Unwanted Encounters

The curse of that name hit Clara like a physical blow. She froze in her tracks, her breath catching in her throat. Slowly, she raised her head, her eyes locking onto Simon in shock. For the past three years, she had deliberately ignored all news of Dominic. Shutting out his existence was the only way she preserved her own sanity. She refused to look at financial magazines, gossip columns, or anything that might feature his face. Because of this self-imposed isolation, she had no idea he was officially getting married to his manipulative mistress, Chloe.

Tristan threw his head back. A cold, mocking laugh escaped his lips, shattering the quiet morning air of the office. "Dominic Thorne is tying the knot with a mere secretary’s beloved daughter? How far the mighty have fallen." He shook his head, looking amused by the breaking news. "He is degrading himself by marrying someone with such a low background. Still, the Thorne family will make sure this is a grand occasion. We will have to prepare a magnificent gift just to show up the groom. We need something that screams wealth and superior taste."

"What do you think we should give them, President Hayes?" Simon asked, holding his notepad ready.

"What should we give them? How would I know?" Tristan leaned over his expansive desk. He shifted his sharp gaze toward Clara. A cruel smirk formed on his face. "You. You can be in charge of this. Go and pick out a present."

Clara bristled. Her defensive walls shot up instantly. "I... I don't know what to do," she stammered, fighting to keep her voice level. "Perhaps you should arrange for someone else to handle this task, President Hayes." There was no way she would spend a single second of her time picking out a present for that cheating bastard and his vile bitch. Just the thought of wandering through luxury stores to celebrate their union made her stomach churn.

Tristan sneered, leaning further over the polished wood of his desk. "Ever heard of something called on-the-job training?" He seemed to relish tormenting his twenty-seven-year-old assistant. His eyes raked over her baggy clothes and the defiant, hideous black-framed glasses resting on her nose. He despised her lack of fashion sense. To him, those glasses were an insolent rebellion against his strict mandate that she wear contacts to look presentable. He hated looking at her, and he made sure she knew it every single day.

Knowing she only had this position because of her tight connections with Caleb Brooks, Tristan leaned harder into his leverage. "Fine. Don't blame me for ignoring your connections with Caleb." He smirked, taking joy in the agony flashing across her features. "You are in charge of this task. I’m telling you right now, Dominic Thorne better be pleased with what you pick, or I’ll fire you on the spot!"

Clara ground her teeth. She desperately needed her paycheck to survive in this city. Forcing down her bitter protests, she swallowed her pride. "Yes, sir," she muttered, accepting the horrid assignment.

Later that afternoon, Tristan dragged Clara along to a high-stakes client meeting. The venue was an exclusive downtown club, dripping with opulence and dim, ambient lighting. Heavy crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over the plush velvet seating. Clara sat quietly in the corner of the private booth. She organized documents and poured tea while the men negotiated their lucrative deals.

Once the formal business concluded, the atmosphere shifted. The heavy scent of expensive cigars filled the room, and liquor began to flow freely. Tristan casually snapped his fingers, eagerly calling in the club's most beautiful escort girls to entertain his guests.

The men loosened up, their laughter growing loud and raucous as the women sat beside them. Knowing she was in the way of their debauchery, Clara gathered her briefcase and laptop. She respectfully excused herself from the suffocating booth.

"President Hayes, I’ll wait for you outside," she announced, keeping her gaze strictly on the carpet.

"Go on," Tristan barked dismissively. He was already eyeing a stunning woman in a tight red dress walking into the room. "Remember to not stand too far in case I call for you."

"I won't go too far. I'll be waiting right at the entrance," Clara replied softly.

She turned and walked swiftly toward the heavy oak doors. Her head remained bowed to avoid drawing attention. Just as her hand touched the brass handle, a sleazy client chuckled aloud.

"Mr. Hayes, how can you possibly stand looking at such an impossibly ugly assistant every day without feeling disgusted?"

Tristan's callous reply echoed clearly across the quieted room. "Of course I feel disgusted. I feel that way every single time I look at her."

Cruel laughter erupted from the men in the booth. Clara pushed the heavy doors open and hurried into the lavishly decorated corridor. She stood by the wall, numb to his cruelty. He had hurled those exact words at her dozens of times before. She simply stared at the intricate patterns on the carpet, waiting.

A few minutes passed. The muffled bass of club music thumped through the thick walls. A group of spirited, wealthy middle-aged men suddenly turned the corner, walking down the corridor toward her. Clara kept her eyes glued firmly to her toes. She shrank back against the wall, hoping to remain invisible until they passed by.

One man in the center of the group walked past her, but he abruptly stopped. He turned back. Despite her shapeless clothes and thick glasses, Secretary Richard Mercer instantly recognized the young woman standing in the shadows. She was his long-estranged daughter.

Surprise flashed in his eyes. He said a quick word to his associates before striding quickly over to her. "Clara?" he asked, his voice thick with suppressed emotion. "When did you come back?"

Clara raised her head. The moment her eyes landed on his familiar face, her expression shifted into icy, impenetrable apathy.

"Is there anything I can help you with, Secretary Mercer?" she asked in a stiff, formal tone, refusing to acknowledge him as family.

Ignoring her blatant coldness, Richard looked at her with desperate affection. "Where did you go? I've been looking for you. Why didn't you return your old dad's calls for the past three years?" He stepped closer, his voice trembling as he pleaded. "You haven't eaten yet, have you? Let me buy you dinner to catch up."

"Dad?" Clara shot back ruthlessly. Her words dripped with absolute venom. "My dad had died for years!"

Richard flinched, but he maintained a humble, pleading tone. To the rest of the corporate world, he was a massively powerful secretary, a man who commanded respect in any room. To Clara, he was just a broken man desperate for a second chance. He reached out swiftly, grabbing her slim hand in a tight grip to stop her from fleeing down the hall.

"Clara!" he urged. "Come have dinner with your dad."

"No thanks!" Clara retorted sharply. She wrestled her arm against his surprising iron grip, but she could not break free. "You have your pretty wife and beloved daughter back at home, Secretary Mercer. Go spend time with them!"

"Clara, please!" Richard tightened his hold.

"Let go!" Clara warned fiercely. She twisted her wrist, glaring at the man she once called father. "Secretary Mercer, if you don’t stop this right now, don’t blame me for what’s going to happen next!"

"Clara!" Richard pleaded again.

Before he could formulate another reply, a lazy, amused voice suddenly interjected from down the hall.

"Haha, what’s going on here?"