22

22

Mason's POV

Every time she steps into my office, I feel a rush of power. It's like an intoxicating high—watching her struggle with this situation I've forced her into. Her anger, her resentment, it only fuels me. And when she tries to keep that cool exterior, trying so hard not to let me see how much she despises me, I can't help but savor it.

Bethany doesn't know this yet, but she's mine now. And I will make sure she understands that every single day.

I watched her walk into my office today, the way her steps faltered as she crossed the threshold. She hates being here. I can smell it on her. The tension in her movements. The tightness in her jaw. She's trying to control herself, trying to keep that veneer of professionalism. It's almost cute.

But I won't let her forget.

I knew the moment I agreed to this arrangement—making her my live-in secretary—that she'd resist. She would think she could get away with doing the bare minimum, but I have other plans. She thinks she can play the victim in this, but that's not how this works. She's not the victim here. She's the one who broke the heirloom, and now, she belongs to me.

"Did you bring the report?" I asked her, not even looking up at first. I could hear her breathing, the faint hitch in her chest as she tried to steady herself. But I didn't care. I wanted her to know she was beneath me, that I was in control here.

Her movements were stiff, like she was holding herself back. She placed the folder down on my desk with enough force to make a soft thud. There was a flicker of anger in her eyes, but she quickly masked it.

I didn't care about the report. Not really. I could read through it in two minutes. But this was about power. This was about her submitting to me—physically, emotionally, mentally.

"Good," I said, my voice smooth. I didn't even glance up at her as I skimmed through the pages. "But you can make me coffee. The usual."

I could feel her body tense. I could practically taste the resentment in the air, and it made me smile. Bethany had no choice but to serve me now. I knew it ate her up inside to have to do something so beneath her, but it was exactly what I wanted.

I watched her walk to the coffee machine. She was trying to keep it together, but I could see the way her shoulders were tight, her movements sharp and controlled. She hated me, and I loved it.

When she brought the coffee over, I took it from her with that same nonchalant air. I didn't even thank her. I didn't need to.

I could see the fury building in her eyes. Good. She should be angry. She should hate me. It made this all the more delicious.

I set the coffee cup down on the desk, and I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest. I studied her for a moment. The way she refused to meet my gaze. The way her hands trembled slightly, but only when she thought I wasn't looking.

"Make sure it's perfect," I said, knowing full well she would. She had no choice.

She didn't respond. Good. I could feel the tension rising between us. It was palpable. She was trying to hold it all in, trying not to let me see how much I affected her, but I knew her too well. I could read her like a book.

When she turned to walk back to her desk, I couldn't resist. I had to remind her.

"Bethany," I said, the words sliding off my tongue like honey, but there was a darkness in them. "I want to talk to you about something."

She froze mid-step, her back stiffening. I could practically hear her heartbeat, faster now, quickened with anxiety. She knew this wasn't going to be a pleasant conversation.

I leaned forward in my chair, the weight of my position settling over me. I had all the power here. I was an alpha, the CEO of this company, and I had Bethany at my mercy. She was nothing but my secretary now, my employee, and my responsibility.

But that didn't mean I couldn't have fun with her.

"I've been thinking," I continued, my voice low and controlled, "you're not doing enough."

Her jaw clenched, her eyes narrowing. She didn't say anything, but I could tell she was seething. I loved it.

"You're here to work for me, Bethany," I said, letting each word sink in. "That means more than just filing papers and bringing me coffee. I want you to be… useful. And you're not."

I could see her jaw working as she tried to hold back her frustration. She was biting her tongue, and I knew it was only a matter of time before she cracked.

"I'm doing my job," she said through gritted teeth, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Are you?" I asked, leaning forward now, locking my gaze on hers. "Are you really, Bethany? Or are you just going through the motions, trying to get by without actually putting in the effort?"

She didn't answer, and that only fueled me. I stood up from my chair and walked around the desk, stepping into her space. She didn't back away, didn't flinch. But I could feel the pulse of her anxiety, and I knew she was trying to hide it.

"You think you can just waltz into my life, break my heirloom, and expect everything to go back to normal?" I whispered, my voice low, barely audible, but with a dangerous edge. "You owe me, Bethany. And I'm not going to let you forget it."

I could see the emotion flickering in her eyes—anger, fear, frustration—but she didn't show it. She was good at hiding it, but not good enough. I could smell it all.

"You're going to work for me," I said, stepping even closer, my body almost pressing against hers. "You're going to do whatever I ask, whenever I ask it. And you're going to like it. Or I'll make sure you do."

She didn't speak, but her chest rose and fell with every breath. Her hands were shaking now, barely noticeable, but I could see it. I could feel it.

"Do you understand?" I asked, my voice sharp now, commanding.

She nodded slowly, but I wasn't done.

"You're not here because you want to be," I continued, my voice low and threatening, "You're here because you owe me. Because I own you. And don't you forget that."

Her eyes flashed with something—defiance, maybe. But it didn't matter. I had all the power here. I had all the control.

I walked back around my desk, sitting down in my chair again, and I looked at her expectantly. She didn't move at first, but I could see the way she was seething, barely holding herself together.

"Go sit at your desk," I ordered, my tone final. "We're not done here."

She did as I told her, but I could tell it took every ounce of self-control she had not to snap at me.

I couldn't help but smile to myself.

This was just the beginning.

Every day, I would break her down, piece by piece. I would remind her, over and over, that she belonged to me.

And I would make sure she never forgot it.