Salvaged Hearts

Marrying my alphahole boss to save his skin? Sure. Why not? It's not like my life is normal anyway.

As the head of a third generation multi-billion-dollar empire, Greyson Hart is infuriatingly demanding, colder than an iceberg, and has the emotional range of a teaspoon. The fact that he looks like a dark-haired Adonis is proof that god has a twisted sense of humor and wants me to be miserable.

I've spent twenty-one months, fifteen days, seven hours, and forty-nine excruciating minutes as the Emerald Bay Titan's personal assistant (but who's counting?). When I finally quit, it feels like I've escaped my own personal hell. Just when I think I'm free, Greyson is accused of embezzlement, and while he might be the last person I want to help, I know he'd never betray his family's empire. So I start searching for answers.

Word to the wise? If you go digging through closets hunting for secrets, you don't get to pick which skeleton falls out. I might not believe the allegations, but the man has more secrets than the Vatican, and I unearth the wrong one.

The only suggestion Greyson has to fix all of this is to get married. As if this charade isn't complicated enough, the possessive edge to his voice when he says 'my wife' turns my mind to putty.

Now it's my heart that's in serious danger.

Will marrying Greyson save their family empire, or will his past destroy us both?

The methodic clacking of Greyson Hart’s keyboard came to a stuttered stop as he dragged those hazel-green eyes off his screen and to my face. Blatant confusion lined his brows as he studied me, evidently intent on finding some sort of tell. He wouldn’t. I’d been rehearsing this moment for the better half of the last year. The confusion on his face was more satisfying than it likely should have been as he asked, “What?”

I smiled sweetly, refusing to rock on my heels like my nerves were begging me to, and set my resignation letter down on the sleek marble top of his desk. Sliding it across the polished surface, I repeated, “I quit.” Tapping the manilla folder, I added, “Please accept my two weeks’ notice. I’ve compiled a list of the internal candidates I believe are best suited to replace me.”

To the untrained eye, the man before me would seem unaffected. But, as everything was with Greyson, the devil was in the details. Buried below severe daddy issues, a misguided sense of injustice only an entitled trust fund baby could have, the heart of a wounded soldier, and about a decade of emotional constipation was the tiny line between his eyes, the subtle bob of his Adam’s apple and an audible swallow that said this was—somehow—news that took him by surprise.

“We have a contract, Alessandra,” he murmured, flicking up my letter as he leaned back in his armchair. One slick, heather brown loafer caught the glint of the window light as he crossed his ankle over a knee.

“We do,” I agreed, folding my anxious hands behind my back as I straightened my spine so he couldn’t see them wringing. “And it ends in two weeks’ time. I will not be re-signing on for another term.” Oooh, I got a jaw flex—that was about as unhinged and out of control as Greyson got, and some petty, vindictive sliver of my soul was squealing in victory as his eyes abandoned my face in favor of the paper in between his fingers, canting his head as his eyes flew across the page.

“Two years, two promotions, and two weeks’ notice? How very ironic.” The words flowed with the same svelte ribbon he used in his meetings. The man thrived on control and very little else. 

Control of the schedule. 

Control of the team chat—of when we submitted our work, of his own infuriating and unwavering discipline. 

He was the only man I’d ever known to get quieter when something pissed him off. No matter how high the stakes were in a negotiation, Greyson’s strength was concealed in his silence. His unwillingness to yield and to hold the line with a steady, unaffected facade. All skills I’m sure he picked up during his years as a Navy Seal. 

Two. Years. For two years, I shared air with the man across from me—known to my family by a myriad of unflattering names, none of which were anywhere in the ballpark of Greyson. Hartless. Fuck-face. The fire-breathing dragon. For two years, I bit my tongue and took it up the ass daily. Frankly, at this point, the literal option sounded like a walk in the park compared to the grueling torture that had been serving Hart Investments for the last twenty-three months, fifteen days, seven hours, and forty-nine minutes.  But who’s counting?

Like the irritated, telltale twitch of a cat’s tail, he drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair before expelling a breath that sent my anxiety climbing. Greyson leaned forward, setting my letter on the marble between us before bracing his forearms on the desk, broad hands clasped together in the perfect image of composure. 

He nodded at the chair opposite him and gave me a curt, “Have a seat, Ms. Rhodes.”

Dammit. I knew I should have waited until four fifty-nine. Refusing to let him see the volcano inside me just waiting to explode, I spooled myself into the chair, with only the slick black expanse of stone as a barrier between us. Crossing my ankles, I leaned onto the desk to mirror his position. Those intense hazels locked on me a beat before a more pronounced v carved the olive skin between his eyes.

“Permission to speak candidly?” His request threw me so far off guard, all I could manage were two perplexed blinks and an unsure nod. The man gave orders—he certainly didn’t ask permission to eviscerate me on the regular. Like a child in the principal’s office, I shifted my weight in my seat before reminding myself that I would no longer squirm for Greyson Hart.