I built my empire on one simple truth: everyone has a price. Some people want money, others want power, a few want revenge. But everyone—everyone—wants something badly enough to compromise their principles.
Floris Middleton was supposed to be no different.
Sia handed her the cocktail dress at exactly 3:47 PM. "Corporate networking event in Rotterdam," she explained clinically. "TimeCorp's quarterly launch party. Timothy Hartwell will be there."
I watched through security feeds as Floris held up the navy silk dress—expensive enough to open doors, subtle enough not to scream corporate spy.
"This looks like it costs more than my rent," Floris said.
"Mr. Brighton's events require appropriate attire."
"And my job is to…?"
"Network. Listen. Report back on TimeCorp's surveillance contracts with the European Union."
Standard corporate intelligence. The kind of thing I'd orchestrated for years without a second thought.
What I didn't expect was finding myself glued to the monitors, watching her get ready.
Most of my employees were predictable—ambitious climbers who'd sell their mothers for corner offices. But Floris moved differently. She wasn't performing for cameras or trying to impress anyone.
She struggled with the zipper, muttering curses that would make sailors blush.
When her hair wouldn't cooperate, she threw the brush at the mirror and went with a messy bun that somehow looked more elegant than anything my usual operatives achieved with professional stylists.
There was something unsettling about her authenticity. In my world, everyone wore masks. Everyone played angles. But Floris seemed incapable of pretense.
Maybe that's why I'd chosen her. She was the only person who'd walked into my office and called me exactly what I was: a psychopath.
The networking event was predictable—overpriced champagne, underqualified executives, enough corporate backstabbing to fuel hostile takeovers.
I watched from my office through surveillance equipment, tracking Floris as she navigated the crowd. She was natural at this. People trusted her because she actually listened instead of waiting for her turn to talk.
Then Timothy Hartwell appeared.
My biggest competitor, oldest rival, and the one person who genuinely got under my skin.
Tall, silver-haired, with the kind of smile that made shareholders open checkbooks and officials forget about privacy regulations.
He approached Floris like a shark sensing blood.
"You seem to be the only person here who doesn't look like they'd rather be getting a root canal," he said.
Floris laughed—genuine, not practiced. "That's because I'm new to soul-crushing corporate networking. Give me six months."
"Timothy Hartwell, TimeCorp." His handshake lingered too long. "And you are?"
"Floris Middleton, Brighton Systems."
I saw the exact moment Timothy's interest shifted from casual flirtation to strategic calculation. A Brighton Systems employee, alone at his event, looking vulnerable.
The conversation was textbook corporate seduction. Timothy was smooth, charming, making Floris feel important while probing for information.
And she handled it perfectly—gave him enough real information to seem trustworthy while feeding him carefully crafted lies about our contracts. She even got him talking about TimeCorp's new AI initiatives, worth millions in the right hands.
Everything was going according to plan.
Until Timothy's hand found the small of her back.
"You know," he said, leaning closer, "I have a suite at the Marriott. We could continue this conversation somewhere more… private."
Something primal shifted inside me. Some possessive instinct I didn't know I had.
I was moving before I'd made a conscious decision, grabbing keys and heading for the elevator. Sia's voice crackled through my earpiece: "Sir, what are you doing? This isn't part of the plan."
But I was already gone.
The Marriott's lobby was marble and pretension. I found them at the bar, Timothy's hand on Floris's thigh while she looked increasingly uncomfortable.
I walked over and placed my hand on her shoulder.
"There you are," I said, voice carrying enough authority to make Timothy freeze. "Sorry I'm late."
Timothy looked up, his smile faltering when he recognized me. "Eric Brighton. I didn't realize you were in Rotterdam."
"Business never sleeps." I helped Floris to her feet, noting the relief in her eyes. "I see you've met my assistant."
"Assistant?" Timothy's gaze flicked between us, recalculating. "She didn't mention working directly for you."
"I don't advertise my personnel arrangements." Steel underlined my professional tone. "Floris, we should go."
"Wait." Timothy stood, reaching for her arm. "We were just getting acquainted. Surely you don't mind if—"
"I mind." The words came out sharper than intended. "She's with me."
The possessiveness in my voice surprised even me. Timothy's eyebrows rose as he understood this wasn't just business.
Before I could respond further, Sia appeared like a shadow. "Gentlemen, I'm sure we all have early flights. Eric, Floris, the car is waiting."
***
The ride back to Amsterdam was funeral-tense.
"What the hell was that?" Sia demanded, composure finally cracking. "You don't interfere with operations. You never interfere. That's rule number one."
"Things got complicated."
"Complicated? She was doing her job perfectly! Hartwell was ready to spill everything, and you walked in like some jealous boyfriend!"
I turned to Floris, who'd been silent. "Why didn't you shut him down earlier?"
Her head snapped up. "Excuse me?"
"He was all over you. Why didn't you extract yourself?"
"I was doing my job!" Her voice rose. "You told me to get information. I was getting information. The fact that he's a handsy creep doesn't change that."
"You seemed to be enjoying his attention."
The words escaped before I could stop them. Floris's face went white, then red.
"Are you serious—" She took a deep breath. "I was undercover. Playing a role. That's what spies do, right?"
Sia stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "Eric, what is wrong with you?"
Good question. I'd built my career on emotional detachment, treating people like chess pieces. But watching Timothy touch Floris had triggered something primitive and unwelcome.
"The mission parameters were unclear," I said finally.
"The mission parameters were fine," Floris shot back. "Your control issues are the problem."
No one talked to me like that. No one questioned my methods or called out my behavior.
Except Floris Middleton, who seemed constitutionally incapable of knowing when to shut up.
Back at the office, I dismissed Sia with a wave. She shot me a look that could melt steel but knew when to retreat.
Floris was heading for the elevator when her posture made me pause. She looked like someone preparing to jump off a cliff.
"Miss Middleton."
She turned and walked back like she was marching to war.
"I don't want to be part of this anymore."
People don't just quit on me. They get fired, transferred to Siberian offices, occasionally disappear into witness protection, but they don't quit.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. I'm done with whatever twisted nightmare you're running."
"Fine. You're fired."
Her jaw dropped. "Just like that?"
"Just like that." I turned to my computer. "Security will escort you out."
She stood there, probably expecting some dramatic speech. But I learned early that the best defense against rejection is to reject first, harder.
"Okay then," she said, voice eerily calm. "Goodbye, Eric."
The use of my first name was like a slap. Nobody calls me Eric.
She made it halfway to the elevator before her phone rang.
The silence after she hung up was deafening. She stood in my doorway, tears streaming, pure murder in her eyes.
"You bastard."
I smiled. "My executive assistant just quit. Are you interested in the position?"
"You're sick," she hissed. "You absolute fucking psychopath."
I didn't argue because she wasn't wrong.
"Why?" The word barely made it past her lips.
I moved closer, close enough to catalog every gold fleck in those amber eyes. I pulled a fresh contract from my desk—had it drafted days ago.
"If you sign this," I said, voice surgeon-steady, "your brother's treatment continues indefinitely. Full coverage for experimental therapy, specialists, hospital bills that would destroy your family's future. All of it was handled."
Her lips trembled. "And what do I become?"
I let the question hang like a noose.
"My executive assistant. One year, non-negotiable. After that, you walk away free. Your brother is healthy, your debt erased."
I watched the war play out across her face—pride versus love, defiance versus crushing medical reality.
Then she did something that genuinely caught me off guard.
She dropped to her knees.
Not in submission—this was pure determination wrapped in a fuck-you gesture. She took the pen between her teeth and signed her name with her mouth, never breaking eye contact.
When she finished, she looked up with tears streaming. "I hope you're satisfied."
But I wasn't satisfied. Not even close.