The Secretary Volume II: A Psychological Thriller | Book 2 | The After Hours Series (Ebook)

Prologue

Now

If you’re reading this, I already know what happens to you. I know how it starts. I know how it ends. And I know you won’t listen.

But first, let me say, I was intrigued from the jump. You had this way of saying the most absurd things—things that made no sense without context, but perfect sense if you were paying close enough attention, which I was.

The first sentence I ever heard you say: I’m allergic to latex and authority.

The second: Yeah, lots of passion, but lots of pain. 

And you hadn’t even been employed on our floor for more than two hours at that point. At least, I don’t think. That was the thing. You said things that made me want to remember—particularly at a time when I’d long stopped. I suppose that’s why I’m writing this. You could say I owe you the favor.

“You’re going to like this one,” he’d said about you, and as usual, he was right. He always is. He’s the charming manipulator, the careful strategist, the man who smiles warmly as he calculates exactly how to break you. He proves the horrifying truth: power is quiet, cruelty is sophisticated, and villainy often wears a suit, shakes your hand, and offers exactly what you think you want.

However, I might be getting ahead of myself.

The hallway outside my door is too quiet—too still. It stretches on, as if waiting for something to happen, but nothing moves. Footsteps? I hear them—maybe. Or maybe I don’t. They could be real. Or part of the game. Part of the experiment.

But you won’t know that. You won’t understand the rules. You’ll think you’re still in control.

That’s the first thing they take: control.

They’ll give you a choice soon.

You’ll get the note. The one that feels like a game. “Do you have what it takes to be in my world? Check yes or no.”

It’ll seem like a test. A challenge. It’ll seem intriguing.

But it’s not. It’s a trap. And once you answer in the affirmative, which you will, there’s no turning back. Sorry, no refunds.

They’ll twist you. Break you. Make you believe you’re doing it to get ahead, to survive in this new cut-throat, dog-eat-dog world you’ve found yourself in.

But it’s all a lie.

You won’t survive. Not really. You’ll lose everything. Your name. Your face. Everything that made you, you. And you’ll wonder if it was worth it.

By then, it won’t matter.

The door opens. The cold hits first—sharp, sudden, like a blade slashing through the air. Then, the sound. His breath. Steady. Measured. Controlled. Familiar in the worst way.

My heart jackhammers in my chest. I tell myself it’s not fear, that it’s just anticipation. Just the knowing of what comes next. But that’s a lie. Of course I’m scared. Fear is not sneaky in its approach. It wraps around my skull, coils down my spine, digging its claws in deep.

One of them steps inside. His smile is empty, fake, a mask he’s worn too long. I hate that he pretends.

“Time for your session,” he says. But he’s not talking to me. Not really.

He’s talking to the version of me they’ve chipped away at, the one they’ve been carving into something smaller, something more convenient.

I get up. But it’s harder now. My legs don’t feel like mine anymore. The floor beneath my feet is too smooth, too slippery. I fight to stay upright, but I feel myself slipping. I don’t want to go with them. But I have no choice.

If I don’t… they’ll make me forget again.

The door slams behind me. The hallway is longer than I remember. It wasn’t always this long. Or maybe I wasn’t always this tired.

It stretches ahead, too narrow, too still, a twisted maze I’ve forgotten how to navigate. The air is stale. Like it’s been sitting too long.

I don’t know if I’m supposed to make it through this.

Or if I even can.

And then I hear it.

A voice. A whisper, sharp and cold as broken glass.

“It’s time to meet your replacement.”

The words land like a dropped blade. I freeze.

For a split second, I think I’ve misheard. I think it’s just another one of their sick games. I think they can’t possibly mean it.

But then the door at the end of the hallway swings open.

And I see you.

You’re standing at the threshold, fingers curled around the metal doorframe like you’re trying to keep from being dragged in. You look small in this place—though God knows most people do. There’s confusion in your eyes. But still, there’s that spark. The part of you that thinks you might still have a say in what happens next.

You don’t. You never did.

I wish I could tell you to run. But there’s nowhere to run to. The note—the test, the game—you’ve already answered. And now this place is inside you. It burrows in, carves out the parts of you that matter, leaves only what they want. Like a parasite.

You move past without seeing me, escorted by two attendants. The hallway seems to tighten around you, long and sterile, meant to funnel you exactly where they want you to go. Your footsteps echo, too loud. The lights pulse, steady and sharp, like a frequency just high enough to make my teeth ache.

They lead you into a room. White sheets, a gurney, a tray of instruments—syringes, clamps, something that glints under the fluorescent glare like a promise. You hesitate in the doorway. No windows. Just glass panels showing another room, where machines monitor things you won’t understand until it’s too late.

They call it “pre-op testing.”

One of the attendants gestures for you to sit. You do. Because what choice do you have? Maybe you still think this is an evaluation. That if you say the right thing, you’ll walk out of here unscathed.

You won’t.

A stethoscope presses to your chest. A blood-pressure cuff tightens around your arm. A tiny needle pricks your finger. Routine things. Harmless things. Until they’re not.

The door opens again.

He enters.

I see the way your shoulders tense, the flicker of recognition in your eyes. You know him. Not just as a name whispered in the halls—but deeper than that. More intimately. He offers you a smile that never quite reaches his eyes.

“Welcome,” he says. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Your pulse jumps. I know, because mine did too.

He steps closer, sleeves rolled up like a surgeon preparing to operate. You don’t look at him directly, not at first. Your gaze shifts, scanning the room, catching on the mirrored glass. You can’t see me, beyond the glass. But you know I’m here.

“Try to relax,” he says. “You’ll feel a little pressure at first. Then nothing at all.”

I wonder if he whispered the same thing when he pulled you into his bed—calm, detached, like he was guiding you through a procedure. Maybe that’s why I think it now. Because for him, control is the only thing that matters. The setting is irrelevant. The method, interchangeable. Silk sheets, a gurney. A promise, a scalpel. It always ends the same way. And when it’s over, you’ll convince yourself it was your choice. Just like the rest of us.

The tablet appears in your hands. A waiver. A contract. Something you won’t understand. Not until it’s too late. The sedation tube follows, sleek and gleaming. You hesitate. A fraction of a second too long.

A hiss. A click.

The needle slides into your vein. Your breath catches. Your pupils blow wide. Your fingers twitch as the drug takes hold, pulling you under.

I watch, helpless, as they begin the procedure. As he leans in, the cold metal slides against your skin. I want to look away, but I don’t.

Because I need to remember.

For you.

For me.

For the next one.

Your lips part. The drug has stolen your voice—but not completely. You don’t suffer fools, so it is strange when you ask for your mother.

You lock eyes with me one last time, and in that final flicker of awareness, I see it—

The moment you realize.

The moment you understand.

But then your hand moves, and something shifts.

Not just in me. Not just in you.

The room. The air. The rules.

I know it the second I hear the monitor spike. The second the attendants step back.

The second I realize—whatever I thought this was, I was wrong.

We all were.

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