Seducing The Heir

Two.

Emily Harper

A surge of arousal coursed through me, causing my knees to tremble as I found myself standing at the center of my room. With a reflexive gesture, I wrapped my arms around my waist in an attempt to steady myself. Short of breath, I gravitated to the window, seeking solace in the view outside. Gazing down at the driveway, I observed as Rye entered his Mercedes.

From this distance, I could even discern the prominence of the bulge in his trousers.

Blushing profusely, I averted my gaze. This situation was untenable. It was far from ideal. This playful dalliance was unwise, especially considering he remained my superior. My livelihood depended on retaining this job. Despite my near-collapse, I must maintain distance. He was, after all, a notorious womanizer, someone completely incompatible with my preferences. He was far from virtuous, unmistakably Mr. McMillan.

So why does his allure captivate me? Why does his touch wield such influence over me? Why do I yearn to be near him?

Similar characters had crossed my path before. I can navigate this. I must redirect my focus to my life, my aspirations.

Exiting my room, I made a beeline for the elevator, pressing the button with my thumb before waiting. As the doors slid open, I stepped inside, selecting the ground floor.

Emerging from the elevator, I advanced to the front doors of McMillan Tower. Pushing the door open, I stepped into the external world. The abrupt brilliance of a nearby lamp momentarily blinded me, my eyes squinting against the intensity. After several blinks, I made out the awaiting limousine. Adjacent to the imposing vehicle stood two uniformed men.

"Ms. Harper."

"Good evening, Ms. Harper."

To say that I was taken aback by the sight of the company limousine stationed outside my condominium was an understatement. Suppressing my embarrassment, I cleared my throat.

"Good evening as well." I acknowledged them with a nod, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. This situation was exacerbated by my hasty departure from my apartment, clad only in my nightgown. However, my thoughts had been preoccupied by the recent events, hence my lack of consideration for my attire. "What brings you here at this late hour?"

The taller of the two, a man named George, spoke with an unyielding demeanor. "An urgent matter has arisen. Mr. McMillan wishes to see you."

Oh, for goodness sake. Which Mr. McMillan, precisely? I was fairly certain my face had taken on a hue of crimson. Striving to project confidence, I heaved a sigh and raised my chin. "Couldn't this have been conveyed through a text message or an email?"

"As I mentioned, Ms. Harper, it's of an urgent nature," George affirmed impassively, his countenance void of emotion. Suppressing the strong urge to give him a piece of my mind, I managed to withhold my impulse to strike him.

Fortuitously, the summons had originated from Mr. McMillan Sr., alleviating my concerns. A short while later, I found myself ensconced in the limousine's backseat. I had managed a swift change into my favored dark blue jeans, coupled with a cream-colored sweater and matching heels. Attempting to gather my unruly hair into a ponytail proved futile; I settled for tucking a few errant strands behind my ears. My hair was a mess, and I conceded defeat on that front.

Annoyance overshadowed any lingering worry I held for this purported emergency. This situation wasn't unprecedented in my two-year tenure working for the McMillans. The girls and I had been summoned to the McMillan mansion on multiple occasions. I'd frequented the mansion countless times, tending to Mr. McMillan Sr.'s requirements. It was a place that barely registered in my thoughts anymore.

"Could you please inform me of the situation?" I inquired, my gaze fixed on George through the rearview mirror.

"We'll arrive in five minutes, Ms. Harper." George's attention snapped promptly to the road ahead.

Releasing a sigh, my eyes shifted to the passing scenery beyond the window. The view was unremarkable, the limousine threading through the streets of downtown New York—a city that had grown to occupy a cherished place in my heart. This city represented my aspirations, my dreams, and the culmination of my efforts. I had resided in its midst for over half my life, envisioning a future of fulfillment.

Sighing once more, I cast my gaze skyward. The ever-present New York clouds veiled the sky. I lacked a watch, so I approximated the time by gauging the darkness of the heavens. It was near midnight, I reckoned.

Contemplations of the impending day clouded my thoughts. Tomorrow necessitated my presence at the office to labor on the forthcoming McMillan ad campaign—a significant endeavor I eagerly anticipated, despite the apprehension it induced. Nonetheless, a lurking doubt lingered—was this emergency an artifice employed by Mr. McMillan Sr. to terminate my employment?

My attention returned to the window, my expression contorting into a frown as I beheld a group of pedestrians traversing the sidewalk. Men in black suits accompanied women garbed in long pencil skirts, high heels, and assorted blazers. Absorbed in their presence, I failed to perceive the limousine's cessation.

"We've arrived, Ms. Harper," George's voice announced.

Before me stood the resplendent white McMillan mansion, an embodiment of opulence and power. The mansion functioned as the headquarters for The McMillan Group and a conglomerate of subsidiary companies under its aegis.

"Thank you." My exit from the vehicle was prompt, and I made my way toward the mansion's entrance. Standing before the grand edifice, my gaze swept over its magnificent expanse. Despite the frequency of my visits, the mansion never ceased to astonish me. It stood as a singular creation, unparalleled in its grandeur. A structure reminiscent of a fairy tale—a multi-storied mansion with a circular driveway at its front. Almost five stories in height, the mansion boasted a balcony enveloped by towering columns. A stone staircase led to the ornate front door, a portal to a world of affluence.

Two security guards stationed themselves at the entrance, conducting thorough checks, utilizing metal detectors and scrutinizing bags. Nervously, my heart raced as I approached the front of the line.

"I'm here to meet Mr. McMillan Sr.," I announced, endeavoring to appear composed despite my unease.

"Do you have an appointment?" one of the guards inquired, their unfamiliarity indicating their recent employment.

"Mr. McMillan himself contacted me," I responded, mustering unwavering confidence.

"Please wait here." With that, the guard walked away, vanishing into the mansion.

Arms crossed defensively over my chest, I attempted to stave off rising anxiety. Was something amiss? Could this be what I suspected?

Moments later, the security guard returned, beckoning me inside as he opened the door. Relief swept over me, the smile on my face irrepressible as I stepped across the threshold. Progressing through the foyer, I cast my gaze upon an array of 19th-century paintings adorning the walls. I often pondered the stories behind these artworks, the individuals who had acquired them, and the satisfaction they derived from such possessions.

And you, Emily? Are you content being the subject of attention from your billionaire employer's son?

Shaking my head, I refocused my thoughts on the matter at hand. My purpose was to meet Mr. McMillan Sr., not to contemplate my personal circumstances or the earlier incident with Rye.

Climbing the grand staircase, I admired the assorted artworks adorning the walls. Arriving at the second floor, I gently knocked on the double doors before me. They swung open, revealing a tall, distinguished man in his late sixties—my boss. His gaze met mine, a smile forming on his lips.

"Please, come in."

Stepping inside, I attempted to suppress my smile, but my effort proved futile. On a previous occasion, Mr. McMillan Sr. had mentioned that I resembled his niece, and though I recognized it was likely a kind gesture, I couldn't help but appreciate the comparison.

"How have you been, Emily?" he inquired.

"I'm well, Sir."

"You seem a bit weary," he observed.

Images of his son's unanticipated visit to my room intruded upon my thoughts. I conjured a forced smile. "Well, that's par for the course after a busy day at the office."

Mr. McMillan Sr. chuckled. "I can certainly understand that sentiment. How is the progress on the ad campaign?"

"It's progressing positively," I responded, withholding the truth that I perceived the project as a potential disaster. I didn't wish to disappoint him.

"Excellent," he acknowledged, though his appearance today bore traces of fatigue, with deeper-set eyes. I wondered if he had only just returned home.

"Mr. McMillan, why did you request to see me?" I inquired, the purpose of my visit demanding attention.

"Emily," he addressed, heading toward the table positioned at the room's distant end. Seated upon a white chaise lounge, he draped his blue silk bathrobe in graceful folds. Advancing toward him, I offered a respectful bow.

"Yes, sir."

"I need you to be candid with me, Emily. I won't ask you to undertake anything that makes you uncomfortable. I trust you understand that."

I met his gaze and nodded earnestly. "Certainly, Mr. McMillan."

"My son was here," Mr. McMillan Sr. divulged, his tone gentle, his eyes adopting a softened hue. "Time truly slips away, doesn't it, Miss Harper?"

Acknowledging his words with a nod, I maintained my silence.

"I can still vividly recall when Ryan was just a young boy. Now, as I look at him, it's astonishing to believe he's become a man. He's grown in ways that mostly align with my hopes," he chuckled. "However, a concern troubles me, Miss Harper."

"What is it, Sir?"

Exhaling, Mr. McMillan Sr.'s gaze turned slightly shimmering, akin to the brink of tears. After contemplating for a moment, he met my eyes again and spoke, "My son's disposition… is such that he attains his desires."

"What are you implying, Sir?" My brows knitted in confusion. I struggled to grasp his intent behind these words. Why was he sharing this with me? "Are you suggesting he's morally compromised?"

Mr. McMillan shook his head. "Morality is subjective, Emily." Pausing, he sought for the appropriate phrasing. "What I intend to convey is that he possesses substantial influence. He obtains whatever his heart desires."

Puzzled, I regarded my boss, attempting to fathom the deeper meaning of his words. "You're unsettling me, Mr. McMillan."

"I apologize," he replied, his gaze carrying a kindness that quelled my disquiet. "What I'm trying to express is that my son… He can pursue any woman he wishes. But, he has… relinquished the notion of forming earnest connections long ago. Nowadays, he simply engages in frivolous affairs. He no longer entertains genuine sentiments. I'm even uncertain if he's still involved with Jean Dupont's daughter."

So that's who Rye's 'associate' in France is. Hmm. I swallowed, absorbing this newfound insight. "Are you suggesting he's homosexual?"

Mr. McMillan chuckled. "No." His gaze met mine, exuding warmth. "However, I've detected a change within him recently. His heart isn't drawn to just any woman. His focus has centered on a singular individual."

Doubt contorted my expression as I met his eyes. "Sir, I'm struggling to comprehend your implications."

Mr. McMillan smiled. "Allow me to clarify. I've discerned the way he regards you. I'm hesitant to believe it, but… it appears he's fixated on you."