OFTEN (BOOK 1)

Bastard (M)

Hanni

My father always said the way to learn the job you want is to spend every second watching someone do it.

"To get the job at the top, you've got to start at the bottom," he told me. "Become the person the CEO can't live without. Be their right-hand man. Learn their world, and they'll snatch you up the second you finish your degree."

I had become irreplaceable. And I'd definitely become the Right Hand. It just so happened that in this case, I was the right hand that most days wanted to slap the damn face.

My boss, Ms. Minji Kim. Savage bastard.

My stomach clenched tightly at the thought of her: tall, gorgeous, and entirely evil. She was the most self-righteous, pompous prick I'd ever met. I'd hear all of the other women in the office gossip about her escapades and wonder if a nice face was all it took. But my father also said, "You realize early in life that beauty is only skin-deep, and ugly goes straight to the bone." I'd had my fair share of unpleasant men in the past few years, dated a few in high school and college. But this one took the cake.

"Well, hello Miss Pham!" Ms. Kim stood in the doorway to my office that served as an anteroom to her. Her voice was laced with honey, but it was all wrong . . . like honey left to freeze and crack on ice.

After spilling water on my phone, dropping my earrings into the garbage disposal, being rear-ended on the interstate, and having to wait for the cops to come and tell us what we both already knew—that it was the other guy's fault—the last thing I needed this morning was a grumpy Ms. Kim.

Too bad for me she didn't come in any other flavor.

I gave her my usual. "Good morning, Ms. Kim," hoping she would give me her usual curt nod in return.

But when I tried to slip past her, she murmured, "Indeed? 'Morning,' Miss Pham? What time is it in your little world?"

I stopped and met her cold stare. She was a bit taller than me, and before working for her I'd never felt so small. I'd worked for Kim Media Group for six years. But since her return to the family business nine months ago, I'd taken to wearing heels I used to consider circus height just so I could approach her near eye level. Even so, I still had to tilt my head to look up at her, and she clearly relished it, brown eyes flashing.

"I had a bit of a disaster morning. It won't happen again," I said, relieved that my voice came out steady. I had never been late, not once, but leave it to her to make a thing of it the first time it happened. I managed to slip past her, put my purse and coat in my closet, and power up my computer. I tried to act like she wasn't standing in the doorway, watching every move I made.

"'Disaster morning' is quite an apt description for what I've had to deal with in your absence. I spoke to Alex Schaffer personally to smooth over the fact that he didn't get the signed contracts when promised: nine a.m., East Coast time. I had to call Madeline Beaumont personally to let her know we were, in fact, going to proceed with the proposal as written. In other words, I've done your job and mine this morning. Surely, even with a 'disaster morning' you can manage eight a.m.? Some of us get up and start working before the brunch hour."

I glanced up at her, antagonizing me, glaring, arms crossed over her chest—and all because I was an hour late. I blinked away, very deliberately not staring at the way her dark tailored suit stretched across her shoulders.

I had made the mistake of visiting the hotel gym during a convention the first month we worked together and walked in to find her sweaty next to the treadmill. She had a face that any model would kill for and the most incredible hair I've ever seen. Freshly f*ked hair. That's what the girls downstairs called it, and according to them, it earned its title. The image of her wiping her shoulder with her shirt was forever burned into my brain.