Early Riser Part 20
CEO Agatha Harkness x Reader Rich Boss x Submissive Assistant AU
Other parts & Tip jar
Word count: 10k
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, power dynamics, implied toxic relationship, d/s dynamics, absurd mean sugar mommy behavior, Agatha is emotionally constipated but trying, themes of corruption, jealousy & obsessive thoughts. No smut but references to past sex. Themes of stalking and watching through hidden cameras. Crime.
Broken down day after to day with exhaustion, controlled with sex and expensive gifts, tracked and trained and crawling on your hands and knees to the point of helping her commit a crime. A petty crime, but still a crime and your old-money romance love story may not be as wholesome as you had daydreamed about when you first started watching her through the glass.
No missed calls. No notifications.
Agatha Harkness dropped off the face of the earth approximately seven hours ago. Your message app flooded with outgoings from you.
"What's happening?" "Where are you?" "I'm scared." "Can you tell me where you are????" "Hello???"
And nothing from her. Not even a read receipt.
The first few hours before sleep were the worst. Stumbling through the front door in some kind of hectic rush you couldn't quite understand. Scrambling to lock it behind you in a state of fear and confusion.
The place empty despite having two roommates now, expecting them to be squished in this apartment that certainly isn't big enough for the three of you.
Your sheets between your fingers as you tried to sink beneath the covers, calling her once. Twice. Calling her fifteen times. Never answering and never replying. Thoughts overcrowding your head about the day, about the night, the club. About Agatha. About her secrets. About the threat she's apparently under for something you don't even understand and can't even ask about.
Insecurity followed shortly after. Whether she's not getting back to you out of choice. Why she dropped you here instead of taking you with her to her mystery location.
Should you even go into work? How would that work when the person you're assisting isn't even in the office? How do you explain this to the people asking for her in your email inbox?
So, you react the same way any other person would react. Googling her In your bed as you face the wall. Trying to find some news that isn't just business or a gala. Nothing. Trying to fall asleep. Imagining some kind of flickering red light coming from your dresser.
Thinking about her room, her view and her lap beneath you as the events of the day slowly force you into sleep.
--
At seven in the morning you're already awake without an alarm. Heart pounding and dehydration shoving your eyes open before you have the chance to realize where you are. And who you're without.
Back in a place you knew you'd have to return to someday, but not yet. Not now and certainly not like this.
The silence that follows the sound of you chugging water is as deafening as Agatha's helicopter.
Peace and a moment of allowing your brain to actually, really think for once. Without someone swaying you, manipulating you and tracking your phone.
A moment where it's just you and the low count cotton thread under your skin. It's rougher than you remember and the air is mustier. The bleach from the laundromat downstairs makes its way up the building, the smell subtle but present.
Is this what it's like to be one of the rest? Did they get swept up in an almost-romantic whirlwind, wined and dined and restrained only to be discarded on the roadside? Did they Google her afterwards? Did their firing come from her directly or a generic email?
Were they this attached to her too?
Agatha Harkness had come into your life as your boss. Your hot boss yes, who you may have watched a few too many times after bringing her coffee. But your boss nonetheless. Someone who you admired for her business reputation and fantastically crisp shirts.
You'd never expected yourself to get so caught up in her antics so quickly you couldn't even realize what was happening. Broken down day after to day with exhaustion, controlled with sex and expensive gifts, tracked and trained and crawling on your hands and knees to the point of helping her commit a crime. A petty crime, but still a crime and your old-money romance love story may not be as wholesome as you had daydreamed about when you first started watching her through the glass.
But your fingers shake over the phone again, checking for a notification. Checking for the check mark that means she's at least glanced your way. Tapping your finger on the Getty image of her attached to her contact info and god she looks beautiful.
How could you ever question her actions when she looks like that and tells you that you're special?
She must be safe, you know she must be. Surely. With all the security buzzing around her like flies.
Your body aches as you stretch it, stepping out of the bed and trying to pick out a work outfit. Maybe it would look more weird if you didn't show up for work.
You're still not really sure if this is allowed to be public or not. If people would ask questions.
So, you try your best to look normal. To hide the marks on your neck yet again and wear something appropriate, but not too expensive. Taking the subway despite the unlimited credit card in your purse and playing it cool.
Maybe Agatha just got into a misunderstanding with that man and his friends. Maybe she's talking it out with them right now, too busy to get back to you.
But she will.
You know she will.
---
The sun is shining more than it has in weeks, the temperature a little warmer today and the craving for a cherry latte is as strong as ever. The office is empty and anxious as always, probably waiting for her to show up and glare at people.
Those around you use the instant coffee machine in the kitchenette and talk about their weekend plans, checking every now and again to see if their big scary boss is here yet.
You do too, but you know it's not for the same reasons.
The chair beneath you spins as you boot up the computer. It hums a little too loud, meaning it probably needs an update. If it were last year you'd have been all too thankful, letting it waste the workday for you.
But now you need something to take your mind off of everything, it's less fun and more annoying. You should have just stayed home and watched TV.
As you click the update button your eyes fall to the loading bar at the bottom of the screen. Maybe it'll pass quickly.
1%
You spin around on the chair, antsy and trying not to think of last night. How your perfect two-day-hot-billionaire-dating-experience was cut short by a sweaty man you don't recognize.
2%
You check your phone again. Nothing.
3%
You turn your phone off and on, just to be safe.
4%
Still nothing.
5%
People filter through the elevator, heading behind their desks and getting ready to waste their morning with this update and why is the wifi so slow right now?
6%
Your eyes pull to the glass walls of her office. Brightly lit with the sun through the gigantic windows she pushed you up against when you stayed late. How her skin felt against yours for the first time. When you realized this could be something more. When she realized she still couldn't stay away from her assistants because you're somehow too damn special.
7%
The chair the others make fun of against the mahogany desk she'd hit your head on when she bent you over it, so you could help her unwind like any good assistant would. The one you hid under when you found out she wasn't as innocent as you thought she was.
8%
The curtains that hang thick around the glass walls that offer privacy. The ones that shielded you when you first got on your knees for her, finishing your work only for her to destroy it out of jealousy.
9%
How long is this going to take?
10%
The clock ticks on, and the craving for coffee, or the smell of Agatha –you aren't sure which, is still at the back of your throat. Now would be a good time to go get it.
But what if she shows up?
You think back to the panic on her face, the sadness as she apologized to you unprompted.
She's probably handling it right now, and she'll absolutely let you know when she'll be at work.
Won't she?
--
As always, you try not to bump into Zara in the elevator, and as always the problems of having Agatha so intertwined with your life just seem to keep coming and continue to intensify. So much so it's easy to forget that Zara was the enemy to begin with.
Back when your problems were about what time train you'd get home from work and what kind of microwave meal you'd have for dinner.
You haven't had to eat one in too long, and the thought is doing the opposite of making your mouth water.
The elevator ride is smooth, with a soft 'ding' when it reaches the city, the lobby empty and quiet, maybe even too quiet as your shoes echo along the ground.
What if she she never comes back? What if she does come back, but things are different? What if somebody asks where she is, aren't you supposed to know?
You push the thoughts to the back of your head, focused on the well-dressed businessmen forming a line at the coffee store. More new iced specials on the menu as the barista makes four flat whites back to back.
Apple cinnamon iced latte. Sounds delicious, and maybe if you weren't so obsessed with the smell of the crook of her neck you'd order it, but you ask for the cherry without having a second thought.
Another check of the phone just in case she's back and she needs anything.
Nothing.
You reach into your purse to pay when the total is read out, fumbling around for some cash and finding only the solid metal of Agatha's credit card. Remembering her words.
"You do know I get notifications about that card, don't you?"
Maybe this is how you get her to see you, to reply to you. To tell you something, anything.
And you pay with her card.
Still no text. Still no anything. But you know she's seen it, you know she's felt some type of way about it.
Unless the coffee isn't enough. Maybe you need more. More purchases more money, more notifications. Stopping in the street as you suck the cherry coffee up the straw, your eyes scan for a store nearby. There are only a few in this area, mostly places that sell sandwiches bars and soda.
But maybe that'll do for now.
You hold the drink by your side as you cross the street, trying not to drop it as you head into the store, not wanting the cashier to see you holding a coffee. Maybe you should have read if they allow beverages in here. Maybe you don't even care.
Your eyes are on the shelves, stuck between looking down at the phone in your hand and the items on display. Waiting for her to react. Tasting the cherry on your tongue.
You grab a candy bar. You grab three. It's almost too much to carry. A Coke. A hand basket so you can fill it with more Coke. Fuck it. You head to the next section of the store, aware of the time.
It's almost hilarious when your eyes catch it.
There, on the magazine shelf. The latest issue of Forbes, is Agatha Harkness. Stood like she owns the world on the front cover, a crisp black suit and her cheekbones as sharp as ever.
You remember signing her up for this. You didn't think you'd get to see it, not keeping up to date with the releases of these things but jesus christ maybe you could ask her to wear this suit again too.
"Steel and strategy. Inside the Agatha Harkness empire."
Steel and strategy. They forgot the stealing part.
The gloss of the magazine is smooth against your finger tips before you even notice you're touching it. Staring at it like you're in some kind of trance.
Maybe it's how fantastic she looks in that outfit, or maybe it's the whirlwind of waiting and not fully understanding her or her motivations. How she's here on the cover of this magazine like some kind of business enigma and you ate Chinese food in her bed just a few days ago.
So naturally, you buy that too. Taking everything to the cashier and trying to stack it all gently on the counter.
The man doesn't greet or acknowledge you in any way. It's a relief really, giving you time to drown in your own thoughts of her. Of what to do next. Of what happened last night. Of the purple lights of that strange odd place.
Of her face when she let you go out of the car.
She's fine, isn't she? She's safe? The thought feels too big for your head. Of course she is. It's a misunderstanding. You already told yourself that one. It's something she doesn't want you wrapped in for her convenience. She might cheat at poker, but that doesn't mean she'd actually scam that guy, right?
--
You transfer the store haul to your work bag when you're back at the desk, keeping them for later and most importantly check your phone one last time before opening a candy bar. She must have gotten that notification too.
But still no message, and it's still empty in here from the mass-firing she's committed in her of jealous rage.
The chocolate is a little melted from how warm it is in the office today, the AC must not be working correctly and you're not sure who to talk to in order to get that fixed.
Agatha's office is probably cool. It's probably on a different system, you think. Only the best for her. But there's no way you could be in her office without her. Somebody would surely notice, they'd say something. They'd start talking.
So you plop down the melty latte and the magazine and look about as busy as the people chatting next to the coffee machine. Everybody seems relieved Agatha isn't in today. You could at least try to blend in. To pretend you feel the same.
You could at least try to hide that you're looking at an A4 glossy photograph of her stood serious and dominant in a pantsuit with perfectly painted lips that have kissed yours, and a visible inch of the hand that grabs you like she can't keep herself away from you.
Like a little secret. You do want to be public with her, but you'd be lying if you said this wasn't kind of exciting when your co-workers know nothing. They've never seen the sides of her you have.
Everybody else in the magazine is irrelevant to you as you skip through the pages. People you kind of recognize from event lists and most people you don't. Then you find it. The double page spread.
She looks even better here if that's possible. Two large photographs of her and a full interview. It's no wonder almost every woman who's worked for her has ended up under her. She's everything.
There's a variety of questions, from "how do you decide what areas are best to develop?" to "how has technology impacted your industry?" It's almost boring, if it wasn't for your 'only medium evil billionaire' staring back from the photographs as the chocolate melts under your touch.
"At a certain level of wealth, what continues to motivate you?"
Her answer is neat and practiced underneath:
"What motivates me is making a difference. Using my influence to support charities, to build places that people really care about."
The laugh is caught in your throat as you take a poorly timed bite. She fails to mention the properties, island, yacht and inconceivably expensive diamond necklace that's currently on your bedside table. The money she threw at you as you knelt before her, and didn't even bother collecting before leaving.
"You've maintained a low public profile, is that intentional?"
Yes. Because of her awful reputation. Because of the stack of NDAs and rumors surrounding her. Because she hates people.
"I prefer to focus on the work. I show up when needed, to support local events and meet clients. I'm uninterested in being a public figure."
She says from a magazine.
"What does a typical day look like for you?"
Waking up. Working. Fucking her assistant over the desk to calm down from being late again. Yelling at at least four people before three pm. Too much alcohol. Cheating at casino games. Getting all riled up from the power of closing a deal, dramatically flipping her hair over her shoulders, eating with her mouth open and falling asleep face down snoring on the silk sheets.
"I'm an early riser. I like to take some time to focus on the tasks of the day. Reading or walking in the morning. A healthy breakfast. Coffee of course! I make sure i'm productive all day by staying off of my phone, and I like to unwind with a podcast in the evening."
Ha! And lying, it would seem.
You close the magazine. Aside from the images this could be an interview from anybody. She's good at this press thing. It makes you wonder about the words she'd said in the car. About buying a PR company to clean her slate. But damn, from what exactly?
And why is none of this putting you off of her the way it should?
The rest of the day moves past at a reasonable pace. Some emails you forward to her. Googling lunch places nearby out of curiosity, googling her penthouse and gawking at the $250 million price tag which is so far out of reach it doesn't even feel like a real number. Googling what a pangolin is when you hear someone mention one across the room. It's some kind of creature. Nobody is productive, and you still have to RSVP to her gala at the end of the month.
---
Getting home feels like you're back too early, despite this being the time you used to leave the office. Before her asking you to leave late. Before helping you with chopsticks and testing your limits by delivering blackmail money.
The smell of tomato sauce hits you as soon as you open the heavy door. Jazz and giggling from the far end of the room. Your heart jumps for a second. Your poor, dumb little heart. For a split second imagining the same Agatha Harkness from the shallow Forbes interview in your apartment making you a surprise dinner. Spinning you around the kitchen like you're in a rom-com.
But if you felt like this wasn't really your home before, now it certainly doesn't. Jake feeding his pretty girl counterpart with a wooden spoon. She's in pink PJs. And are those throw pillows on your couch?
Maggie has truly already moved in. And it seems she owns the place.
She takes a step back as you close the door behind you, trying to make your presence obvious so they don't start canoodling or something.
Jake's face is nothing short of displeased, but she looks friendly and excited to see you. If you didn't feel like you were haunting your own apartment maybe you wouldn't be so upset having a potential new friend.
After all, the only person you talk to is an avoidant anti-social socialite.
The apartment isn't just prettier, it's clean. She's taken out the trash, cleaned the mug collection and lit a scented candle. You'd be actually excited to cook in it if they weren't hogging the appliances and the tiny space.
"Hi roomie!" Maggie holds out her arms as she walks over to you, pulling you into an awkward hug that must be weird for her too. "Jakie and I were about to watch a movie and have some pasta, you wanna join? There’s extra. I always make way too much food!”
"Babe she doesn't." He's already butting in before you can process her calling him Jakie. Barf. It’s bizarre that she’s with this man. Run, girl. His socks are more holes than fabric.
But you are hungry. And would it be more weird if you ate pizza alone in your room? Probably. If you're gonna live together you might as well just rip the bandaid off. Especially if it takes a while for Agatha to message you. A bit of normality might be good after the whirlwind of the last few days.
She’ll reply any minute. You know she will. Maybe you could message Rio or Wanda to see where she might have gone. Would that be insane? Probably. Last time you were with them you were humiliated beyond measure, but maybe that was just a normal weekend for them.
“Sure. I’d love to.” You fake a smile you’re hoping she can’t see through and it’s unclear whether she’s genuine or not but she does seem friendly.
Jake’s already pulling out another bowl from the cupboard like his mom just asked him for a favor. You hope he didn’t double dip the spoon after tasting the sauce.
He doesn’t want you here. But you’d rather not be here either.
—
The sauce is fantastic, which means Maggie must have made it because you’ve never seen Jake eat something not from a plastic box or a can.
He slurps quietly as Maggie cuddles into his side. The television playing some kind of generic film you’re sure you’ve seen before. Whatever romance is on the Netflix homepage. A boy kisses a girl in the rain. Maggie 'awws' as the score plays on. Would Agatha ever kiss you in the rain? Probably not. She'd probably have someone standing next to the two of you holding an umbrella.
Your legs are crossed on the couch as you try not to stare at them. Sitting next to them enjoying their evening like this is come kind of college house. Like you’re all friends. But if she’s trying to be friendly, you should at least try back.
You check your phone again for your rescue message. For an explanation. The darker it gets, the more you worry about her. The closer it gets to the twenty four hour mark like she's about to pop up missing on a news alert.
She's fine. She's probably ordering takeout right now.
“I have a bunch of soda and snacks and stuff, you guys want any?” You’re pulling your bag onto your lap and dishing the contents onto the coffee table before they can reply, but they both lean forward with the anticipation of snacks.
It feels weird and domestic and mildly uncomfortable.
“Damn you got the goods!” She says reaching forward, grabbing one of each and opening the cola with a small fizz. Her eyes wandering to the magazine that’s fallen face up on the table. You’d almost forgotten how hot your boss looked in the photograph. “Forbes huh. You must be smart.”
Jake looks bored at the interaction, but grabs a Coke anyway.
“Oh. I mean, I’m her assistant. I wanted to...read the article.” You gesture vaguely to the cover trying to seem as normal and relaxed about it as possible. Hoping they can't hear your heartbeat as you lie. You bought it to stare at tonight, maybe with your hand down your pants, and it feels like you're being too obvious about it.
“No way? That’s so cool! So she’s like, famous? What’s she like?”
Agatha would hate her for saying that.
Jake stares at it a little too long and back to you, like the cogs are manually turning in his brain and you’re not sure if you even told him about who you worked for. His hand creeps tighter around Maggie and you’re nothing but jealous all of a sudden in your chest.
Will you ever get a movie night with Agatha?
“She’s intense.” You try to keep it low-key. Taking a big sip of your own drink to try avoid conversation.
“Oh yeah? I bet.” You bet. You bet.
She could never possibly understand.
Understand how overwhelmingly all-consuming she is when she stands above you, treating you like you’re nothing and everything at the same time. How her laugh sounds when you introduce her to your world and how her jaw tightens when she introduces you to hers.
You’re sitting on the couch having snacks and a movie in a normal, real situation. And all you can think about is a corrupt cover star who you’re sure you’d let ruin your life. How badly you want to go back to her bedroom and never be set free.
"Well thats good." Maggie is clutching at straws to be friendly to you. "I hope you're paid well, someone like that could afford it."
The necklace that sat around your neck like a collar while she poured champagne all over your skin is probably worth more than this street.
"Yeah it's not so bad!l." Is all you offer. "So what do you do?" You don't care, but you'd rather Jake not use his last brain cell to figure out you're fucking the woman from Forbes.
"I'm training to be a teacher!" She's enthusiastic. "Love to shape young minds, you know?"
Bless her. She's adorable. You almost feel a little guilty at how wholesome her prospects are compared to yours.
"Oh no way, that's so cool. I bet it's rewarding."
"Yeah it is, I mean i'm still figuring it out, I didn't figure out I wanted to do it until a little while ago."
"Agatha actually does a lot of charity stuff for children, she's really passionate about it." And oh my god why are you talking about Agatha again? Think about something else for a second. She's going to ask follow up questions.
"I would loooooove to do that that's amazing do you think she'd ever—"
Everybody jumps at the sound of the doorbell.
Looking to each other to see who’s expecting a guest or a pizza. Your eyes fall on Jake, the token man one. Maggie’s already forcing him off the couch, checking the time. Already getting dark outside.
“Tell them we don’t want God, or something.” She says as he’s standing.
Please be her. Please be her.
Jake takes a second to try figure out the figure at the door without having to open it. Trying to prevent a salesman or a preacher from interrupting the evening.
“It’s some guy?” He says, craning his neck out to try get a better look.
Maybe it’s paranoia, but your blood runs cold instantly.
“What guy?” You’re already standing, which seems to throw everybody off. No longer a cozy and relaxed movie night but some kind of uncomfortable stand off theyre all a witness to.
Maggie is pausing the tv and standing with you so she’s not the only one still on the couch.
“I don’t know. Some huge bald guy. I’ll just answer it. Probably got the wrong place.”
“Don’t.”
He freezes, hand on the door. Your voice coming out panicked and more hushed than you’d intended.
The doorbell rings again.
“He can probably see me through the glass. What’s the problem?” His voice is also lower, sensing the tension suddenly filling the room.
Maggie’s eyes flick between the two of you like she doesn’t know who’s side to be on.
“Tell him I’m not here.”
“What?”
“Fucking. Please Jake. Just say I’m out right now. Please.”
“Why? What’s happening?”
The door knocks again, he knows he can’t wait much longer, and you’re already scuttling to your room and getting behind the door, ear pressed to it.
Is it the guy from the bar?
Did this guy follow you from work?
The conversation is more muffled than you’d anticipated even pressed flat against the door. But it’s short and sweet. You try not to pull your hair out as your eyes dart around the room trying to figure out what would be important to take in an emergency. Diamond necklace. Pjs. Toothbrush. Who even knows?
Surely this is a mix up, of course it is. But the way the blues of her eyes looked when she dropped you outside makes you hesitant to show your face. Especially if he’s fucking stalked you here.
Once the doors closed you’re back in the living room and cramming the rest of the candy bars back in your bag, along with the rest of the stuff on the table.
“What’s happening? He was asking for you. Who was that?” Jake’s tone is accusatory. This is his building after all. And you’ve just put a target of some kind on it.
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” You’re flailing, tripping over yourself as you try to figure out your plan. It was stupid thinking Agatha and her money could protect you the way it protects her.
She’s off in some fancy mansion while you’re figuring out whether this is a legal problem or a personal one.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Maggie doesn’t seem angry. She seems scared.
“Look I think I might be in trouble maybe like—“
“—wrong crowd? I figured as much.”
You try not to let his words affect you too much. Has he been analyzing all of your actions? It’s certainly not the first time he’s made a comment like that.
Maggie slaps him on the arm.
You steady your breathing. Opening your phone again. Still nothing. Opening the Uber app before even thinking about it. You’re typing in her address before you can stop yourself. “Look. I’m sorry. Fuck I’m sorry. If you promise to keep this quiet I’ll move out like, as soon as I can.”
“You will?”
“Jesus try not to sound too excited.”
He’s already looking at Maggie like he’s excited to fuck her in the kitchen. Gross.
“Okay...So is this like, about drugs?”
Suddenly he seems weirdly cool about the whole thing. The promise of not having you live here. Or maybe he wants drugs.
“No. It’s not about drugs. I uh— I cheated at a casino club thing look just—“ you grab the bag as the Uber Black driver connects. “—I know. I’ll get rid of him pay him or…somehow, I don’t know but he shouldn’t come back.”
“Wait, you did what?” Great. Now he’s laughing like he hoped it was something objectively cooler.
Imagining your spiral with Agatha from his perspective is a wild thought. Boring roommate who stays in her room all day comes home increasingly late, stops showing up overnight and starts wearing Prada.
“Why don’t you just stay here? He’s gone.” Maggie is gentle, reaching for you.
But it’s already too late as the car starts pulling down the street. A lucky quick connection.
And you leave your normality behind for Agatha, again.
—
The streets are dark as the driver takes you to the penthouse. Your heart in your throat as you try to call her, she must have seen the Uber notification too. A journey of your entire day via credit card alerts.
“Central Park Tower huh?” The driver looks into the mirror at you, you try to look as natural as possible.
“Yeah.” You’re double checking everything is in your bag like it’s not just diamonds, a toothbrush, a magazine, chocolate and a Coke.
“They call that Billionaires Row. You know that?” You can’t tell if he’s polite or nosy so you smile with tight lips.
“Yeah I know that.”
“Would love to see inside that place.”
And suddenly you’re on edge again like this isn’t just an Uber and he isn’t just your driver. The stress in your body becoming paranoia that started on that damn island and has escalated between Taco Bell visits and coffee in the bed.
“It’s pretty special.” You keep the response generic. He’s probably just being polite.
“You own the place?”
“Yeah.” You lie.
He nods once, like he’s suddenly not qualified enough to talk to you. Or maybe your bluntness was a big enough hint to stop him poking around in your business.
Luckily the traffic isn’t as bad as it is usually, and you’re there in no time. The air between the cab and the lobby a little chilly now, and as you enter you quickly realize you don’t have any sort of plan.
The security eye you as you wander in, trying to seem focused and like you belong. Hoping they don’t search your bag and think you’re some kind of stalker or thief.
The elevator bank is quiet, and you can tell the men are watching you in a way that’s subtle and relaxed. She’s almost certainly changed the passcode by now, sure that she had expected your first visit to be your last. Resetting the code for the next girl.
Yet, you try it anyway just to avoid explaining the situation to a stranger.
To your surprise, the elevator begins to move.
She’d really not changed it? You could have come here at any point? Although you suppose you’ve been her assistant for quite some time now. It does make sense she'd freely let you in.
When the elevator comes to a stop, you're once again right back where you started. Met with the smell of her and her lifestyle, but without Agatha's hand on your waist.
Instead, you're greeted with a sprawling dark living space, the floor under you warm with under-floor heating and the orange glow of a lamp further down the hallway.
Is she here? She said she wouldn't be here.
Instinct hits you harder than your thoughts do, choosing to move softly, quietly through the building. Feet attempting to be silent as you try and decide your next move. Do you call out to her? What if it's somebody else?
The place is entirely silent. Maybe you could actually explore it. Would that be weird?
Heading over to the giant windows she loves to peer out of, you're met with the tallest view in the city once again. The piano immaculate without a single piece of dust even though it remains unplayed. Her books stacked neatly on her coffee table. And although this place is gigantic, it makes you feel oddly safe.
Much like the touch of Agatha's hands, hands you know may have committed cruel and vicious acts that hold your face softly when she looks at you.
"Hello?" A disembodied voice calls out. Your entire body tenses. Hairs on the back of your neck stand without your control and your entire chest feels green when you recognize it's a woman's voice.
Turning in a startle, your hands covering your arms on an anxious instinct, you're met with a short young woman, round cheeks and adorable large eyes.
You hope you're hiding your anger as well as you're hiding your surprise. Trying to look instantly like you belong. Like you were asked to be here.
"Hi." Your lips form a smile you don't mean, she must be staff. Why else would she be here? Although this thought is logical, it doesn't really ease the jealousy because of course, you're also staff. "Who are you?"
"I'm Alana...the housekeeper?"
If you'd just divert your eyes away from her face and instead to her hand, you'd notice she's carrying a bucket and is dressed in sweatpants. You should relax a little, you can't.
And the thought of that man showing up invited to your house continues to keep your heart rate much too high.
Before Agatha you'd be sitting at home scrolling TikTok edits reposted to Instagram reels. Maybe watching a Netflix show that'll be cancelled inexplicably after two seasons and thinking about re-downloading Bumble. You'd be thinking about rent. About whether you feel ready to date again. About future plans you should probably have and whether re-training as something other than an artist is a good idea. You'd never consider using somebody else's credit card and you'd certainly never condone or participate in anything illegal. Like, properly illegal.
And yet you stand half-corrupted in a penthouse of the third richest woman in the country, in an overpriced outfit deciding where she'd fled to after she'd riled up the sketchiest man in a weird club she owned secretly, trying to figure out whether she's in real trouble, and trying to decide if she's fucked her maid.
Snap out of it. It's too late now.
"Oh. Right. She never mentioned you, sorry."
It's a low fucking blow and you probably shouldn't have said that. This is the woman who cleans and presses your clothes after Agatha rips them off of you.
"That's okay...and you are?"
"Her assistant. Is she here?"
Footsteps boom down the hallway and unless she's wearing loafers a size too big, they aren't Agatha’s. Alana turns a little to see the figure coming down the corridor before he steps into view. A bearded man with a suit.
"You're the assistant?" He stands next to the housekeeper like you're being interrogated. You were kind of just hoping to stay here for a while before Agatha calls you back.
She will call you back, won't she?
"Yeah. You security?" His outfit is exactly the same as the ones who escorted you last night and they really do hide in plain sight.
"Yes ma'am. I'm on shift until midnight, and then it'll be somebody else. We're round the clock inside the apartment until the matter is resolved."
Finally, a dash of context.
"What matter, exactly?" You relax your shoulders. They think you belong here. What are you even saying? You do belong here. You're hers.
"I've been informed you were with her at the location?" He seems confused, Alana looks closer at you like she knows exactly what you're trying to hide. She must get this a lot.
"Well...yes I was. But I mean, I don't know where she is I don't know what's going on we were just—" suddenly it's too much.
Tears start forming in your eyes like you're finally re-processing everything again and how it's been almost twenty four hours with not even a read receipt for a problem she caused. The panic bubble finally bursting in your chest as two strangers watch you fumble over your words in a dark room, the pressure of explaining to them making everything worse "—she didn't tell me what was going on."
You can't keep talking, the words are too wet when you try as the tears begin streaming down your face. Having them ask you questions feels humiliating. You should know what's going on, because she should have told you. It's obvious you're new to this side of her, no matter how much you feel intertwined with her life.
The security guard looks like he's not sure how to proceed. Alana places the cleaning supplies on the ground before she's approaching you with her arms out.
You recoil on instinct of somebody else's touch.
You just want her here.
"How about I make you a nice cup of coffee, and you sit down. I was about to leave, but I can stay if you need some company."
You're shaking your head before you've even noticed. Wanting to be alone with the smell of Agatha's perfume and her firm weird furniture beneath your body as you take a seat on the leather couch.
"Will you be staying here tonight?" The security guard asks you as Alana returns to her supplies, picking them up to take them to presumably a storage room. This place is still so confusing.
"I mean, if that's okay. She hasn't told me anything. The guy...the guy that was yelling at her from the club came to my house."
"He came to your house?" His voice is much more serious than you were hoping for. "Yes you should absolutely stay here. I presume you already have a bedroom here?"
You don't know the half of it.
"Yeah. I'm good." You're wiping your face with the back of your hand and Alana is already brewing you a coffee before you can stop her. The sound vibrating through the floor.
"Well i'll be in the security room if you need me, I can give you some alone time."
You nod at his words before realizing you didn't even know the apartment had a security room. But he's moving down the hallway, so it must be down there. How many rooms does this place have?
A black coffee is placed in front of you before you can explain you aren't Agatha, and you don't drink it like that. And if she really knew Agatha, she'd know she doesn't really like it like that either.
Now is not the time to feel like this. Maybe the thoughts wouldn't be so amplified if Agatha hadn't taunted you with jealousy foreplay you never fully got to resolve.
"I'm going to leave now if you’re certain.” You nod at her, clutching the warm drink you don’t want. “I'm going to be back in the morning, so don't let me spook you." Her words are gentle as she heads towards the elevator. You feel bad for even being angry.
When the elevator doors shut behind her, the penthouse is once again entirely silent. The faint buzzing hum of the refrigerator as you walk towards it for some milk. The light of it is much too bright as you pull on the door. Oat milk, a jar of pickles and a 6 pack of cherry soda you know she must keep in there for you.
You know she cares, it's so obvious. You just wish she could be more vocal with it.
The hum resets after you add the milk and close the door. The drink warm and grounding in your hands as you decide whether or not you're brave enough to explore the place.
The ceilings are so stupidly tall you're almost hurting your neck trying to look up. You move around the white and steel empty space, looking for an ounce of personality. You could fit at least twenty of your apartment in this one floor, and from the last time you were upstairs, you know this isn't just a place with stairs, it's a triplex.
Moving away from the enormous living room, you head a different way than you'd been before. Away from the kitchen, the dining room and the bedroom she'd taken you to the first time you visited.
Towards what seems to be, just another sitting room? The furniture seems essentially unused. No scuffs, no personal items. Nothing. You move on almost immediately and it's clear one person cannot inhabit this much space.
The next room seems to be a library and is largely more used, with a dark metallic wallpaper, a deep purple rug and a black leather couch. Books on the wooden shelf appear slightly worn, but not as much as the ones from her yacht. Organized neatly from Alana after Agatha no doubt leaves them around the house.
They're diverse. On myths, legends and languages. Your fingers run across their worn edges. When you're comfortable around her it can be hard to remember just how extraordinary she is.
The woman on the magazine cover, the woman everybody wants to talk to. You’re hers, and you're in her library drinking her coffee.
The stress in your body turns slightly to excitement and it seems clear that when this is all over...you'll have the best sleep of your life.
Back near the stairs, you hear typing coming from a small-looking side room, that must be the security office. Your cheeks flush wondering if this man is always here. He probably isn't. Agatha wouldn't like that.
Trying not to alert the suit, you hold tightly onto the hand-rail of the spiral stairs as you ascend as quietly as you can. You're familiar with what's up here to an extent. Agatha's bedroom, bathroom and all the weird sitting areas she has coming off of that. This is where you intend to sleep tonight, you think. Your face pressed against her cherry pillow waiting for her to come home to you.
But not before some little extra snooping, for good luck.
Peering around the corner you spot what must be her dressing room. At the risk of feeling like a stalker, you flick the light switch on as you approach. It's exactly what you thought it'd be. Like something out of a movie. An enormous room with rails, boxes and shelves.
A large ottoman in the centre. Shoes of unpredictable prices littered about and her clothes organized neatly from suit jackets to shirts to dresses and skirts.
You run your hand along the fabric, it's expensive and extremely Agatha. How she feels pressed close to your body, just without the warmth. Silk and velvet and luxurious cotton. No color organization, but clearly some kind of system.
A million incomprehensible memories inside of this room. Charity balls, different women and different countries. The opera, the casino and the island.
Maybe when she wears the suit she wore yesterday, she’ll think about you.
A large dresser sits in the corner. Dark wood, slightly out of place in the modern room. Should you? You shouldn't. You certainly shouldn't. That would be wrong. You know she doesn't like when you snoop.
But the answers from her are too slow, too disjointed and too hard to get out of her, so you reach for the drawer anyway.
It pulls open with a soft squeak. The wood smooth, the smell a little musty. Expecting to see maybe some old t-shirts or something, you're surprised to find items that look like they'd be better suited to an office.
You take a sip of the coffee as you fish out the items. It's still a bit too bitter, you should have added some syrup. You know she has it.
You wish you'd added some whiskey when the first photograph you flip over is her and Rio. Younger. The two of them smiling, really smiling, taken in some kind of meadow. The sky blue and cloudless. Agatha's cheekbones a little less sharp. You don't notice you're holding your breath as you study the image like it's some kind of ancient relic.
With clammy hands, you drop it back on the side, is this whole thing just a giant memory box? Receipts. Envelopes. The gloss of magazines. You rest the mug on the dresser, selecting another piece of paper with both hands. Newspaper clippings, cover photos and small articles. Of the business, of the success, of the rumors and claims and discussions. Of her family legacy. Of the attention. It's too much, too personal and you throw everything back in there, closing the drawer and trying not to think about it anymore.
It rattles as you shut it, stressing out when you think you’ve broken something, you’re pleasantly surprised to see just some stale loose m&ms rolling around in lint at the bottom of the drawer.
For someone you think you know so well, you still don’t know her at all. Her life has been longer and more interesting than your own, you probably only know a quarter of it.
She had asked on the yacht what you were doing, the two of you. You didn't know then, you don't really know now. Is it a crime to care for someone so different than yourself? Would she ever have photographs of you in a drawer somewhere someday? Would she ever even take a photograph of you?
You take the mug, heading back into the bedroom. The skyline of the city now just a twinkle of lights and silence. For now you're here, you're safe and that's what matters.
The bed is soft as you ease onto it, dropping the coffee mug softly on the nightstand. It's not good, and you can't keep drinking it. Being polite when nobody is even around to judge you.
Almost put off by going through her stuff already, you should probably stop. But there are so many cupboards in this room, and an entire other floor you've yet to look at. She could have anything in here, and will you get the chance again?
You should wait, you think. You should take a relaxing bath in the gigantic tub. Overlook the city in the one time you'll ever be above it all on your own. You should sleep off the stress, the worry and anxiety and fear.
Agatha will probably call you in the morning. The security are downstairs, and they'll be changing shifts soon.
If anywhere is safe to be, it's here. Taking off your shoes, you lay back onto the satin sheets. Now a dark red color, thank you Alana.
It’s even more comfortable than you remember. Maybe it’s because of the busy few days. Maybe the bath could wait.
Finally settling into the bed and despite the interaction in your own apartment being pleasant for the first time, you finally feel home.
Your breathing steady, chest relaxed as you let yourself think logically, about how this situation is temporary. About how it probably isn't anything, and will be handled soon. About how Agatha had only just taken you on a date, she cares for you, and you're in her bed. Soft, warm and safe. The thoughts become distant and as you drift off into sleep...
...your phone buzzes.
For the first time in so long the noise is basically foreign, you sit bolt upright, grabbing for it. Her name on the screen and you forget how to breathe. That Getty photo of her at that conference you sent her to flashes up as your heart pounds in your chest, your head. The emotional intensities returning to your body again, almost missing the 'accept call' button.
"Agatha!" It blurts from your lips before you can hold it in.
"You're in my penthouse." She says flatly, like she's not slept since she left you in that car. Her voice deep and gravely and you can't even take care of her.
"Yeah, yeah I'm at your place...I hope that's okay? Where are you?"
"I can't tell you right now."
She doesn't seem excited to talk to you, and it almost feels like you're fighting for her attention again despite putting yourself in danger for her.
"...He came to my house."
"He what?"
"The guy from the club, he came to my house so I just took a cab here, I wasn't sure where else to go but I just—"
"—Shh. You're alright. You'e okay." Agatha's tone shifts quickly as it relaxes through the phone, settling you again. "I wasn't sure where to take you."
"Why couldn't I come with you?"
Because she means more to you than you mean to her?
"Because I don't want to drag you into this more than I already have. I don’t know, you’ve only ever been honest with me…I’m not good at that."
You swallow, a lump forming in your throat at the implication of her words.
The silence dragging out.
She doesn't fill it, neither do you.
"...Does that mean this is—" You can't even form the word without effort. "—over?"
Silence again, the shuffling of sheets like she's under the covers.
"Don't be stupid. I didn’t say that."
The breath of relief is loud and she must have heard it, you reach for the lukewarm coffee to wash away the raw feeling in your throat.
"I just thought it’d be easier if I dealt with this alone. But evidently not. Some people just love to make things difficult."
Her words are as if someone’s giving her a minor inconvenience rather than her having to flee to an undisclosed location in the middle of the night.
"Dealt with what? I don't really get what's going on. Should we call the police?"
"Don't call the police."
Your breath is too heavy into the phone.
"Okay."
More silence. More shuffling.
"...You look pretty on my bed like that."
Your face flushes with heat instantly, looking around in a panic.
"You can see me?"
"Of course I can see you, I have cameras connected to my phone." Oh shit. Did she see you snooping? "One in every room, plus a couple of extras."
"Extras?"
"Well, I mean…places I might like to see you."
You think back to the flashing light in your bedroom. Surely she wouldn't have?
"If only you were wearing less clothes.”
You clear your throat.
“I met Alana.”
“…uh…who?”
Oh my god.
"The housekeeper."
"Oh of course, you did?"
"She's cute."
"She is. Pretty eyes, don't ya think?"
She wasn't supposed to say that.
"Is that why you hired her?"
Her chuckle is muffled through the phone.
"You want me to say yes? You enjoyed that so much yesterday…huh? You want me to say I hired her so she could help me out between loads of laundry?"
You know she sees you flop back onto her pillows.
"Or do you want to hear the truth...that I hired her because she can iron shirts faster than anyone I've ever hired? It really is fantastic in a pickle.”
You hope she can't see your eye roll on the camera.
"I could probably iron your shirts faster."
Honestly, you probably couldn't.
"Are you asking for a new job? You want to be my maid?"
"Maid? Isn't she a housekeeper?"
"Sure. But then you won't wear the little outfit. I'd quite like the outfit, you know."
Just like that you're smiling, and her charm has disarmed you.
"It would just be another level to my assistant job, I think. I already assist you in so many ways...boss."
"You want me to put her out of a job? Oh my. You really are daring.”
"Well, I would help you out between loads of laundry...in whatever way you need me to."
"Mhm. I bet you would. You're excellent at assisting me, aren't you?"
"And I have pretty eyes too."
"Oh honey I know you do. I watch them panic when I pull your hair."
You bite your lip. "Plus, then I'd be working here all the time, all alone in your lair."
Her tongue clicks through the speaker. "You want mommy to lock you in her tower all day long?"
"Only if you're with me."
"We could arrange that...I liked your little credit card purchases.”
“I was hoping you would see them.”
“You buy anything good?”
“Just food, drinks. An Uber.”
“Good girl…it’s important to take care of yourself.”
“I know. I try to.”
She takes a deep breath.
“I'll be home soon."
The comfort of her words wrap around you like the sheets do as you relax your body. Home.
"I miss you already." Your voice comes out a little croaky. Last time you told her you missed her she ignored you. So you aren't surprised when it happens again, when you're met with silence.
A few seconds go by as you know she's watching you on the camera, despite not knowing where from.
The red flicker seems to come from the corner of the room. You turn your body, looking directly over at it. Hoping she’s looking right back at you.
Imagining her alone somewhere watching you on her iPhone.
"I'll send someone to come and get you."
"What?"
"I'll send a car, and i'll send a helicopter. Bring your toothbrush, or whatever. I don’t know if I have anything spare here.”
"Wait, where?"
"To where I am, I can't watch you all precious in my bed like that and not have you underneath me. It’s quite frankly a bit of an outrage.”
"I can't get in a helicopter on my own." You're sitting up as you try to absorb her words.
"You can and you will."
You swallow. Hearing her tap her phone too loudly through the speaker.
"I'll see you soon."
She hangs up before you get the chance to protest any further. Your hands in your hair and your body filled with exhaustion, you spot the sweater you'd taken off in the office folded neatly on a chair in the corner. Perfect.
It slips on softly over your clothes, the comforting smell of her against your arms as you head back down the stairs.
Leaving the bed makes you realize how tired you really are. Brain and body. Grabbing your bag and trying not to panic about the impending helicopter ride you'll have to face without her.
But she’ll be on the other end of it.
Hopefully the plan isn't to go far. Hopefully it's only a short ride like last time. Surely if it was any further she'd call the jet. If you close your eyes for the duration of the ride, perhaps it'll pass by quickly.
Sitting back on the leather couch is a little stiff, but at least you've heard her voice.
It's cooler down here despite the warmth from the floor, the city doing most of the lighting now, it appears to be on some sort of timer. A soft orange glow coming from down the hall to the security office.
The building hums as the elevator ascends to the penthouse suite. You check your phone, close to midnight. That must be the new guy, or even better, the driver. Your phone is low on charge, you really should have noticed this before.
There's probably still time to charge it, it surely takes a while to organize an entire helicopter.
When the ding sounds and the silver doors open, your entire body freezes.
Not the driver.
The man from the club.
Your legs jump up instinctively, taking a couple of steps back. Hoping the security heard him so you don't have to yell. Don't have to draw any more attention. This guy is clearly serious and his expression is nothing short of absolutely pissed.
“You.” His meaty finger is pointing at you, only a few steps made into the room before the security guard is out of his office and grabbing at the intruder, the struggle loud and uncomfortable in the hallway as you clutch your belongings.
The sound echoing through the high ceilings and uncushioned floors.
"Where the fuck is she?" He yells, struggling against the security guard, he's large but already out of breath, how the hell did he get in here?
"This is the guy from your door?" The security asks, shoving the bald guy to the floor, he's already tired himself out from struggling too much. He seems kind of drunk, exhausted and furious.
"Yeah. Yeah that's him. From the club too. He came to my house." You're pointing, shaking, your body feeling floaty with the panic that travels through your body. Breathing shallower than it should be.
"I just want to talk to her! Fuck! Jesus!"
But he's shaking the guard off like he's angrier than that.
"You have to make an appointment." The security is calm, so calm you understand why he's been employed, and just a second later while your heart is still pulsing behind your ears the elevator dings, another security guard and thank god, the driver.
Perhaps Agatha's life is always this chaotic and they simply don't even notice it anymore.
---
The car is a blur as you repeat the image of the man behind the elevator doors, behind the door of your apartment. His face as you were rushed out of the club. Your confusion hasn't eased, but the fear has.
It's quiet back here, but the familiarity is comforting and knowing she's at the other end of the line eases the shaking in your hands when you're presented with a helicopter again. On your own this time.
You're helped into it, presented the headphones and a bottle of water, you kind of wish it was a glass of wine, your bag on the seat next to you as you're closed into the vehicle.
It's a long few minutes of noises and buttons as you focus on breathing. In and out. Imagining her hand on yours again. She does this all the time, you can too.
She did say you'd have to get used to it.
But she said that about the espresso too.
"Good to go?" The driver asks through the headset, static and loud.
The blades begin spinning, your stomach doing flips as you tense your entire body as it leaves the ground. Don't be sick. Don't be sick.
"Yeah...where are we going?"
"Not a long ride, just to the island."
---
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