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CHAPTER5

Sitting at my desk, I absentmindedly twist my pen in my fingers, and a surge of anger washes over me, directed inward. With a sharp motion, I still the pen and place it down with a resounding smack, scowling at it as though it's the culprit. This childhood habit lingers, a subtle tell that I'm not truly the person I pretend to be. It's the only flaw in the facade of perfection I cling to so tightly.

I fidget, an incongruity with the persona I've carefully crafted since my teenage years, distancing myself from the life I once knew. It serves as a stark reminder of how far I've come from my Chicago upbringing, and it irks me on multiple levels. Not only does it betray the confidence I strive to exude, but it also feels juvenile. Though I've largely mastered my fidgeting, this morning my raw nerves give me away.

Taking a deep breath, I still my hands and focus on the task at hand—typing the documents Margo has given me to adjust. I remind myself to maintain a calm composure while waiting for my new boss to arrive, though every passing moment feels excruciating.

In a graceful cloud of Chanel No. 9, Margo sweeps into the foyer and passes by my desk near the entrance to our offices, signaling Mr. Carrero's arrival. My heart skips a beat. Fondly, she smiles in my direction, offering an encouraging wink as though I am about to meet royalty.

Perhaps I am.

Hell, swallow. Deep breath. Relax.

I hear Margo briefing him on his schedule in the hallway as they approach. While they have exchanged emails, she mentioned that he prefers a verbal recap to bring him up to speed. I make a mental note of this, as it will soon be my responsibility.

Remaining seated, I keep my eyes on the keyboard, willing my nerves to remain in check.

I catch snippets of their conversation, and despite having watched interviews online, I'm taken aback by the natural sound of his voice. It possesses a deep, husky quality with a boyishness I hadn't noticed in his previous interviews. It's the kind of voice you would recognize anywhere, even in a crowded room, drawing you in with its familiarity and comforting warmth. It completely throws me off guard.

Pausing my typing, I involuntarily flinch as he laughs at something Margo says. This unexpected reaction causes butterflies to flutter in my stomach.

I don't usually react like this to men!

My fingers fumble on the keys, betraying my momentary lapse, but fortunately, no one pays me any attention.

I need to regain control. Get a grip, Emma!

My cheeks begin to warm, and I quickly take a practiced, steadying breath to suppress my blush. The gibberish on my screen prompts me to swiftly hit the back button, erasing the evidence of my stumble. I curse my clumsy fingers and that lingering, childish part of myself that I perpetually suppress and silence.

Stop it, Emma. Just stop. You are more capable than this.

Accompanied by his entourage, he walks through the main area of our airy office, heading towards Margo's desk located behind me in a separate room. Margo, closest to him, conceals him from view, but I manage to catch a glimpse.

He towers over her, surpassing her height despite her four-inch heels. Two men accompany him—one dressed in a black suit, exuding a serious demeanor, likely his security with an earpiece. The other, casually attired in a tan jacket and chinos, strolls along leisurely.

I recognize him as Arrick Carrero, the younger brother. Though he doesn't receive as much media attention, I can place his face. Unlike his brother, he hasn't inherited the same masculine beauty or commanding presence, but then again, he's still in his late teens and seems to shy away from the spotlight. I note that he stands at about five-foot nine, muscular despite his height, with tawny hair resembling his father's and a peculiar nose profile similar to Jacob Carrero's, but not identical. Jacob possesses a nose that perfectly complements his flawless... well, everything. I wonder how Arrick feels, being the less attractive Carrero son and living in his brother's shadow.

Within a moment, they all pass through Margo's inner door and disappear into his office, the door closing behind them. I breathe a sigh of relief, finally able to focus on typing out the document. With no visual distractions, my skilled fingers fly across the keyboard effortlessly.

It feels like an eternity has passed when the switchboard lights up, and Margo's distant voice interrupts my concentration. Unaware that I had been holding my breath, I give myself an internal shake.

"Emma, please come into Mr. Carrero's office. Thank you," her voice sounds distant and tinny through the remarkably high-tech machine.

"Yes, Mrs. Drake," I flinch at my use of her formal name, knowing she prefers me to address her as Margo. I mentally scold myself, determined not to repeat the mistake.

I don't make mistakes. Ever.

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