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CHAPTER4

I absentmindedly glanced back at the monitor of my computer, the company logo swirling in front of me as a screensaver: "Carrero Corporation." As if I could ever forget where I worked, surrounded by opulent settings, posters, and prints of Carrero products, ads on every possible surface, and that familiar gold hexagon logo with a black C shining back at me.

Mr. Carrero comes to mind—Jacob Carrero. I've only seen pictures of him, yet he's the main reason I feel sick with nerves. Men with wealth, power, and good looks make me uneasy. They're a different breed and harder to predict. They see women as commodities and are far more dangerous than average men.

To be honest, men in general make me uneasy, but my experiences with average men have taught me how to handle myself. Jacob Carrero is by no means average. He's been on personal time off since before I replaced my predecessor. She's on maternity leave and doesn't plan on returning, and I'm the recommended replacement.

Carrero is the epitome of a playboy billionaire. He's devastatingly handsome, exudes confidence, and is adored by women. With his Italian-American heritage, he has inherited his parents' distinct look. His mother shares the same mixed features, and he is one of New York's wealthiest heirs. The Carrero family is almost like royalty, and Jacob is the eldest of the two prominent princes who have grown up in the public eye. He has been gracing the social news pages for years, charming the cameras and smiling in every picture.

I've done extensive research to prepare myself for working alongside him, but it still makes me uneasy, even though we haven't met. I'm well aware of his incredible attractiveness, which even someone like me, who finds most men intolerable, can't deny. He has a reputation for being a bad boy, with a significant portion of his early adult years steeped in scandal due to his wild behavior.

He seemed to revel in partying and playing the public eye, bringing shame to the Carrero name. However, in recent years, he appears to have matured a bit, focusing on the family business while still maintaining a string of women and attending glamorous events. He's a predictable playboy billionaire.

From the pictures, I know he has dark brown, almost black hair, and green eyes that may have been enhanced by Photoshop. No eye color can be that breathtaking in real life, and magazines are notorious for airbrushing good looks onto every image. He sports a rough, stubbly beard and a trendy, cropped, messy haircut, likely styled with one of the expensive Carrero grooming products he endorses. He obviously loves himself enough to put his face on their million-dollar ad campaigns every year.

At twenty-eight, he exudes a worldly maturity, yet in straight-on photographs caught off guard, he looks younger than his age. I can't deny his appeal. He has the body of someone blessed with a strong, tall physique, and he takes care of it. He's not shy about showing it off, as there are enough topless shots of him in the media. He also seems to have a fondness for tribal tattoos, which complement his physique. He looks like the stereotypical brainless model—too good-looking to be a nice guy and far too muscular to have a decent IQ.

There's no doubt he possesses an excessive amount of sex appeal, and that's what makes me nauseous. He effortlessly charms and manipulates women, unlike any men I've ever encountered, which makes me distrust him.

I can handle men who leer and grope, whose intentions are evident on their faces and who are generally cowardly. But I've never faced someone with the capabilities that Jacob Carrero seems to possess—the ability to make women swoon at his feet and follow him around, infatuated and lustful. It's pathetic, really.

I know that getting this position is a huge honor. I know I'm good at my job, and I've pleased the right people downstairs to be here at such an early age. But for the hundredth time, I feel sick and scared. I doubt myself despite my achievements—a curse of my self-doubts.

To gather myself, I divert my attention to a manual task. Following Margo's instructions, I prepare the large, expensive espresso machine in the white kitchen. The room, albeit a little clinical, is small, modern, and sleek, serving mainly as a tea and coffee station, despite the presence of a huge refrigerator. I wipe down the surfaces of the machine and the surrounding countertops, ensuring the coffee canister is free of dust. I ready Mr. Carrero's tray with iced water, finding some comfort in this calming task. My nerves are still rattled, irritating me. I thought I had gained more control over them.

I arrange everything neatly on Mr. Carrero's desk as Margo requested. I straighten items as I go, checking the room to ensure everything is in place. Neatness brings me calmness and a sense of control—as if by organizing everything, my life becomes more orderly.

With my jacket removed, I smooth down my blouse, relishing the silky feel of the expensive pale gray fabric. I return to the desk with a pile of mail and messages I took for him yesterday. They are the only ones requiring his attention, and I place them on his desk, aligning them with the neatly positioned leather chair behind it.

The office is spacious and airy. One wall consists of glass, offering a breathtaking view of New York. The view is partially obstructed by open vertical blinds. Large abstract prints adorn the gray walls to the left. My gaze can't help but skim over the silver-framed pictures in the left corner of the wooden desk. They feature various people in black and white stills—beautiful women, celebrities, and one of his father, Mr. Carrero Sr., whom I saw briefly from a distance during a grand function last year that required extra staff. The two Mr. Carreros resemble each other only slightly, in that typical Italian way. Jacob must take after his mother more.

In pride of place is a large framed picture of his mother, whom I recognize. She is incredibly beautiful, and their resemblance is striking—dark hair, a gorgeous face, a cool tan, and the same bright green eyes. Yet, her face radiates a gentle warmth.

In contrast, Carrero Senior has fair hair, deep brown eyes, and a tightly etched, harsh face, as if his skin has weathered countless storms. In the picture of father and son, a coldness lingers between them, despite their close proximity while holding a champagne bottle in front of a ship's stern. It sends a shiver down my spine. I'm familiar with cold looks from men, and the memories are unwelcome.

After a quick scan to ensure I haven't overlooked anything, I gracefully exit the room, assured that everything is in order.

It's almost 9:00 a.m., and he will be arriving shortly. My nerves are stretched so taut that I fear I may snap from the tension if it doesn't subside soon.

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