I’m running as hard as I can, my chest burning, my legs screaming in protest, but it’s not fast enough.

Up ahead, the plane keeps accelerating. I know they can see me, at least in the dream-logic of this world. I know they could slow down and let me get on the plane.

But they won’t slow down. They’re going to fly off to their deaths and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

“Please!” I scream, running as hard as I can. “Please, let me on! Tracey, stop the damn plane!”

I’m terrified and angry. I know what’s about to happen and I know I can’t change anything about it, but I still try. I run after the plane, screaming as loud as I can until it slowly takes off, wheels coming unglued from the ground, wings flexing in the wind.

I keep running after it, screaming as loud as I can. The plane disappears into the sky, and when I reach the end of the runway, I stumble face-first and smash into the ground, screaming the whole time.

I wake with a start, heart beating fast in my chest.

I stay there in bed, not moving, breathing deep. It takes a second for the dream to fade and for reality to take over. I steady myself after a few moments and slowly sit up.

“Fucking dreams,” I whisper to myself. I’m drenched in sweat, like I am most mornings. It’s still dark outside, although I know I won’t be getting any more sleep tonight.

I never can seem to fall back to sleep after a dream like that. It’s almost as if my brain knows what’s waiting for it, and is trying to spare me the agony.

Tired but resigned, I get out of bed. It’s four-thirty in the morning, and by the time I finish splashing water on my face and brushing my teeth, I’m wide fucking awake.

The dream lingers the whole day, like it always does.

I step out of the shower and get dressed. I put on my suit, like my fucking coat of armor, and slide my tie up to my throat. I’m tired but feeling better after spending the last two hours lifting weights and running on the treadmill. My body’s exhausted, but this is a good exhaustion.

I check my watch. Just after six, and I’m right on time. I step out of my bedroom and walk down the short hallway to my office. I push open the door and head over to my desk, sitting down with a soft sigh.

I know she’s waiting for me. I turn on my computer and make her wait longer, not looking at her, even though that’s taking more willpower than I thought it would. Ignoring her should be easy, since she’s just my faceless assistant, but Hazel is far from faceless.

I manage to last as long as it takes for my computer to start up and for me to log in. As soon as I pull up my email, though, I glance over at her.

She smiles slightly. I don’t pull my gaze away. I wanted to make her stand there for longer, but I guess I couldn’t help myself.

My eyes roam her body. Another simple blouse, this one navy blue, with a form-fitting dark skirt.

“Good morning,” I say to her.

“Good morning, sir.”

She’s holding a silver tray with a cup and a pot on it. I bet it’s pretty heavy. I nod at the corner of my desk.

“Put it there,” I say.

She follows my command, putting it down and stepping back. I pour some coffee from the pot into my cup and take a sip, preferring it black.

“Do you know how to curtsy?” I ask her.

She looks surprised. “Uh, curtsy?”

“Yes, like a feminine bow.”

“Like this?” She performs something akin to a curtsy, although awkward. She half bends at the waist, crosses her legs, and dips down.

I make a face and stifle some laughter. “Awful,” I say.

“Well, I’ve never had to do it before.”

“You’d better learn.”

“How?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I assume you’ve heard of the internet.”

She sighs. “Okay, fine. I’ll Google it.”

“Very good. I expect you to curtsy for me every morning from now on.”

Something darkens her face for a moment. “Did you ask all of your assistants to do this?”

I laugh a little, although I shouldn’t. I should be annoyed that she’s speaking out of turn and questioning me, but there’s something about her that I like. A spark, a fire.

“No, I didn’t,” I admit. “But you need to learn proper respect.”

She dips her head, and I suspect she’s hiding annoyance. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” I sip my coffee and watch her for a moment. She looks back up at me, eyes defiant. She’s so fucking pretty, for a second I want to order her down on her knees.

“I have another task,” I say, coming around my desk with my coffee in my hand. I head over to a little sitting area toward the front of my office, to the right of the door. I sit in a chair with my back to the windows and pull a small box from the table to my right.

I place it down at my feet and gesture for her to come over. “Open it,” I say.

She kneels down and I feel a thrill. I guess she’s on her knees anyway, in the end.

“What is this?” she asks, looking inside the box.

“Shoeshine kit.” I smirk at the look on her face. “I’m guessing you don’t know how to shine shoes.”

“No,” she admits.

“That’s okay.” I put my feet up on a small stool and gesture at the box. “I’ll teach you. And yes, I made my other assistants do this.”

She glares at me for a second before catching herself. “Yes, sir.”

I laugh softly. “First, take the polish and the soft rag.” She follows my directions, opening the little polish bottle. “Dip in the rag and apply it to my shoes.”

She nods and gets to work. She starts slow, being careful, and I watch her the whole time. I get glimpses of her breasts down her loose blouse, and I realize she left one extra button undone this morning. I wonder if that was on purpose, or if it was a mistake.

“Do you always have someone else polish your shoes?” she asks me.

I frown a little. “No, not always,” I say.

“You did it yourself?”

“When I did it at all,” I say, smiling a little. “I didn’t really care all that much about my clothing back then.”

She glances up at me. “Really? You seem very… particular.”

I raise an eyebrow. She’s not supposed to be talking right now, let alone commenting on my personality.

“I wasn’t always,” I tell her. “When I was a younger man.”

“Got particular in your old age. I guess that happens a lot.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Old age?”

She smiles up at me, a little embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I’m only forty, you know. It’s not that old.”

“Right, totally. Not at all old.”

I smile a little bit. “This coming from a girl that’s clearly practically a teenager.”

“I graduated college,” she says.

“With a painting degree.”

She glares at me. “This painting degree is killing these shoes right now.”

I laugh as she finishes rubbing the polish into the right one.

“You’re doing fine, I guess,” I say, grinning. “Okay, now you need to take the brush and brush the whole shoe.”

She puts the rag and polish down and starts to brush the shoe. “Lots of steps for this. Do I get tips?”

“Only if you’re lucky.”

She smiles. “What’s a girl got to do to get lucky?”

I laugh a little and she instantly turns red.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” she quickly says.

“I think that’s exactly what you meant. Don’t try and backpedal now.”

“No, I just mean, I want a tip.”

“I’ll give you more than a tip.”

She looks shocked and I laugh at her expression. She goes back to brushing my shoes, almost feverishly.

“Done,” she says after another minute.

“Now, take the clean rag, wipe it down one more time to get off any excess polish, and that shoe is finished.”

She nods and does it, wiping it thoroughly. When she’s done, my shoe looks good, clearly better than the one she hasn’t polished yet.

“Good, now do the left.”

She nods, and starts the process over again. I watch her work in silence for a few minutes, marveling at the line of her neck, the thickness of her hair. I have this strange urge to grab it in my fist, pull her up toward me, and kiss her right here.

It’s stupid, and I have to push it from my mind.

“What sort of painting do you do?” I ask her, trying to distract myself from thoughts of fucking her senseless.

She hesitates. “Modern stuff,” she says.

“What’s that mean?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Now you’re into art?”

“Only if you make it.”

She smiles a little. “I guess you could call it contemporary modernism.”

“So you’re mixing modernistic styles with contemporary themes?”

She stops what she’s doing and looks up at me. “I thought you thought art was stupid.”

“I never said that.” I smirk at her and lean closer. “I just think getting an art degree is stupid.”

She glares at me and goes back to work. “Sorry for trying to do what I love.”

“That’s okay. You should bring in a painting sometime, show me what you do.”

“Maybe,” she says, sounding distracted.

“If I like it, I’ll buy it.”

That makes her pause. “Really?”

“If I like it,” I emphasize.

She laughs a little. “Of course you’ll like it. I’m amazing.”

“I bet you are.”

She finishes scrubbing the shoe and wipes the remaining polish off with the clean rag. When it’s all finished, I stand up and look down at myself.

“Well done,” I say, just able to see myself in the leather.

“Thank you, sir.”

I walk over to my desk and sit back down as she puts the shine kit back together. When she’s done, she slides it back into place.

“Anything else from me, sir?”

I watch her for a moment. “Come closer,” I say.

She walks nearer and stops just in front of my desk. I stare at her body, at her skin, and she looks back, undaunted. Of all my assistants, she’s the first one that hasn’t wilted under my gaze.

It’s alluring and attractive… and difficult. I want to break her, make her obedient… make her mine.

I want to bend her over this desk and fuck her until she begs for more.

That’s dangerous. I know I can’t lose control. When I lose control and people get close to me, they end up getting hurt. I can’t risk that, not again.

That’s the reason I locked myself away to begin with.

Still, I’m tempted. I can’t deny that she’s a powerful influence, even after only knowing her for a little while. She’s waking something up inside of me, something that needs to be fed, and I suspect she’s the only thing that’s going to satisfy me.

I want to tell her to turn around. I want to tell her to hike up her skirt. I want to spank her ass until she begs me to slide my fingers inside her wet little cunt and let me fuck her like that until she comes. I want to hear her whisper me name, eyes out of control, as I use her body however I want.

But before I can say any of that, there’s a knock at the door and Declan comes inside.

Hazel looks over her shoulder curiously. I glare at Declan, annoyed at the intrusion. Rogers comes scurrying in behind him.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Rogers says. “He just barged past me.”

“It’s important, Mason,” Declan says, glancing at Hazel.

I sigh. “You’re dismissed,” I say to the girl.

She glances at me, nods once, and leaves. I glare at Declan as his eyes track her movements, staring at her beautiful ass as she leaves.

“Not bad,” he says, grinning at me.

“What do you want, Declan?”

He clears his throat. “It’s the Chinese deal. They’re balking.”

I sigh. I expected something like this from them. “It’s a tactic,” I explain, picking up the phone. “I’ll deal with it.”

As I dial, he sits down and crosses his legs. “I should be here for this.”

“If you really feel like you have to be, but I doubt you’ll understand much.”

Rogers smiles. “Mr. Ward is fluent in Mandarin,” he says to Declan.

“I know,” Declan snaps, annoyed.

Good. Let him be annoyed.

For a second, I think about having Hazel sent back in, but I know that’s absurd. I have work to do, and this Chinese deal is a delicate thing. I understand them, but that doesn’t mean I can’t screw it all up in the end.

Rogers leaves with a nod and Declan digs in, determined to see this through. Fine, let him hang around while I clean up his mess, that’s fine by me. It won’t be quick or easy or pretty, though, and it won’t be in English.

I put my head down as the phone rings, trying to keep my mind off my new assistant.