoming a possibility until I correct these misassumptions of yours.”

“It’s not---”

The H.R. manager waves a hand, and I fall silent, knowing a ‘shut up’ sign when I see one.

“Just this once, I shall be coarse and indiscreet, quite unprofessionally so, to deliver the point across.”

I gape at her. What did that even mean? Is she saying in too many words she’s going to be…honest?

“All those women who worked as Mr. Rochester’s PA have two things in common, Ms. Reed.” She gives me a humorless smile. “One: they wanted his cock.”

Oh my God, that was coarse!

“Two, they wanted his money even more.”

And that was way harsh!

“Now, Mr. Rochester can only be so obliging---”

I choke. Obliging? Really?

“And unfortunately all of them ended up being greedy, which warranted their complete eradication in Mr. Rochester’s life.”

“You mean he got rid of them,” I say bluntly.

“Legally and permanently so,” Maria says pleasantly, “and with absolutely no chance of even getting within a ten-mile radius of Mr. Rochester unless they wish to be slapped with several indefensible charges.”

A moment of silence follows, and I find myself subject to Maria’s contemplative look.

“I’m not going to follow in their footsteps,” I say with a roll of my eyes, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“It’s not. But what I am worried about is…” Maria pauses.

I frown. “What?”

“Never mind,” the older woman says finally. “Just please heed my advice if you wish to keep this new job – be quiet as a mouse, work hard, don’t give Mr. Rochester any sass, and you’ll be fine.”