Your Regrets Won't Bring Me Back - Chapter 84: Chapter 84
You are reading Your Regrets Won't Bring Me Back, Chapter 84: Chapter 84. Read more chapters of Your Regrets Won't Bring Me Back.
Back at the site she rummaged around and found a discarded pair of work gloves—filthy but better than nothing.
Soon the frustrated worker stalked over again, all pretense gone, spewing obscenities even fouler than before.
When Elena ignored him, he swaggered up, unzipped his pants, and urinated right in front of her.
Shock flashed through her, but calm returned almost immediately.
Without a trace of embarrassment she gave a cold smile, hefted a brick, and hurled it at his feet.
He leapt back in terror, the stream of urine stopping mid-flow.
"Sorry," she drawled, "but filthy little toothpicks make my hands tremble."
Red-faced at the insult, he bared his teeth.
Several younger workers snickered. Cursing in humiliation, the bully finally stomped off and did not bother her again.
Only when the whistle blew at five did the crew knock off for the day, and Elena headed back.
After hours of hard labor her back throbbed, her arms ached, and her fingers could barely straighten.
She returned to headquarters to gather her things, but Director Grace blocked her path.
"Elena Bennett, it's been a whole day. Where is your project inspection report?"
"What inspection report?" Elena stared at her, completely at a loss.
Grace let a razor-thin smile climb the corner of her mouth as she said, "Did you honestly think I sent you to the construction site so you could fool around? Don't tell me you turned in nothing at all. With results like that, how am I supposed to trust you with the project?"
Elena answered evenly, "I had no idea—I was never told to write a report."
Grace's brows shot up. "No one told you? Impossible! I'll call Manager Henry this instant!"
Manager Henry was in league with her; of course he claimed he had already assigned the task to Elena Bennett and that Elena had simply failed to complete it.
Hanging up, Grace flashed a poisonous grin. "What now, still trying to argue? It's quitting time for the rest of us. If that report isn't on my desk tomorrow, I'll have to inform President Bennett. So—overtime tonight, or pack your things? Your choice."
With that, Grace shouldered past her and left.
Elena drew a long breath, returned to her cubicle, and began compiling the inspection report. She finally finished close to midnight.
The vast office lay in darkness, the air-conditioning already cut; when she stood, every joint felt too stiff to move.
Her palms burned so badly she feared real damage, so she stopped at the ground-floor pharmacy for ointment and rubbed it in before crouching by the curb to wait for her ride.
A matte-black Rolls-Royce Cullinan glided to a halt in front of her, and when she looked up Simon Whitmore was already stepping out.
Simon frowned. "It's late. Why are you still outside?"
"Overtime," Elena replied, offering nothing more.
His gaze dropped to her hands; his pupils tightened to pinpoints.
Gently taking her wrist, Simon asked, "What happened to your hands?"—yet he didn't dare touch those wounded palms, afraid even his lightest brush might hurt her.
Elena slowly drew back. "It's nothing."
Her voice was so chilly it was as though she were speaking to a stranger.
Softening his tone, Simon murmured, "Are you sure you don't want my help?"
"Positive."
His coal-black eyes stayed fastened to her face, emotions surging and tangling in their depths.
Soon the frustrated worker stalked over again, all pretense gone, spewing obscenities even fouler than before.
When Elena ignored him, he swaggered up, unzipped his pants, and urinated right in front of her.
Shock flashed through her, but calm returned almost immediately.
Without a trace of embarrassment she gave a cold smile, hefted a brick, and hurled it at his feet.
He leapt back in terror, the stream of urine stopping mid-flow.
"Sorry," she drawled, "but filthy little toothpicks make my hands tremble."
Red-faced at the insult, he bared his teeth.
Several younger workers snickered. Cursing in humiliation, the bully finally stomped off and did not bother her again.
Only when the whistle blew at five did the crew knock off for the day, and Elena headed back.
After hours of hard labor her back throbbed, her arms ached, and her fingers could barely straighten.
She returned to headquarters to gather her things, but Director Grace blocked her path.
"Elena Bennett, it's been a whole day. Where is your project inspection report?"
"What inspection report?" Elena stared at her, completely at a loss.
Grace let a razor-thin smile climb the corner of her mouth as she said, "Did you honestly think I sent you to the construction site so you could fool around? Don't tell me you turned in nothing at all. With results like that, how am I supposed to trust you with the project?"
Elena answered evenly, "I had no idea—I was never told to write a report."
Grace's brows shot up. "No one told you? Impossible! I'll call Manager Henry this instant!"
Manager Henry was in league with her; of course he claimed he had already assigned the task to Elena Bennett and that Elena had simply failed to complete it.
Hanging up, Grace flashed a poisonous grin. "What now, still trying to argue? It's quitting time for the rest of us. If that report isn't on my desk tomorrow, I'll have to inform President Bennett. So—overtime tonight, or pack your things? Your choice."
With that, Grace shouldered past her and left.
Elena drew a long breath, returned to her cubicle, and began compiling the inspection report. She finally finished close to midnight.
The vast office lay in darkness, the air-conditioning already cut; when she stood, every joint felt too stiff to move.
Her palms burned so badly she feared real damage, so she stopped at the ground-floor pharmacy for ointment and rubbed it in before crouching by the curb to wait for her ride.
A matte-black Rolls-Royce Cullinan glided to a halt in front of her, and when she looked up Simon Whitmore was already stepping out.
Simon frowned. "It's late. Why are you still outside?"
"Overtime," Elena replied, offering nothing more.
His gaze dropped to her hands; his pupils tightened to pinpoints.
Gently taking her wrist, Simon asked, "What happened to your hands?"—yet he didn't dare touch those wounded palms, afraid even his lightest brush might hurt her.
Elena slowly drew back. "It's nothing."
Her voice was so chilly it was as though she were speaking to a stranger.
Softening his tone, Simon murmured, "Are you sure you don't want my help?"
"Positive."
His coal-black eyes stayed fastened to her face, emotions surging and tangling in their depths.
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