Too Late For Regret: The Assistant's Revenge

The afternoon sun sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, hitting Christina directly in the eyes. She flinched, turning her head into the pillow. Her entire body ached. Her thighs felt bruised, and a dull, throbbing pain radiated from her lower back. The memories of the garage, the elevator, the wall in the foyer rushed back, hitting her like a physical weight on her chest. She gasped, sitting up abruptly. The velvet duvet fell to her waist. The bed beside her was empty. The sheets were cold. Jackson was gone. Christina pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. A wave of intense nausea rolled through her stomach. She felt dirty. She felt completely, utterly owned. She forced herself to swing her legs over the edge of the bed. Her feet hit the plush rug, but her knees buckled instantly. She grabbed the nightstand to steady herself, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. She had to get out of here. She stumbled out of the bedroom and walked down the hallway. Her clothes from this morning were scattered on the floor. She picked up her white silk blouse. It was ruined, the buttons completely torn off, the fabric ripped at the seam. She dropped it as if it burned her. She walked into Jackson's massive walk-in closet. The smell of his cedar and bergamot cologne made her stomach churn again. She grabbed the first thing she saw—a crisp, white button-down shirt. She pulled it on, rolling up the sleeves. The fabric smelled like him. It felt like putting on a straightjacket, a physical reminder of his brand on her skin. She didn't bother looking in the mirror. Her purse was sitting on the foyer console, right where someone had placed it after retrieving it from the car. She snatched it up and ran out the door. The private elevator descended in silence, carrying her straight down to the building's main lobby. The polished marble and the doorman's polite nod felt like a cruel joke—everyone in this building answered to Jackson Booker. She kept her head down, pushing through the revolving doors and out onto the Manhattan sidewalk. She hailed the first cab she saw, giving the driver her address in Queens. The entire ride, she stared out the window, her mind blank and buzzing all at once. When she finally locked the door of her cramped apartment behind her, she stripped off his shirt and threw it into the trash can. She stood under the shower for forty minutes. She turned the water as hot as she could stand it, scrubbing her skin with a loofah until it was bright red and stinging. But no matter how hard she scrubbed, she couldn't wash away the feeling of his hands pinning her to the wall. When she finally stepped out, she dried off and walked to her closet. She bypassed her usual silk blouses and V-neck dresses. She pulled out a thick, black turtleneck sweater and a pair of wide-leg trousers. She pulled the turtleneck up as high as it would go, making sure it covered the faint red marks on her collarbone. She tied her hair back into a severe, tight bun. She checked her phone. It was 2:15 PM. She was over six hours late for work. Christina grabbed her bag and headed to the subway. When she swiped her badge at the glass doors of Booker Capital, her hand was shaking so badly she dropped her ID twice. The trading floor was a chaotic symphony of ringing phones and shouting analysts. Christina kept her head down, walking quickly toward the executive suites. She stopped by the pantry to get a bottle of water. Her throat felt like sandpaper. As she pushed the pantry door open, she heard voices. Jessica, a junior analyst, was leaning against the counter, holding her phone out. Chloe, the HR coordinator, was looking at the screen, her eyes wide. "Did you see the Wall Street Journal this morning?" Jessica whispered loudly, her voice buzzing with excitement. "The Booker-Wall merger is official. And look at this!" Christina froze just inside the doorway. Chloe gasped. "Oh my god. Is that Jackson and Carson Wall? They look so young!" "It's from their Harvard days," Jessica said, swiping the screen. "Look at the ring he gave her. It's a flawless five-carat emerald cut. They are literally the perfect power couple. I heard she's moving into his penthouse next month." Christina's heart stopped beating. The blood drained from her face, rushing to her feet. Moving into his penthouse. The same penthouse where she had just woken up, bruised and broken. Christina stepped forward, her flat shoes making a scuffing sound on the tile. Jessica and Chloe jumped, spinning around. When they saw Christina, their faces flushed with guilt. Everyone knew Christina was Jackson's gatekeeper. "Oh, hi, Christina," Chloe stammered, quickly locking her phone. "We were just... taking a break." Christina didn't look at them. She walked straight to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and walked out. The moment she was back in the hallway, the physical pain hit her. A sharp, stabbing ache right in the center of her chest. She walked to her desk, which sat right outside Jackson's massive double doors. She sat down in her ergonomic chair. Her hands hovered over the keyboard. She opened a blank Word document. Her fingers trembled as she typed the date. Then, she typed: Letter of Resignation. Every keystroke felt like lifting a hundred-pound weight. But with every word she typed, the fog in her brain began to clear, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. She printed the letter. The printer whirred, spitting out the single sheet of paper. Christina picked it up. She didn't bother knocking. She walked past Ben Rhodes, who was standing guard near the doors. "Miss Chen, he's—" Ben started to say, reaching out. Christina ignored him. She pushed the heavy mahogany doors open and stepped into the CEO's office. Jackson was sitting behind his massive desk, a phone pressed to his ear. He looked up when she barged in. His eyes immediately dropped to her outfit—the severe black turtleneck, the complete lack of makeup, the rigid posture. He said something brief into the phone and hung up. "You're late," Jackson said. His voice was calm, but his eyes were tracking her every movement like a hawk. Christina walked right up to his desk. She slammed the piece of paper down on the polished wood. "I quit," Christina said. Her voice was raspy, but it didn't shake. Jackson looked at the paper. He didn't even read the words. He just stared at the bold heading. He slowly leaned back in his leather chair. He reached out, his long fingers picking up the resignation letter. "You quit," Jackson repeated softly. "Yes," Christina said, her fingers twisting the fabric of her skirt until her knuckles turned stark white. "You can keep your severance pay. You can keep your NDA. I am leaving." Jackson's eyes darkened. He stood up slowly, his height instantly dwarfing her. He walked around the edge of the desk, stopping mere inches from her. Christina refused to step back. She tilted her chin up, glaring at him. "You think you can just walk away?" Jackson asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Did last night teach you nothing?" "Last night taught me that you are a monster," Christina spat, the tears finally burning the backs of her eyes. "You cannot marry Carson Wall and keep me locked in your apartment like a pet!" Jackson's jaw tightened. He held up the resignation letter right in front of her face. With one smooth, violent motion, he ripped the paper in half. Then he put the pieces together and ripped them again. And again. He dropped the shredded confetti into the metal trash can by his desk. "As long as Booker Capital exists, you work for me," Jackson said, his voice hard and absolute. He reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of her neck. His thumb pressed into the pulse point below her jaw. "Go back to your desk, Christina," he ordered softly. Christina stared at him, her chest heaving. The sheer, suffocating weight of his power crushed the last bit of air from her lungs. She couldn't fight him physically. She couldn't fight him legally. She violently shoved his hand away from her neck. She spun around and ran out of the office, the heavy doors slamming shut behind her with a deafening boom. Outside, Jessica and Chloe were walking past. They froze, staring at Christina's pale face and the slamming door. Christina ignored their wide eyes. She sat down at her desk, staring blindly at her computer screen. A cold, terrifying realization settled in her stomach. Running away wasn't an option. If she wanted to survive Jackson Booker, she had to find another way out.