1: Begging and Pleading

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 I was for sure fired!

I knew even Dean couldn’t save me! Though he may be the VP of Markoff Development and close friends with Mr. Markoff himself, there was no way my dropping out on two full days of work, would end in anything less than my dismissal.

I was royally screwed. How could I have been so stupid?! I needed this, the job itself paid better than most assistant jobs and I was lucky enough to get it. Something I had always assumed my weight had a lot to do with.

Luka Markoff didn’t make his money by hiring attractive, leggy, get you distracted, blonde bombshells. No, he made his money by being smart and sticking to the overweight, plain brunette, and in no way attractive women -like myself.

Not that I was going to complain. The work was easy, my boss was nice, and I made enough money to keep myself and Blake comfortable. Well, that is until she got sick. Medical expenses were taking its toll on us now but I would never let on to it.

But if I were completely honest with myself, it was the view that made it all worth it. I don’t mean all the highrises Midtown Manhattan had to offer. No, it was the gorgeous 6’4, well built, sky blue eyed and dark chestnut haired, Markoff. The man was no less than a Russian God.

His slight accented baritone voice was enough to have me squirming in my seat, whenever he spoke to me. The dark ink he normally kept well covered under his tailored suits, did wicked things to me at the slightest sight.

It was only on days when my extra time in the office was needed, mainly after hours, did he roll up his sleeves to display the intricate work his skin housed. No doubt the tattoos he bore covered much of his chiseled chest, shoulders, and back if the few black inked wisps I’ve seen were anything to go by.

Over the last 3 years I had learned most of his concealed artwork had come from his time spent in one of the biggest mobs in Russia. His fierce and rough stance emphasized by the amount of defined muscle he carried, more than intimidated most –if not all. He had an air of danger around him, something in his eyes glinted with untold rage, rage you would not want pointed at you.

Yet here I was, standing just outside the front doors of his office building, on the street, ready to turn on my heel and high tail it out of there. I knew he would be more than upset that his personal assistant hadn’t showed up for work for two days, never mind not even bothering to phone in her reasons why. To top it off it was the week of his London merger. He wanted, no needed, me there to help smooth some of the tension between him and his English clients.

To say they were a bit sqirmish around him was an understatement. They were terrified of him, but with his business being so successful, they would have been mental to turn down is offer and not follow through with the merger. That’s why I was there, he thought it would be a good idea for them to see a fellow Brit getting on so well with him.

Most didn’t take time to notice my slight accent. The dwindling hint of my faint Suffolk intonation was well noted by Mr. Markoff during my interview. Asking how long I had been in the states and why I had left England. There really wasn’t much to tell, we moved to America when I was 11, some type of business venture my father was involved with that went south.

The first few years here had been tough but once he saw that he couldn’t house and feed his family on faith and half-cocked ideas, he found a good job and things got better. We were happy, we lived a nice middle-class life. One that outweighed the constant taunting and bullying I got all throughout junior high and high school.

I was a steady size 11 for most of my adolescent life, until I reached 19 when I shot up to my current size…15. No matter what I tried; diet, starvation, wrapping myself in plastic wrap while lying in bed with the heat up to 100° in the middle of summer, nothing ever worked. I’d lose a few pounds but even the smell of the lovely diner down the way from our house would add those few pounds right back on.

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