Too Late For Regret: The Assistant's Revenge

Christina splashed cold water on her face one last time, dried off, and took a deep breath. The nausea had subsided slightly, replaced by a cold, pulsing headache. She pushed open the doors of the women's lounge and walked back into the chaotic noise of the St. Regis ballroom. She scanned the crowd, looking for Jackson's dark head. She needed to find him. She needed to tell him she was sick and had to go home. She walked toward the terrace where she had last seen him. The glass doors were open, the cold night wind blowing the sheer curtains. The terrace was empty. Christina frowned, pulling out her phone. She dialed his number. It went straight to voicemail. She tried again. Nothing. A cold knot of anxiety began to tighten in her stomach. "Looking for your boss?" The voice came from right behind her. Christina spun around. Mickey Boggs was standing there, blocking her path back into the main ballroom. His face was redder now, his eyes glazed with lust and alcohol. "Have you seen Mr. Booker?" Christina asked, taking a step back until her shoulders hit the glass door. Mickey grinned, showing his crooked teeth. "Jack got called away. Urgent business. Left about ten minutes ago." Christina's heart dropped into her stomach. "Left? He didn't say anything to me." "He told me to tell you to stay and finalize the contract details," Mickey said, taking a step closer. He reached out and grabbed her wrist. His grip was painfully tight. "Said you handle all the fine print. So let's go somewhere quiet and... discuss." "No," Christina said, her voice shaking. "We can discuss it here, in the ballroom. Let go of me." She tried to yank her arm away, but Mickey was too strong. He pulled her forward, his massive weight dragging her toward the side exit that led to the hotel elevators. "Don't be difficult, sweetheart," Mickey growled, his fingers digging into her skin. "Jack said you'd take care of everything. And I've been watching you all night. You owe me a little attention." The words hit Christina like a physical blow to the head. Jack said you'd take care of everything. Jackson had left her here. Alone. With this man. He hadn't seen her as someone to protect. He had seen her as a tool. A convenient piece of office equipment to be deployed and discarded at his whim. She was his property, and property didn't get to complain about how it was used. The realization was so absolute, so devastating, it paralyzed her for a crucial second. By the time she found her voice to scream, Mickey had shoved her into an empty elevator and hit the button for the executive suites. The doors slid shut, cutting off the noise of the ballroom. "Someone will see us!" Christina yelled, hitting his chest. Mickey laughed, pinning her against the mirrored wall of the elevator. He pressed his heavy, sweating body against hers. "Nobody cares, honey. You're just the help." He buried his face in her neck, his wet mouth leaving a trail of saliva on her skin. Christina gagged. The smell of him made her stomach violently heave. She pushed at his shoulders, but she was trapped. The elevator pinged. Floor 12. The doors opened, and Mickey dragged her out into the quiet, thickly carpeted hallway. He pulled a keycard from his pocket and swiped it against the door of Suite 1204. The green light flashed. He shoved the door open and threw her inside. Christina stumbled, her heels catching on the rug, and she crashed hard onto the floor next to a glass coffee table. Pain shot up her arm. The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind them. The lock clicked. It sounded exactly like the lock on Jackson's penthouse door. "Let's get comfortable," Mickey said, taking off his tuxedo jacket and throwing it on the sofa. He started unbuckling his belt. Christina scrambled backward, her back hitting the leg of the sofa. Pure, unadulterated terror flooded her veins. "Don't touch me," she screamed, grabbing the first thing her hand found on the coffee table. It was a heavy, silver ice bucket. Condensation dripped down its sides. Mickey sneered, stepping toward her. "Put that down, you crazy bitch. You think Jack's going to care? He left you here with me, didn't he? He knows exactly what I want." He lunged at her, his hands grabbing the neckline of her black dress. The fabric tore with a loud rip. The sound of the tearing fabric snapped something inside Christina. The paralyzing fear vanished, replaced by a blinding, primal instinct to survive. She didn't scream. She gripped the handles of the silver ice bucket with both hands, raised it high above her head, and swung it down with every ounce of strength in her body. CRACK. The heavy silver bottom connected solidly with the side of Mickey's head. Ice cubes and freezing water exploded out of the bucket, showering over them. Mickey let out a high-pitched shriek of pain. He stumbled backward, his hands flying to his head. Blood instantly gushed from a gash above his ear, mixing with the melting ice on his face. He collapsed onto his knees, groaning loudly. Christina didn't freeze. She dropped the dented ice bucket. She kicked off her high heels, leaving them on the rug, and sprinted for the door. She yanked the handle down, pulled the door open, and ran out into the hallway. "I'll kill you!" Mickey roared from inside the room. Christina ran barefoot down the long, empty corridor. Her lungs burned, pulling in ragged breaths. She didn't wait for the elevator. She hit the heavy metal bar of the emergency exit and threw herself into the concrete stairwell. She took the stairs two at a time, her bare feet slapping against the cold, rough cement. She could hear the stairwell door open above her. Mickey was coming. She ran faster, her vision blurring with tears of panic. She rounded the landing of the tenth floor, moving too fast. Her foot slipped on the edge of the step. She pitched forward, bracing for the bone-crushing impact of the concrete stairs. Instead, she crashed into a solid wall of muscle. Strong arms wrapped around her instantly, catching her mid-fall. Christina screamed, thrashing wildly, her fists hitting blindly at the person holding her. "Let me go! Let me go!" "Hey. Hey, look at me," a deep, calm voice said. The hands holding her weren't groping. They were firm, steady, and incredibly warm. They gripped her upper arms, holding her still without hurting her. Christina stopped thrashing. She opened her eyes, gasping for air. She was pressed against a man's chest. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. He smelled of crisp cedar and clean rain. She looked up. Gaston Carter was looking down at her. His striking, aristocratic face was usually set in a polite, distant smile. But right now, his dark eyes were wide with shock, quickly shifting into a fierce, protective anger as he took in her torn dress, her bare feet, and her trembling body. "Christina?" Gaston asked softly. Above them, the heavy footsteps of Mickey Boggs echoed down the stairwell. "Where are you, you little bitch?!" Christina whimpered, instinctively pressing herself closer to Gaston, hiding her face in his chest. Gaston's jaw hardened. He pulled off his suit jacket and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders, covering her torn dress. He pulled her behind him, shielding her completely with his body. Mickey rounded the corner, panting heavily, blood dripping down his neck. He froze when he saw Gaston. Gaston didn't yell. He didn't even raise his voice. He just stared at Mickey with a look so coldly murderous it made the air in the stairwell drop ten degrees. The heavy stairwell door below them clicked shut. Two men dressed impeccably in St. Regis staff uniforms, but with rigid postures and sharp, calculating eyes that screamed elite private security, stepped out from the shadows of the lower landing, silently flanking Gaston. Mickey took one look at the security detail, then at Gaston's face. The color drained from Mickey's flushed cheeks. He slowly backed up the stairs, turned, and fled. The threat was gone. The adrenaline that had kept Christina running suddenly evaporated. Her knees buckled. Gaston caught her before she hit the ground. He scooped her up into his arms effortlessly. "You're safe," Gaston whispered, his lips brushing the top of her head. "I've got you." Christina buried her face in the lapel of his shirt. The scent of cedar surrounded her. For the first time in three years, she felt completely, undeniably safe. She closed her eyes, and the darkness pulled her under.