One disaster at a time. I had my stepmom to deal with today.

“Not anytime soon. Your staff’s been slacking off. I’m picking up the work you’ve left here.”

“Vicious,” he grated out through what sounded like clenched teeth.

Our six-year-old enterprise, Fiscal Heights Holdings, was so successful, we had four branches: New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, and London. Normally, Dean was in New York and I was in Los Angeles. Sergio and his stupid lawsuit had brought me here. I was the one who used my mouth for more than sweet-talking and licking ass. If we needed someone to soften a client, we sent Trent. But if shit got nasty and the situation called for intimidation or legal ruthlessness, I was the one on call.

Meanwhile, Dean was taking the opportunity to check on our Los Angeles branch. We did it from time to time, all four of us. Switched scenery, shook things up. As a token of our friendship, we stayed at each other’s places. The four of us co-owned all of our residences. We were a family, and in the upper class, nothing said family like mingled estates and funds.

Normally, I didn’t mind, even though I knew Trent and Dean would dip their sausages in every single honeypot within a twenty-mile radius of my condo. Those fuckers had probably bedded half of Los Angeles in my crib, but that’s what I had a maid for.

And a PA who made sure the sheets they used were thrown out—or better yet, burned—before we switched back.

This time, I especially didn’t mind Dean staying at my condo. I wasn’t prepared to drag my ass out of his apartment either.

Our New York branch was a mess, and I did need a personal assistant to sort it out. Sadly for Help, she was going to get dumped right after I was done with her. I couldn’t let her work for Dean.

Not that he would even want to see her fucking face ever again.

She was dead to him. From his point of view, deservingly so. Anyway, that was her problem, not mine.

“Wrap it up, Vic.” He called me by my nickname. Calling me Vicious in public had become professionally inconvenient in recent years, so now everyone just assumed Vic was short for Victor. “I want my apartment back. I want my office back. I want my fucking life back.”

“And I want to live in a place where you don’t have to give the taxi driver the exact fucking route like you work for them and not vice versa. Don’t worry, I won’t outstay my welcome.”

“Newsflash, douchebag.” He laughed again. “You already have.”

I could hear the woman beside him yawn loudly. “Hey, babe, can we go to sleep?”

“Can you sit on my face while we do?” Dean answered.

I rolled my eyes. “Have a nice day, shit-face.”

“Yeah, go eat a rotten ass. But not on my bed,” he said, then the line went dead.

Just in time, as I had a visitor.

“Good morning, Mr. Spencer! I brought you your coffee and breakfast. A three egg-white omelet on a slice of whole wheat toast with a side of freshly cut strawberries.”

I barely listened to the chirpy voice but turned around in my chair. “And you are?” I checked out the woman in front of me. Her hair was so blonde it was almost as white as her big smile. Taller and thinner than the national average. And her suit. St. John, a recent collection.

Maybe I wasn’t that far off with the outrageous salary I’d offered Help. Hey, it was New York after all.

“I’m Sue! Dean’s PA.” She was still bubbly. “I’ve been working for you for almost two weeks.” Her smile was still creepily intact.

Right. On second glance, she did look familiar.

“Nice to meet you, Sue. You’re fucking fired, Sue. Collect your shit and leave, Sue.”

Sue suddenly looked crestfallen. I was actually relieved for her. Until now, she’d looked like a bad plastic surgeon had sewn that eerie smile on her face.

Her cheeks paled under her heavy makeup, and her mouth fell open. “Sir, you can’t fire me.”

“I can’t?” I arched an eyebrow, feigning interest.

I woke up my Dell—fuck MacBook and fuck all the hipster posers who preferred Macs, Dean included—and double-clicked on the proposal I was working on. I was staging a hostile takeover, a surprise attack on a company that competed with one of our holdings, and fucking Sue was keeping me from finishing the last tweaks. My breakfast plate was still clutched between her French-manicured fingers, and I was hoping she could leave it on my desk before she left.

I clicked on the side comments I’d made on the Word doc last night, after I left Help’s, to make sure my proposal was airtight. My eyes never left the screen. “Give me one reason why not.”

“Because I’ve been working for Dean for two years now. I was employee of the month back in June. And, I have a contract. If I’ve done something wrong, you’re supposed to give me a written warning first. This is wrongful termination of my employment.”

Her panicky voice grated on my nerves like a bad high on a weekend.

I glanced up at her. If looks could kill, she wouldn’t have been a problem anymore. “Show me your contract,” I snarled.

She stomped off in a huff out of the glass box I temporarily called my office. It was usually Dean’s, and the fucker liked glass and mirrors, probably because he loved himself too much not to check his reflection every two seconds. Sue returned after a few minutes with a copy of her contract. It was still warm, fresh off the printer.

Goddammit, she wasn’t lying.

Sue had the right to thirty days’ notice and all kinds of fancy shit. This was not a standard FHH contract. I’d drafted the original myself and used every loophole known to man to make sure we had the minimum legal obligations to our employees in case of termination. This PA chick had signed a contract I wasn’t familiar with.

Was Dean fucking this girl?

My eyes skimmed over her whip-thin, malnourished body again.

Probably.

“Ever been to LA, Sonia?”

“Sue,” she corrected through another unnecessary huff. “And once,” she added. “When I was four.”

“How would you like to fly there so you can help Dean while he’s working in LA?”

Her face turned from annoyed and sad to confused then elated.

Definitely. Dean was fucking her.

“Really? But doesn’t Mr. Cole have your PA to assist him?”

I shook my head slowly, my eyes still on hers. A huge smiled tugged at her lips, and she clapped her hands, barely containing her excitement. Thrilled. Such a simple creature, our little Sue was. Exactly how Dean liked them. He was stupid enough to mistake Help for someone like Sue.

I knew his ex-girlfriend better than he did.

“So I get to keep my job?” Her voice was breathless.

“It’s in the contract.” I smacked the papers she’d printed, eager to kill the conversation before she killed my remaining functioning brain cells. “Now move it. You have a flight to catch.”

As soon as she left my office, I picked up my phone and called my PA in Los Angeles. People were disposable. I’d realized it from a very young age. My mother certainly was when my dad replaced her with Josephine. Of course, he’d never acted like a parent, so it was easy to believe that I was disposable too. That’s why the idea that no one around me was of much importance was ingrained deep within me.

Not my friends.

Not my colleagues.

Not my PA.

“Tiffany? Yeah, collect your stuff and your last paycheck. You’re fired. I’m flying someone else out to replace you tonight.”

I wasn’t fucking her.

She had a standard contract.

Goodbye.

I saw her on the security monitor near my laptop the minute she walked through the etched glass doors into the reception area of FHH.

My new PA arrived at eight a.m. sharp, but to say I wasn’t impressed was an under-fucking-statement. I’d expected her here at least fifteen minutes earlier. I’d talked to Sue at seven thirty, and I had better shit to do than wait around for Help. But I should’ve known better. This girl had always been a headache.

I couldn’t ignore her when I saw her at that seedy bar, McCoy’s. For one thing, she’d been dressed like she was about to climb over my lap and give me a twenty-dollar lap dance. For another, her shoes were too small and the bra peeking from her uniform was two times bigger than her boobs. Meaning she wore shoes that weren’t hers and a bra that used to fit before she’d lost so much weight.

I couldn’t help but feel slightly responsible for her situation.

Okay, a lot responsible for her situation.

I’d driven her out of Todos Santos. Then again, no one told her to land her fine little ass in the most expensive city in the whole fucking country. What was she doing living in New York anyway? I had no time to ponder this as I pressed the intercom button.

“Receptionist,” I barked—I didn’t know her name, and fuck if I cared—“direct Miss LeBlanc to my office, and make sure she’s got Sylvia’s iPad or a notebook.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but do you mean Sue?” the old woman asked politely. Through the glass wall, I saw her already standing up to shake Help’s hand.

“I meant whoever that chick was who served me breakfast,” I growled.

I got back to staring at my screen when Help knocked on my door.