𝒹𝑜𝓁𝑜𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒹𝒾𝑜𝓇 .•* PATRICK BATEMAN

1. let's see Paul Allen's secretary

All the time in the world was not enough to prepare you for your first day at Pierce and Peirce. The aura of the building alone rattled you.  Despite what magazines said, placing your shoulders back, chest up, and wearing clean-cut clothes did nothing to make you feel more at ease. Compared to the high profile Wallstreet dogs in the room, you were nothing.

The building you strode through was blindingly white.  The purity of the color was a stark contrast to the dim black and gray suits worn by the majority. Your baby blue dress stuck out like a sore thumb. Aside from the lack of color, you were somewhat surprised at the lack of women, as well.

Too busy thinking about your next step, you didn't even realize you ran into someone until you felt yourself stumbling backwards. You gasped, heart skipping a beat. Heat immediately raced to your cheeks as you feared taking a fall in front of the entire office on your first day.

But you didn't hit the floor. A strong hand gripped your arm, stabilizing your fall.

Startled eyes glanced up at your assailant slash savior, taking in his features. You felt yourself blushing harder, noticing his sharp jawline and smoldering brown eyes. He was quite tall, especially hovering over you as he was, and at the top he had dark brown hair that framed his face. His suit was unblemished, a deep navy blue.

"Are you alright?" he asked you, his voice perfect for radio. His hand slid down your arm as you steadied yourself and he let go.  The ghost of a gentleman's smile graced his face.

A chill ran down your back, your face impossibly red. "Yes, thank you," you replied, composing yourself as best as you could. Though it was cold to a slightly uncomfortable degree, the room suddenly felt a hundred degrees warmer. "I'm so sorry. I'm lost. I'm looking for Paul Allen?"

The man showed no signs of sympathy for you. His expression stayed stoic, leaving little hint to what emotions he might be feeling beyond a cordial politeness. It made you uncomfortable, being so vulnerable while all of his cards were hidden. Not to mention, he was intimidating in his own right.

Your heart rate was well above resting.

"You're Paul Allen's secretary?" he asked, his voice quirking your just enough to show interest. His eyes were locked on yours, and they moved just enough to barely feel comfortable.

You, meanwhile, were fighting to keep your eyes on him at all. You were worried you were staring, lingering too long on any of his features.

Standing there, twiddling your fingers, you replied, "Yes. Will you help me find him?"

'Who does this woman think she is?' Patrick thought to himself, his eyes gazing down on you. Stumbling into him, all innocent and in need of help, asking him to bring you to Paul Allen. It was like you were trying to make him upset.

You were lucky you didn't crease his midnight blue Versace suit, he thought, internally grumbling that he would've had to go the whole day looking subpar. He had put in a little extra effort that day on top of his already meticulous routine, and it was not about to be for nothing.

He wanted to say no, to tell you to fuck off, see how stupid you looked trying to find your way by yourself, but the way you were looking at him so hesitant and nervous made him falter. You could hardly keep eye contact with him. How sweet.

Instead, he replied, "Follow me."

He knew the location by heart, as just looking at it upset him.  He moved on autopilot, never once looking back to check if you were following him.

"How'd you know I was his secretary?" you peeped, your footsteps clicking behind him.  You wore heels, giving you an extra three inches to your height. 

"It's all he's been talking about recently," Patrick replied, rolling his eyes.  "My new secretary this, my new secretary that."  He pitched his voice slightly higher, a terrible and exaggerated impersonation of Paul Allen.

He heard you laugh behind him, although it was short and contained.  Good.  You were still nervous.

"Here it is," Patrick announced after a short and infuriatingly simple trip, pointing toward the door.  "Paul Allen's office."

You passed by him, stepping very close, but not close enough to touch.  "Thank you..." your voice trailed off, "I didn't catch your name?"

"Bateman," he replied, plastering a smile on his face although he was unenthused.  He had no interest in playing friends with Paul Allen's secretary.  "Patrick Bateman."

He held out a hand for you to shake.  You looked from his hand to his face, your eyebrows furrowed just slightly in consideration.  He could feel his impatience growing inside of him. Finally, you took his hand in yours and shook. 

"(Y/N) (L/N)," you replied, your face lighting up with what had to be a genuine smile.  It was still tense, nervous, with your mouth slightly pinched, but it was honest. Your face was a light shade of pink.  "Thank you so much, Mr. Bateman."

Patrick noticed immediately how soft your skin was.  It was smooth, like porcelain, and pleasantly warm.

After you released his hand and walked away, he stayed for a moment, watching you. How you moved, how you carried yourself. It was an honest attempt at confidence, he could tell, from the way you tried to take up space and keep your chest up.

Although the key word here was attempt.

You were very beautiful, he couldn't deny it. Your (h/c) hair and (e/c) eyes were captivating, as was your impressive body. He allowed himself to stare until he felt you might turn around, and then forced himself to walk away.

As pretty as Jean was, it pissed him off that Paul Allen had the more attractive secretary. It was the difference between an 8/10 and a 9/10.

He imagined himself killing you, in some gorgeous way. First, he'd take you out on a night you'd never forget, and treat you like a queen. He'd lull you into a false sense of security, take you back to his house, and then stab you through your back to your heart with a knife. It would be brutal, but you'd look so pretty as you died.

He would watch the light fade from your eyes, the warmth fade from your skin, that beautiful innocence slip into his hands like the slaughter of a little lamb. Maybe there would be tears in your eyes as you pleaded with him to tell you why he did it.  He would comfort you as you died, a perk offered only to those whom he felt it just might ruin more, and finally, once you had fully bled out and your heart stopped pumping, he'd cut out your heart to keep in his freezer and cut the rest of you up into pieces and leave them on Paul Allen's doorstep.

Who has the hotter secretary now, huh?