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Romance with CEO

Romance with CEO

BrunaJhon

5.0
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stupid things, things I had no intention of doing. So I was very disturbed to discover that death could find me, too. According to my source, if I was "lucky," my death would happen the same way my grandfather did. Old. Smelling of pipe smoke and farts, with wads of tissue stuck to the stubble above his upper lip from blowing his nose. Black lines of dirt under his fingernails from gardening; eyes turning yellow at the corners, reminding me of the marble from my uncle's collection that my sister had a habit of sucking and swallowing, causing my father to come running over to throw his arms around her belly and squeeze her until she spat the marble back out. Old. Brown pants pulled up high on his waist, stopping just above his flabby, woman-like chest, revealing a soft paunch and testicles squeezed tight to one side of the crotch of his pants. Old. No, I didn't want to die like my grandfather had, but dying old, my source revealed, was the best alternative. I learned of my impending death from Kevin, my older cousin, on the day of Grandpa's funeral, as we sat on the grass at the bottom of his long yard with plastic cups of red lemonade in our hands and as far away as possible from our grieving parents, who looked more like dung beetles on what was the hottest day of the year. The grass was covered with dandelions and daisies and much longer than usual, since Grandpa's illness had prevented him from tending his garden in the last weeks of his life. I remember feeling sad for him, and wanting to defend him too, since, of all the days to show off his beautiful garden to his neighbors and friends, on this day the plants were not as perfect as he had always aspired. He wouldn't have minded not being there-he wasn't much of a talker-but he would have at least cared about the yard's appearance, and then disappeared to hear the praise from afar, away from everyone, perhaps upstairs through an open window. He would have pretended not to care, but he did care, a satisfied smile on his face to match his grass-stained knees and blackened fingernails. Someone, an old lady with a rosary of beads wound tightly around her knuckles, said she felt him in the garden, but I didn't. I was sure he wasn't there. He would have been so irritated by the way the garden looked that he couldn't have stood there. My grandmother would punctuate the silence with phrases like, "His sunflowers are in bloom, bless his soul," and "He couldn't even see the petunias bloom." To which my smart-ass cousin Kevin said, "Yeah, his body's turned into compost now." Everyone snickered; Everyone always laughed at the things Kevin said because Kevin was cool, because Kevin was the oldest, five years older than me, and at the ripe old age of ten, he would say cruel and mean things that no one else would dare say. Even if we didn't find it funny, we still had to laugh because if we didn't, he would quickly turn us into the object of his cruelty, and that's what he did to me that day. On that rare occasion, I didn't find it funny that Grandpa's dead body was underground and helping the petunias grow, nor did I find it cruel. I saw a certain beauty in it. And a lovely fullness and justice, too. It was exactly what my grandfather would have loved, now that his thick sausage-like fingers could no longer contribute to the blooming of his long, beautiful garden that was the center of his universe. It was my grandfather's love of gardening that inspired the choice of my name: Jasmine. This was what he brought to my mother in the hospital when I was born: a bouquet of flowers he had plucked from the wooden frame he had built himself and painted red that adorned the shadowy back wall, wrapped in newspaper and tied with brown string, the ink from the Irish Times crossword puzzle dripping with rainwater that had gotten on the stems. It wasn't the summer jasmine we all know from expensive scented candles and fancy room vaporizers; I had been born in winter, and so the little jasmine, with its small, yellow flowers like stars, was in abundance in his garden to help brighten the dull winter. I don't think my grandfather ever thought about the meaning of the flower, or whether he felt particularly honored by my mother's honor in naming me after the flower he had brought. I think it was a strange name for a child to give him, a name he had only ever invented for natural things in the garden, never for a person. With a name like Adalbert, after a saint who had been a missionary

Chapter 1 I started my professional

quickly turn us into the object of his cruelty, and that's what he did to me that day. On that rare occasion, I didn't find it funny that Grandpa's dead body was underground and helping the petunias grow, nor did I find it cruel. I saw a certain beauty in it. And a lovely fullness and justice, too. It was exactly what my grandfather would have loved, now that his thick sausage-like fingers could no longer contribute to the blooming of his long, beautiful garden that was the center of his universe. It was my grandfather's love of gardening that inspired the choice of my name: Jasmine.

This was what he brought to my mother in the hospital when I was born: a bouquet of flowers he had plucked from the wooden frame he had built himself and painted red that adorned the shadowy back wall, wrapped in newspaper and tied with brown string, the ink from the Irish Times crossword puzzle dripping with rainwater that had gotten on the stems. It wasn't the summer jasmine we all know from expensive scented candles and fancy room vaporizers; I had been born in winter, and so the little jasmine, with its small, yellow flowers like stars, was in abundance in his garden to help brighten the dull winter. I don't think my grandfather ever thought about the meaning of the flower, or whether he felt particularly honored by my mother's honor in naming me after the flower he had brought. I think it was a strange name for a child to give him, a name he had only ever invented for natural things in the garden, never for a person. With a name like Adalbert, after a saint who had been a missionary to Ireland, and Mary as his middle name, he was not used to names that did not come from the Bible. The previous winter, he had bought purple heather for [1] my mother when my sister was born and she was named Heather. A simple gift when my sister was born, but it made me wonder what his intentions were for my name. In doing some research, I discovered that winter jasmine is a direct relative of the winter-flowering heather-another provider of color for winter gardens. I don't know if it was because of him or the way he was, but I have always believed hopefully that quiet people have a magic and knowledge that less restrained people do not have; that the fact that they do not say something means that more important thoughts are going on in their heads. Perhaps that apparent simplicity contained a hidden mosaic of fantastic thoughts, and among them my grandfather Adalbert wanting me to be named Jasmine. Back in the garden, Kevin had mistaken my lack of laughter at his joke about death as disapproval, and there was nothing he hated or feared more, so he turned his wild gaze on me and said, "You're going to die, too, Jasmine." Sitting in a circle of six, I, the youngest of the group, with my sister spinning by herself a few feet away and loving to get dizzy and fall to the ground, a daisy chain tied around my ankle, and a lump in my throat so big I wasn't sure if I'd swallowed one of the giant bees swarming around the flower buffet next to us, I tried to comprehend the fact of my impending demise. The others were shocked that he'd said that, but instead of defending me and denying this premonition-like statement, they gave me a sad look and nodded. "Yes, it's true," they all agreed with that one look. "You're going to die, Jasmine." In my long silence, Kevin hatched an even more horrific plan for me, driving the knife even deeper. Not only would I die, but before that, I would have something called a period every month for the rest of my life, which would cause excruciating pain and agony. Then I learned how babies were made, in a description so in-depth that I found it so horrifying that I could barely look my parents in the eye for a week, and then, to rub salt in my open wound, I learned that Santa Claus didn't exist. You try to forget things like that, but I couldn't. And why am I talking about this episode in my life? Well, it was where I started. Where I, as I know myself, as everyone knows me, was formed. My life began when I was five years old. Knowing that I was going to die instilled something in me that I still carry with me to this day: the awareness that, although time was infinite, my time was finite, my time was running out. I realized that my time and someone else's were not the same thing. We cannot spend this hour in the same way, nor can we think about it in the same way. Do what you will with yours, but don't drag me along with you; I have no time to waste. If you want to do something, you have to do it now. If you want to say something, then you have to say it now. And most of all, you have to do it yourself. It's your life, you're the one who's going to die, you're the one who's going to lose. So I got used to getting things done, to making things happen. I worked at a pace that often left me breathless, and I barely had a moment to regroup with myself. I ran after me a lot, but I rarely caught up; I was fast. I took a lot of things with me from that meeting on the grass that night, and not just the daisies that hung from my wrists and ankles and were woven into my hair as we followed the sunburned mourners back home. My heart was full of fear, but before long, in the way only a five-year-old could process it all, the fear went away. I had always thought of death as my grandfather Adalbert Mary underground, still tending the garden even though he wasn't there, and I felt hope. You reap what you sow, even in death. And so I began to plant. Chapter 2 I was laid off from my job, I was fired, six weeks before Christmas-which, in my opinion, is a pretty undignified time to get rid of someone. They had hired a woman to fire me for them, one of those third-party agencies trained in firing employees properly, to avoid scandal or a lawsuit or their own embarrassment. She had taken me to lunch somewhere quiet, let me order a Caesar salad and ordered just a black coffee, and then sat there practically watching me choke on a crouton while she informed me of my new employment situation. I think Larry knew I wouldn't accept his news, or anyone else's, and that I would try to talk him out of it, that I would slap him with a kid glove with a lawsuit or just slap him in the face. He would try to let me die with honor, except that I didn't feel much honor in leaving. Being fired is a public matter, I would have to tell others. And if I didn't have to tell others, it was because they already knew. I died of shame. I started my professional life as an accountant. At the tender age of twenty-four I started working for Trent & Bogle, a large firm where I stayed for a year, and then I moved abruptly to Start It Up, where I provided financial advice and guidance to individuals who wanted to start their own businesses. With most of them, I had learned that there are always two sides to every story: the public version and the truth. The story I tell to others is that eighteen months later I quit my job to start my own business. I was so inspired by the people who walked through my office that the desire to turn my own ideas into reality grew stronger. The truth is, I got fed up with seeing people doing things the wrong way, with my drive for

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happy," Killian said. "Happy that I hacked them?" Happy that they know their vulnerabilities and how Sentinel Security can help eliminate them. And pay Killian a billion dollars for his work. Sentinel did all sorts of security. I knew Killian had a private army of ex-military badasses, but he also specialized in cybersecurity. I'd been working for Sentinel for several years. Companies hired me to test their systems and improve their security. It was a good business. I used my special skills and got a paycheck at the end of each month. "I'll email you your next job, Remi." The slightest tilt of Killian's lips. "Or should I say, Rogue Angel?" I smiled. "You're not supposed to know my secret identity." "I work security, remember?" "Bye, Bossman." I ended the conversation, closed my laptop, and glanced at the clock. The kids would be home from school soon, and my stomach growled. Mmm, I could use some of Mama's cookies. I walked around my loft space. It wasn't big, but it was mine. It had an industrial vibe, with my bed in one corner, shrouded in sheer curtains. A small kitchen that I barely used was in another corner, a door leading to my compact bathroom, and an open-plan living area where my desk sat in prime position against the opposite wall. My gaze settled on a photo above the desk. I got a little shiver every time I saw it. It was of an angel warrior, coming in to land on the battlefield. I had a thing for angels. His huge white wings were spread, sword in hand, boots about to touch the ground. His body was mostly in shadow, but that didn't hide the power of his musculature, or the hint of a rugged face. Wrinkling my nose, I sighed. I wished they made men like that in real life. I walked down the stairs, my boots thumping on the metal steps. The noise assaulted me. There was some tool whirring nearby, and I also grabbed a supply of grease, gas, and exhaust. My loft was above my foster brother's auto shop. At the bottom of the stairs, I turned and saw three cars in various states of disrepair-one parked with the hood open, one hooked up to some machine, and another on a hoist with a mechanic underneath. I recognized Steve's thin frame and baggy, dingy jeans. He was busy, and the guy who worked for him was on vacation, so I guess that was why he was working on a Sunday. I walked out the open front doors. Brr. It was a cold, gloomy day in Brooklyn. I wrapped my arms around myself. I should have grabbed my jacket, but thankfully I wasn't going far. I walked to the house next to the two-story brick house and opened the gate. The metal creaked. The house had a basement apartment, where Steve lived with his four-year-old daughter, Kaylee. I ran up the steps to the main house and opened the door. "Hello!" "We're here," a female voice said. I found Mama Alma in the kitchen. Of course, where else would she be? Kaylee was on the floor having a tea party with her dolls and bears. "Remi!" The little blonde princess jumped up and ran to me. I picked her up and she wrapped her arms and legs around me. I breathed in her apple-scented shampoo. "Hey, KayKay. Are you being good to Mama?" Kaylee smiled and nodded. Then she squirmed and I set her down on the floor to go back to her tea party guests. Mama smiled and I walked over to kiss her thin, dark cheek. She smelled like home. For the first eight years of my life, I didn't know what that word meant. Then the angels smiled on me and sent an angry little girl to a foster home run by Mama. She had owned this house in Sunset Park, Brooklyn for years. The small warehouse next door was her husband's. Unable to have children of their own, they became foster parents. Big Mike had died a year before I arrived, but Alma had never stopped opening her home. And some of us hadn't really left. I would be twenty-seven on my next birthday, and I hadn't gone very far. Steve had been one of Mama's first foster children. Kaylee was Steve's daughter, but Mama still had three children with her-two boys, ages nine and ten, and a teenage girl. "I'll pour us some tea," Mama said. I sank into the chair at the rickety table. The kitchen hadn't changed in decades. "I'd rather have a shot of bourbon to celebrate. I just finished a job." Mama made a sound in her throat. "We don't have bourbon in this house." I picked up a cookie from the plate on the table. Mmm. Chocolate chip, my favorite. She set a teacup in front of me. Mama loved collecting the flowery, delicate teacups at outdoor markets. None of them matched. Like my family, Mama always told me. When I finished my cookie, I studied Mama-she looked tired and her face was drawn. I grimaced. Mama always said she was a mix of the best-African-American, a dash of Hispanic, and a bit of hardy Irish stock. I guess that's why I liked her at first sight-I was a mix, too. Mostly Hispanic, though I had no idea who my parents were. I probably had an African-American ancestor somewhere in the tree, too, and a few other things-who knows what-crept in.

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beautiful and dear, about to turn eighty-five. On the other side, my cousin Max tells one of his lame jokes to my parents. My mother rolls her eyes and shakes her head, probably finding the outcome ridiculous. My father, on the other hand, laughs out loud, his powerful voice drowning out the chatter. "Did you hear that one, Lorenzo?" he asks, gesturing in my direction. "Only about ten times." "You used to be less grumpy," Max says, biting off the end of a cannoli, but not before taking a piece of the flaky shell to throw at me. I dodge in time, and the piece of candy hits the cabinet door before falling to the floor. Maybe I was, I think, giving him the middle finger. Back when I had fewer worries. I cut a piece of tiramisu with the spoon and put it in my mouth. The mixture of cream, champagne biscuit and coffee melts on my tongue. My eyes meet Monalisa's, also my cousin. She returns my gray gaze and somehow I know she wants to interrupt the conversation to talk about business in the middle of Sunday lunch. But first, my mother needs to talk about my life. "He really is gone," she sighs. "Before he broke up with Ingrid." The only reason the table doesn't fall silent is because the family is too noisy for that. I don't have to try to remember my ex-girlfriend there, among them, trying to make herself heard with her soft voice amidst the chaos. Or her moaning softly against my ear while I held her tightly in my arms and with her legs around my waist. "I wasn't the one who broke up with Ingrid." My mother points a finger. "Still, you should try to win her back." I shift on the counter, the cold marble suddenly uncomfortable against my back. Maybe it's better to talk business after all. I never told them I tried. And how I tried. Ingrid and I had been dating for five years when she asked for a break. We got back together and broke up at least three more times, and I never saw any reason to break up for good. But she did. Ingrid said our relationship was settled, that I worked too much and paid her too little attention. I always thought her argument was unfair. I tried to do my best in both of them, but it wasn't enough. We broke up for good, and shortly after, she married someone else. Since then, I've closed my heart to serious relationships. Better than risk getting hurt again. Stopped at red lights on the streets of Goiânia, I sometimes see her walking down the sidewalk holding hands with her three-year-old son. A slight wave of jealousy snakes through my body when she laughs at something her husband says. The sound reverberates inside my closed window, making every hair on my body stand on end, remembering that that laugh had once been mine. "Don't worry. Lorenzo and I are always active. One day he'll bring a nice girl for you to meet," Max scoffs. I narrow my eyes at him, daring him to continue, and he smiles crookedly. "He'll fill this house with grandchildren." "I hope so," Mom says cheerfully. "Because neither you nor your sister seem very worried about doing that." Max's face falls and I almost choke on my mouthful of candy, trying to hold back my laughter. He throws a new piece of cannoli at me, but this time I catch it in mid-air and throw it back at him. The crispy shell hits Monalisa's shoulder. She frowns and, with her fingertips, brushes away the place where the dough touched her clothes, then turns to my mother. "Sorry, auntie, but I'm not interested in babies." On the other hand, I have an important matter to discuss with all of you regarding the company. "Do we really need to talk about this here?" Max asks, serious for the first time since we arrived. We came to spend the weekend and, like me, he hates talking about business during family gatherings. I look at my cousin, trying to predict which bombshell

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Romance with CEO
1

Chapter 1 I started my professional

27/10/2024

2

Chapter 2 my food

27/10/2024

3

Chapter 3 dislike about people

27/10/2024

4

Chapter 4 we've renovated everything

27/10/2024

5

Chapter 5 twenty-four

27/10/2024

6

Chapter 6 look back

27/10/2024

7

Chapter 7 alternative therapies

27/10/2024

8

Chapter 8 called

27/10/2024

9

Chapter 9 relative competition

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Chapter 10 surprisingly

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Chapter 11 patient for your show

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Chapter 12 this morning

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Chapter 13 if our friend

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Chapter 14 two weeks

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Chapter 15 I can't see it

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Chapter 16 beautiful

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Chapter 17 protecting me

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Chapter 18 I'm either paranoid

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Chapter 19 memory

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Chapter 20 that he's back

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Chapter 21 the Dumpster

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Chapter 22 to sell the company

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Chapter 23 because I want to joke

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Chapter 24 You're killing me

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Chapter 25 two months ago

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Chapter 26 I can think twice

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Chapter 27 want to see any more

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Chapter 28 you say

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Chapter 29 I feel silly

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Chapter 30 This is my sister

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Chapter 31 taekwondo

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Chapter 32 the enthusiasm

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Chapter 33 focused

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Chapter 34 it's a symbol

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Chapter 35 To break everything

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Chapter 36 the first time

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Chapter 37 they're fifteen

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Chapter 38 Really

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Chapter 39 said to you tonight

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Chapter 40 this information

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