The Corporate Diary of Eniola Fayola

New York wind whipped my hair across my face as I stood on the forty-seventh-floor terrace, watching the black helicopter touch down on the helipad. Simon Hart. CEO of Hart & Co. Billionaire. Confirmed bachelor. And... my boss. The kind of man who made stock prices jump just by walking into a room.

He climbed out of the chopper like he was born with a silver spoon permanently lodged in his mouth-Armani suit immaculate, sunglasses hiding those eyes I knew were a dangerous shade of blue.

"Counselor!" he shouted, that arrogant smirk firmly in place-the one that made half the women in New York go weak in the knees. "You look like a porcelain doll about to blow away."

"I'd rather look like a competent lawyer, Hart." I frowned. "Anyway, we have the meeting with the Chinese delegation in-"

He breezed past me like I was furniture, striding into the corner office.

"Later, later." He tossed his blazer onto the armchair and dropped into the leather chair behind the glass desk. "Sit. Catch me up on the Cavellier contract."

I launched into the exclusivity clauses, but he was distracted-phone in hand, eyes going wide.

"What?" I asked.

He shoved the phone toward me. The screen showed a photo of him on a yacht off the Amalfi Coast. A busty blonde perched on his lap, his hand... well, his hand was doing something that disappeared under her dress.

"These paparazzi are gonna make me go bald, Counselor." He ran a hand through his perfectly disheveled hair.

I zoomed in, arching a brow.

"Wow. You're not shy with those hands, are you, big guy?"

He snatched the phone back in one quick move.

"Don't stress about it." He rested his elbows on the desk. "Keep going."

I finished the presentation in five minutes, tucked the documents into my folder, and stood.

"I'm heading back to my desk."

"Counselor." His voice stopped me at the door. "Grab me a coffee? Megan called in sick."

I rolled my eyes.

"I'm not your secretary, Simon."

"Please?" He pressed his hands together like he was praying, his expression somewhere between childish and... dangerous. "You know I only drink from that place on the corner."

I let out a dramatic sigh.

"Fine. But if the Chinese deal goes south because of you, I'm billing overtime."

I rode the elevator down forty-seven floors, the fresh city air hitting me as I stepped out. In line at the coffee shop, my phone buzzed.

My cousin, Vanessa.

"I'm at your apartment! Dropped off your wedding tiara. Oliver let me in, so I left it on your bed. Seven days, girl! I can't believe you're finally doing this!"

I smiled, typing back.

"Put it right in the center. Thanks, cuz. Love you!"

Seven days. After ten years of dragging his feet, Oliver had finally proposed. The perfect neurosurgeon. The Upper East Side townhouse. The planned-out kids. Everything in place.

Crossing the street felt like the last step toward perfection.

"Pretty lady..."

A wrinkled hand touched my arm. An old Romani woman in a flowing skirt, eyes black as coal.

"Let me read your palm."

"Oh, no. I'm way too busy today, I can't."

"Please, it won't take more than two minutes."

I'd always been skeptical of this stuff, but she looked so harmless. I gave in, holding out my hand.

She took my left palm, studying it with a furrowed brow.