Divorced By The Boss I Slept With

Arnetta locked the deadbolt on her Brooklyn apartment door and immediately pulled out her encrypted phone. She dialed Ira's number. He answered on the first ring. "Status?" Ira asked, his voice crisp. "I'm in," Arnetta said, kicking off her painful heels. "I am officially Brennan Kirkland's executive assistant. But he is a fortress. I brought up The Maverick tonight, and he shut it down completely. Claims they only communicate via encrypted email." "Keep digging," Ira ordered. "Brennan is hiding something. We need The Maverick's identity to counter Vanguard's next move. Don't blow your cover." "I won't," Arnetta promised. She hung up and collapsed onto her bed, exhaustion pulling her under. The next morning, the atmosphere on the top floor of Vanguard Capital was toxic. Arnetta stepped out of the elevator and instantly felt the heavy, suffocating tension. The junior assistants were whispering frantically. Kenya looked pale and terrified. Arnetta walked to her desk outside the walnut doors. She could hear Brennan's voice through the thick wood. He was shouting. Inside the office, Brennan Kirkland was pacing behind his massive mahogany desk like a caged animal. His suit jacket was discarded on a chair. His tie was loosened. His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ground together. He held his private phone in his hand, his knuckles white from the force of his grip. On the screen was the photo he had finally opened late last night. A blurry image of a woman's red lips, her exposed collarbone, and the broad shoulder of a man in a navy pinstripe suit. His rage instantly clouded his judgment. The blinding, visceral anger of seeing his wife-the woman who was bleeding his bank accounts dry-flaunting her infidelity in his face completely overrode his analytical mind. He saw only the betrayal he expected, not the intricate details in the frame. The amber glare and the heavy shadows in the photo successfully masked the fabric, ensuring he did not recognize the distorted shoulder of his own custom suit. The message attached to it-Get used to the horns, darling-was a direct, humiliating challenge to his manhood that consumed his every thought. Alexis stood in front of the desk, sweating profusely. He pushed his sleeves up his forearms, a nervous habit he couldn't control. "Mr. Kirkland," Alexis stammered. "I spoke to the private investigators this morning. They confirmed the rumors from her neighbors. She is a complete party girl. Out every night. Bringing men back to her apartment." Brennan stopped pacing. He turned to Alexis, his eyes burning with a murderous rage. "Three days," Brennan said, his voice a lethal, vibrating growl. "Sir?" "You have three days to get her signature on those divorce papers," Brennan roared, slamming his fist onto the desk. The heavy wood shuddered. "I don't care what you have to do. Threaten her. Bribe her. Ruin her. If I am still legally bound to that whore by Friday, you are fired." Alexis swallowed hard and nodded frantically. "Yes, sir. Immediately." Alexis practically ran out of the office, throwing the door open. He rushed past Arnetta's desk without a word. Arnetta watched him go, her eyebrows raised. She picked up the tray holding Brennan's morning black coffee. She took a deep breath, preparing herself for the storm, and walked into the office. Brennan was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the city. His chest heaved with suppressed rage. Arnetta walked to the desk and set the coffee down silently. She turned to leave. "Stop." The word cracked through the air like a whip. Arnetta froze. She turned around slowly. Brennan turned to face her. His eyes were bloodshot, filled with a raw, violent anger that made her stomach drop. Because he could not physically strangle his cheating wife, his mind demanded a target to punish. And Arnetta was standing right in front of him. He pointed a long, accusing finger at the massive wall of metal filing cabinets on the far side of the office. "Those cabinets," Brennan said, his voice dripping with malice, "contain five years of physical compliance records. They are out of order." Arnetta looked at the cabinets. There were at least fifty heavy drawers, packed tight with thousands of paper files. "I want them reorganized," Brennan commanded. "Alphabetically by client, then chronologically by quarter. And I want it done by the time I leave this office tonight." Arnetta stared at him. It was a physically impossible task. It was mindless, grueling manual labor meant for an intern, not an executive assistant. "Mr. Kirkland," Arnetta said, keeping her voice level. "I have to manage your schedule, prep the board packets-" "Did I ask for your opinion?" Brennan snarled, taking a step toward her. The sheer physical menace radiating from him was terrifying. "You work for me. You do exactly what I tell you to do. Start filing. Now." Arnetta's fingernails dug so deeply into her palms that she felt the sharp sting of broken skin. Heat crawled up her neck. She wanted to throw the hot coffee in his arrogant face. But she couldn't. Ira's voice echoed in her head. Don't blow your cover. "Understood, sir," Arnetta said, her voice tight with suppressed fury. She walked over to the first metal cabinet. She pulled the heavy drawer open. The screech of metal on metal echoed in the quiet room. She knelt on the hard floor and began pulling out thick, heavy stacks of paper. Brennan walked back to his desk and sat down. He opened his laptop and began typing, deliberately ignoring her. For the next three hours, Arnetta sat on the floor, hauling massive stacks of paper back and forth. Dust coated her hands and ruined her cheap gray skirt. Her lower back throbbed with a dull, relentless ache. Her knees bruised against the hard floor. Every time she lifted a heavy box, she cursed him. She cursed his arrogance. She cursed his cruelty. And Brennan sat at his desk, listening to the rustle of paper and her heavy breathing, using her physical suffering to soothe the burning humiliation of his wife's infidelity. They existed in the same room, locked in a silent, bitter war, neither knowing the true identity of the person they were fighting.