Chapter 11: Chapter 10 Mireya Brenner: Case File Opened
Most people looked at the floor when Laziel Monroe entered a room. They stammered, they sweated, and they apologized for breathing the same air as him. His last three executive assistants had quit within a month, completely broken by his impossible demands and his temper.
But Mireya Brenner had stood right in front of his desk, leaned over his space, and told him to his face: You don’t own her, and you sure as fuck don’t own me.
Sitting alone in his dark bedroom late at night, Laziel poured two fingers of whiskey into a glass and downed it. The house was dead quiet, but his mind wouldn’t shut the fuck up.
"Because I don’t want my daughter anywhere near the Monroe family!"
Her voice kept playing on his head. She hadn’t said you. She hadn’t said the company. She had said the family, throwing the entire Monroe name around like it was a deadly poison. And she had said it with so much hatred that it had actually caught him off guard.
How the did a broke, struggling, single mother already deeply despise his family?
It didn’t make any fucking sense. And Laziel hated unsolved puzzles.
He kicked off his shoes, unbuttoned his shirt halfway down his chest, and walked into his private studio at the back of the house. Nobody knew about this room. Nobody was allowed inside. Art was the only thing that actually quieted the chaos in his brain after a rough day—or after a seizure left him feeling completely wrecked.
He grabbed a canvas and a charcoal.
He didn’t even plan what he was drawing. His fingers just traced the lines from memory.
A jawline, messy, chaotic hair bun with loose strands falling down a pale neck. Wide, furious hazel eyes that looked like they wanted to murder him.
When he finally stopped, he looked down at the canvas.
It was her. Again.
He chuckled. It was crazy as hell. He had drawn her yesterday, and here he was doing it again. He couldn’t remember the last time he had ever drawn the same woman twice. He usually used women for a quick, mindless distraction—like the blonde who had just left his office crawling earlier that morning—and then forgot their names by noon.
But Mireya was stuck under his skin like a splinter.
She was completely helpless, counting coins, desperate for the money, yet she still had the absolute balls to curse at him. He had never met anyone so terrified yet so incredibly fierce. He hadn’t fired her. Honestly, he didn’t want to. Watching her try to maintain herself while her eyes screamed murder was the most entertaining thing that had happened to him in years.
He wanted to see how far she could go. He wanted to see exactly when she would break. If she wanted to play a high-stakes game of hide-and-seek with her secrets in his office, fine. He was going to make her life a living hell just to see how well she could handle him.
He wanted her desperate. He wanted her compliance. He wanted to push her so damn hard that her only option left would be crawling straight into his bed.
Laziel pulled out his phone, dialing his security chief’s line. "Yes, Mr. Monroe?"
"The background check on Mireya Brenner," Laziel muttered, "Dig deeper. I don’t care what it costs."
"We checked her employment file, sir. Everything looks standard."
"It’s a lie," Laziel rumbled, clenching his jaw. "She’s hiding something. Start with New York five years ago. Track every hospital record, every apartment lease, and find out exactly who fathered that kid of hers."
"Understood, sir."
Laziel ended the call and tossed the phone onto the table. He picked up his glass and clinked the glass against the canvas, right over her sketched forehead.
"Let’s see how long you survive me, Miss Brenner," he whispered into the dark room.
He was going to ruin her schedule tomorrow. Impossible meetings, 4:00 AM airport runs, late-night filings. He was going to pressure her until every single secret she was hiding came spilling out of her mouth. Because once Laziel Monroe started hunting for answers, he never stopped until he owned them.
