Chapter 3 The Role Reversal

# Chapter 3: The Role Reversal

Evan stood in my apartment, phone still clutched in his hand, looking like a man who had just burned his last bridge. There was something thrilling about seeing him this way—untethered, vulnerable, yet somehow more present than he'd been before.

"That was quite the performance," I said, gesturing to his phone. "For my benefit or his?"

"Both, maybe." He slipped the phone into his pocket. "He won't be pleased."

"Richard Winters is rarely pleased about anything." I moved to the bar in the corner of my living room. "Drink?"

"Please."

I poured two glasses of whiskey, watching him take in my apartment. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city lights, the minimalist furniture selected for aesthetics rather than comfort. This wasn't a home so much as a statement—like everything else in my life.

"So," I handed him a glass, "what changed your mind?"

He accepted the drink, our fingers brushing briefly. "You assume I've changed allegiances."

"Haven't you? That call seemed rather definitive."

He took a slow sip, wincing slightly at the burn. "I told him I didn't want to continue the mission. I didn't say I was betraying him for you."

"Semantics." I smiled over the rim of my glass. "But I appreciate the distinction."

We stood in silence for a moment, the city glittering below us like scattered diamonds on black velvet.

"What happens now?" he finally asked.

"Now, Evan Mitchell, we redefine our arrangement." I moved to sit on one of the sleek couches, patting the space beside me. "You work for me—truly for me. No reports to my father, no hidden agendas. In return, I protect you from his inevitable retaliation."

He sat beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "And if I refuse?"

"You won't." I turned to face him fully. "You've already crossed the line. The question is how far you're willing to go."

His eyes searched mine, looking for deception or manipulation. Whatever he saw there made him take another large swallow of whiskey.

"What do you want from me, exactly?"

"Everything," I said simply. "Your loyalty, your skills, your insights. I want to know what my father told you about me, what his plans are, where the bodies are buried."

"And in return?"

I leaned closer. "In return, you get to be part of something bigger than being Richard Winters' errand boy. You get to help me take what's mine."

"The subsidiary?"

"To start with." I smiled. "I have much larger ambitions."

He set down his glass, studying me with new interest. "You want the whole company."

"Eventually." I shrugged. "My father built an empire on the backs of people he used and discarded. I intend to build something better."

"With me at your side?" There was skepticism in his voice, but also curiosity.

"With you wherever I decide to put you." I reached out, trailing a finger along his jawline. "The question is: can I trust you, Evan?"

He caught my wrist gently, his thumb pressing against my pulse point. "Probably about as much as I can trust you."

I laughed, genuinely amused. "At least you're honest about that."

---

The next morning, Evan arrived at my office with coffee and pastries, his demeanor subtly altered from the day before. Gone was the nervous hesitation; in its place was quiet confidence and attentiveness. When he handed me my coffee, our fingers touched deliberately—a small acknowledgment of our new dynamic.

"The quarterly reports are ready for your review," he said, placing a folder on my desk. "And I've reorganized your schedule to prioritize meetings with the development team."

"Thank you." I opened the folder, finding his notes in the margins—insightful observations about financial discrepancies and potential opportunities. "This is good work."

"I also took the liberty of removing all surveillance devices from your office." His voice lowered. "There were three more besides the one you found."

My eyes snapped to his. "Three?"

He nodded grimly. "Standard procedure for high-value targets. Your father is nothing if not thorough."

"And these devices reported to...?"

"Different channels. Security, IT, and one directly to your father's private server."

I leaned back in my chair, reassessing the man before me. "You're more valuable than I initially thought."

A small smile played at his lips. "I try to exceed expectations."

Over the next two weeks, Evan proved himself indispensable. He anticipated my needs before I voiced them, provided crucial information about company politics, and smoothly intercepted attempts by my father's allies to undermine me. In meetings, he was a silent force at my side, occasionally sliding notes or whispering insights that gave me the upper hand.

But it was after hours when the most curious transformation occurred. He began staying late without being asked, bringing dinner when I worked into the evening. One night, noticing my fatigue, he silently moved behind my chair and began massaging my shoulders, his strong fingers working out knots I hadn't realized were there.

"You don't have to do this," I murmured, even as I tilted my head to give him better access.

"I know," he replied softly, his thumbs pressing into a particularly tight spot that made me stifle a groan. "I want to."

That was the first night I realized the game was shifting beneath my feet. I had intended to make him dependent on me, to bend him to my will. Instead, I found myself looking forward to his small attentions—the perfect cup of coffee, the way he remembered which reports I preferred in what order, the quiet competence with which he handled difficult clients.

He was becoming indispensable, and that was dangerous.

"You look troubled," Mara commented one afternoon as we had lunch in my office. My oldest friend and the company's lead counsel, Mara was the only person besides Evan I allowed into my inner circle.

"Just thinking about the Morgan acquisition," I lied.

She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "It wouldn't have anything to do with your handsome shadow, would it?"

"Evan? He's an asset, nothing more."

"Mmm." She took a bite of her salad, watching me over the rim of her glasses. "An asset who looks at you like you hung the moon. An asset who practically growled at Jenkins when he interrupted you yesterday."

I rolled my eyes. "You're imagining things."

"I'm observing things," she corrected. "He's falling for you, Celeste. Hard. And I'm not entirely convinced you're as immune as you pretend to be."

Before I could respond, Evan entered with a stack of files. "Sorry to interrupt, but the board's requesting these signatures immediately."

As he leaned over my desk, arranging the papers for my signature, I caught Mara's knowing smirk. I shot her a warning glance, which she ignored completely.

"Evan," she said sweetly, "Celeste was just telling me how invaluable you've become. She'd be lost without you."

He glanced between us, clearly sensing the undercurrent. "I'm happy to be of service."

The way he said it—soft, intimate—made something flutter in my chest. Dangerous indeed.

After Mara left, Evan lingered by my desk. "Is everything alright? You seem distracted today."

"I'm fine." I signed the last document with more force than necessary. "How are the preparations for tomorrow's presentation coming along?"

"Completed. I've prepared contingencies for every possible objection." He hesitated, then added, "I also took the liberty of having your grey suit dry-cleaned. The one that intimidates the board members."

I looked up at him, surprised. "How did you know—"

"That you were planning to wear it? You mentioned it last week." He smiled slightly. "I pay attention."

That night, as I worked late in my office, I found myself watching him through the glass partition. He moved with quiet efficiency, his focus absolute as he prepared materials for the next day. When had he become so attuned to my needs? When had I started expecting his presence, relying on his support?

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to be the one in control.

I called him into my office.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, notepad ready.

"Sit down, Evan." I gestured to the chair across from me. "We need to talk about this... arrangement."

He sat, his expression carefully neutral. "What about it?"

"You've exceeded my expectations," I admitted. "But I'm concerned about the boundaries becoming... blurred."

"Blurred how?"

I met his gaze directly. "You were sent to spy on me. Then to seduce me. Now you're acting like—"

"Like what?" he prompted when I didn't continue.

Like someone who cares, I thought but didn't say. "Like this is more than a professional relationship."

Something shifted in his eyes—vulnerability quickly masked. "Would that be so terrible?"

"It would be complicated," I replied carefully. "And potentially dangerous for both of us."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Celeste, may I speak freely?"

The use of my first name still sent a small thrill through me. "Go ahead."

"I know what I was sent to do. I know what you think of me—a spy, a tool, something to be used and controlled." His voice was low, intense. "But these past weeks... they've changed things. Changed me."

"Evan—"

"Please," he interrupted, "let me finish." He took a deep breath. "I don't want to be your father's agent anymore. I don't want to be just your employee either."

He slid from his chair to kneel beside my desk, looking up at me with such raw emotion that it stole my breath. "I can stay with you, not as someone's assignment, but as yours. Not as a spy, but as your... your pet, if that's what you want to call it. Someone who belongs to you."

The sincerity in his voice, the submission in his posture—it was everything I'd thought I wanted from him. Yet somehow, it felt like he was the one setting the terms now.

"This is dangerous," I whispered, even as I reached out to touch his hair.

"I know." He leaned into my touch. "But I'm already too far gone to care."

As he looked up at me, eyes filled with devotion that seemed too genuine to be feigned, my phone buzzed with an incoming message. Still watching Evan, I glanced down at the screen.

Unknown Number: He's not who you think. Ask your father what happened to the real Evan Mitchell. He's a replacement—designed specifically for you.

The words hit me like ice water. I pulled my hand back from Evan's hair, my mind racing with implications.

"Celeste?" he asked, concern creasing his brow. "What's wrong?"

I locked my screen before he could see it. "Nothing," I lied, heart pounding. "It's getting late. We should both go home."

Confusion and hurt flashed across his face as he stood. "Did I overstep?"

"No," I said, gathering my things with forced calm. "We'll discuss this tomorrow."

As he left my office, I stared at the message again. A replacement? Designed for me? What game was my father playing now?

And more disturbingly—if this man wasn't Evan Mitchell, then who exactly had I let into my life?