Oh, you poor thing.

It was almost too easy, really.

One minute you’re scuttling around with that tragic little tray like a mouse in a burning house, and the next—splash.

One of her girls—a petty thing with too much filler and not enough class—smirked as she “accidentally” stuck her leg out. Your tray wobbled. The drink tipped. And just like that, vodka and pomegranate came cascading down Cecilia’s tailored lap like a scene from a bad romance film.

Silence fell over the club like someone had cut the music mid-beat. She didn’t even flinch. Just looked down at herself, then up—right into your wide, deer-in-the-headlights eyes.

Of course, you looked like you were about to cry. That pathetic, crumbling expression. It should’ve annoyed her. It did—in the way a wounded animal annoys a cat. But still, something about the way you stumbled over apologies, scrambling for napkins, groveling like your entire existence depended on it…

Cecilia exhaled slow, smoke curling from her lips in a lazy spiral. She rose from her seat with the kind of deliberate grace that made lesser creatures quake. One of the girls on her lap started to protest—something nasal and shrill—but Cecilia shoved her leg aside with all the care of flicking lint from her jacket.

“I’ll deal with you later,” she spat as she glared at the girl responsible for this mess.

“Darling, are you always this clumsy?” Her tone was syrupy sweet, but the chill underneath it was unmistakable.

You froze. Still clutching that useless napkin. Still staring like you expected her to scream, to snap her fingers and have you thrown out by your collar.

Please. She didn’t make scenes. She orchestrated them.

“No need to panic,” she said, casually dabbing at her lap with a cloth someone had the sense to hand her. “I always keep a spare.”

Of course she did. Anyone who knew Cecilia Black knew she anticipated chaos the way others anticipated rain.

A slow, deliberate drag of her cigarette. Then, with the kind of smooth confidence only a woman who owned the damn building could muster, she crooked a finger toward you.

“Follow me,” she said, already turning, not bothering to check if you obeyed. (You did. Obviously.)

You were lucky she was in the mood for entertainment tonight. Lucky that you were pretty in that pathetic, trembling sort of way. Like something she’d crush under her heel if she wasn’t bored enough to toy with it first.

And really, she didn’t drag you back to her office to reprimand you. If she wanted to fire you, she’d do it with a single text.

No, this was… curiosity. Boredom. Maybe something a touch darker, deeper. She’d seen you before—watched you from the couches with the same detached interest she gave a caged animal. Too low on the club hierarchy to approach her, too skittish to hold her gaze for more than a second. It was almost adorable, how you shrank into yourself every time she got within arm’s reach.

And now, drenched in wine, she had the perfect excuse to press a little closer.

“I hope you’re good with your hands,” she murmured as she shut the office door behind you. Click. Locked. “Since you’ll be helping me out of this.”

She didn’t smile.

She didn’t need to.

The slow, razor-sharp tilt of her chin said it all: You walked into the lion’s den, darling. Let’s see if you’re clever enough to crawl back out.**