Page 21 of Boardroom Sins

And something changes in his face.

He’s on his feet before I can finish the sentence. He crosses the room in huge strides. As soon as he’s close enough, he rips the papers from my grip.

“What is this?” he snarls.

“I— The notes. From the meeting. I typed them up, so?—”

“You printed this?”

“Yes?”

I watch in horror as he tears the papers in half, then in half again. And again. He keeps tearing until they’re nothing but sad little scraps in his fists.

Then he glares at me with murder in his eyes. “Never,” he says, “neverprint anything. Do you understand me?Never.”

I take a step back. My spine hits the doorframe. “I didn’t know?—”

“Now, you do.” He drops the last of the scraps at his feet. “Pen and paper only. No digital copies. No printouts. Nothing that can be traced or retrieved.”

“Okay,” I mumble. My throat is closing up with fear and shame. “I’m sorry. I didn’t?—”

“Speaking of which.” He turns to face me. “The pen I gave you. Where is it?”

I look down at my empty hands. Then I remember: I set it down on the table in the meeting room when I finished writing. I was so flustered, so eager to get out of there, that I forgot to pick it up.

“I left it,” I say. “In the meeting room.”

“Clean this mess up,” he says, jutting his chin at the paper confetti that’s all that remains of me trying to do a good thing. “Then go get it.”

“Right now?”

“Do you have something better to be doing with your time, Ms. Everett?”

“No, sir. Sorry, sir.” I drop to my knees and start sweeping up everything I can reach.

The scraps are everywhere, but that’s not the issue—Lord knows I’ve cleaned up enough messes since my parents died. This is neither the first nor the worst.

The issue is that I can feel Mr. Lazarev watching me.

He hasn’t moved. He’s just standing there, towering over me, while I crawl around on his office floor picking up tiny pieces of paper.

My stupid skirt once again rides up my thighs. I tug it down. It immediately rides right back up.

I reach for a scrap near the leg of his desk and my blouse, feeling left out of the “Humiliate Rae” party, gapes open. I clamp my arm against my chest.

This is preposterous. I’m on my knees in front of my boss’s father. The position is— God, the position is so?—

I grab another scrap. My face is burning. He still hasn’t moved.

Is he looking at my ass? He’s definitely looking at my ass. Or maybe I’m just being paranoid. Maybe he’s looking at the wall or the window or literally anything else.

I don’t turn around to check.

When I’ve gathered all the pieces in my cupped hands, I stand up. My legs are shaky. I hold out the scraps in both hands like an offering.

“Can I go now?” I croak.

He nods.