[BL] Transmigrated as the Villain CEO's Mermaid Secretary

"God, I can’t take this waiting," Sarah muttered, running her fingers through her hair. "We’ve been waiting for this evaluation for days already."

"The longer they take, the more thorough they’re being," Iris said, though her usually steady voice carried an edge. "That’s a good thing."

Neville doubted anyone believed that, including Iris herself. He had seen her check her light brain twelve times in the past hour.

The evaluation meeting had been postponed due to previous events. Now, finally, after a two-week extension of this competition and mounting anxiety, today marked the first evaluation round for the submitted works.

The anti-grav lift chimed, and two men walked in like they owned the place. Alia, their newest departmental receptionist, intercepted them at the front desk, her smile already strained from the morning’s chaos.

"Hello, sirs. May I know if you have an appointment?" Alia’s tone was professional despite the nervous hitch beneath it.

"Huh?" The shorter man barked out a laugh, sharp and mocking. "I still need that?"

Neville watched, fingers frozen over his keyboard. Alia’s shoulders tensed, but she held her ground.

"I’m sorry, but with the recent security changes, I’ll need to check your names on the schedule—"

"You hear that?" The short man swung his head toward his companion, smirking like he had caught her telling a joke. "She wants to check my name. Can you believe this?"

The taller man stepped forward then, his voice lower, smoother. The kind of tone that pretended to be polite but carried weight. "Do you know who you’re talking to?"

"I apologize, sir, but we have policies to comply with." Alia’s voice stayed steady, but Neville could see the tension weighing on her.

The short man snorted, his patience gone. "Policies? Don’t make me laugh. Do you stop the king at the door and demand his name, too? Move aside—you’re wasting my time."

"Sir, I really must—" Alia raised her voice slightly as they tried to walk past her.

The short man clicked his tongue, impatient, then snapped, "Fine. Call Grayson over. He’ll tell you who I am."

Grayson? Not Mr. Maxwell. Not CEO Maxwell. Just Grayson. Like they were old drinking buddies.

Neville’s instincts sharpened. Either this man had serious connections or a death wish. Judging by the expensive cut of his suit and the arrogant tilt of his chin, it was almost certainly the former.

"I’m really sorry, sir," Alia tried again, her voice rising half an octave. "But I don’t have access to Mr. Maxwell’s team. Unless they specifically authorized someone to come in, no one is allowed to pass."

The short man’s face darkened. He slammed his hand against the counter, voice booming across the department. "Are you saying I’m a nobody?!"

Conversations died. Keyboards stopped clicking. Heads turned.

"S-sir, I know you might be some important person." Alia stammered, her eyes darting around at the growing crowd. "But if you could just hand over your ID or visitor’s pass, we could send a message to the higher-ups."

The man moved faster than Neville expected, closing the distance in two quick strides. His hand shot out, thumb and forefinger clamping Alia’s chin in a grip that made her wince.

"Listen here, lassy," his voice dropped, low and edged with threat. "I’ve already got a headache from a hangover yesterday. Don’t make me get another nonsensical one. Just get someone to take me to Grayson. You get me?"

"S-sir, I-I—"

Neville’s body reacted on instinct. His chair rolled back as he stood, crossing the department floor with quick strides. Several colleagues watched with a mix of relief and concern that someone else was finally handling it.

He inserted himself smoothly between Alia and the aggressor, his polite smile perfectly calibrated to diffuse the situation without seeming confrontational.

"Good day, sir. Is there something we can help you with?"

The man shoved Alia’s face aside with a harsh flick of his wrist. He snorted dismissively, turning to face Neville, eyes narrowing. "And who the hell are you?"

Behind his glasses, Neville’s ocean-blue eyes quickly assessed the situation. The man’s expensive suit bore the subtle insignia of HW Corporation.

The way he carried himself suggested not just wealth, but the specific arrogance of someone who had been handed power rather than earning it. He didn’t know what the man was here for, but Neville could already see how this would turn out if mishandled.

If this man didn’t get what he wanted, things would escalate.

Neville’s smile didn’t falter. With that calm, patient expression honed like a blade, he said, "My surname is Hope. I work in the Secretarial Department."

"Yeah, whatever." The man flicked his hand dismissively, like swatting a fly. "Save the introduction. Just take me to Grayson."

In his head, Shelly already made retching noises.

The repeated use of Grayson’s first name made Neville’s teeth clench, but his smile never wavered. He had dealt with this type before—they usually crumbled the moment someone with actual authority showed up. The kind who only understood power when it finally pressed back.

"I apologize, sir," Neville’s tone was light, almost conversational.

"Due to recent circumstances, both employees and visitors are required to scan some form of ID or the visitor’s ID at the entrance when entering other departments." Neville bowed slightly, then smiled. "It’s a small inconvenience, but safer than being accused of something later without knowing why."

Neville had just almost repeated what Alia had said, but something about his calm demeanor and friendly smile made it sound more effective.

The man’s eyes narrowed, aggression suppressed but not quite gone. Neville’s pleasant smile—unyielding, unreadable—seemed to smother the flames just enough.

"Tch. I don’t carry ID. Never have the habit of carrying one everywhere I go," the man said, sharp with pride.

Of course, he didn’t. People like him expected the world to recognize them on sight.

"I see." Neville nodded as if this was a perfectly normal thing to say. "In that case, may I know your name, sir? I haven’t been employed here for long, and I’ve been too busy with work to keep up with the news. Forgive me for not recognizing someone of importance."

The flattery worked like oil on rusty gears. The man’s chest swelled, arrogance leaking into his grin.

"Hewitt," he said grandly. "Surname is Hewitt."

Hewitt. The name jolted Neville’s memory—recent merger talks, hostile takeovers, headlines dripping with scandal and bad blood between corporations.

What the hell is he doing here?

His fingers flew over his light brain, tapping out a discreet message to Bryan:

Mr. Hewitt is here. He says he needs to see Mr. Maxwell. How should I proceed?

Bryan’s reply came back almost instantly: Bring him up. I’ll handle it.

"Alright, Mr. Hewitt." Neville lifted his gaze, smile unshaken. "I’ve informed my superior of your presence. I was asked to escort you personally."

Mr. Hewitt turned, sneering at Alia. "See? Much better than a so-called real receptionist."

Alia flinched. Neville’s jaw ticked, but he only caught Alia’s eye and gave a subtle shake of his head. Don’t react. Don’t feed him.

She swallowed hard and bowed her head. "I apologize, sir."

"Hmph." Mr. Hewitt faced forward again, chest puffed, voice dripping with disdain. "Get me out of here. I don’t have all the time in the day."

"This way, sir."

They walked toward the executive office, and Mr. Hewitt launched into what he must have considered a conversation. It was more like a monologue about his own self-importance, peppered with complaints about the building’s architecture, the anti-grav lift’s speed, and the "ridiculous" security protocols.

"—The management structure is hopeless. I’d tear it down to the bones and rebuild. None of these people understands innovation. At the Merchants Association gala last month, Baron Price said the same thing. You know Baron Price, don’t you?"

"Mm-hmm." Neville made an agreeable sound, noncommittal, eyes already calculating how many more steps it would take to reach the executive office.

"Of course, Grayson’s always been a problem," Mr. Hewitt went on casually as if speaking of an old classmate. "Stubborn. Obsessed with his damn protocols."

Interesting. Neville filed the information away, keeping his expression unreadable.

"The problem is, Maxwell Corporation has gotten dull. Too narrow. Too ’safe’. No fresh ideas. That’s why this collaboration with HW Corporation is so damn important. We’ll bring you a different perspective, shake things up."

Collaboration? Neville’s step didn’t falter, but his mind raced. There had been no announcement of a deal. In fact, the last he had heard about was when Grayson had outright rejected their last attempt.

By the time they reached the executive floor, Neville’s stomach sank. Bryan’s desk was empty.

Neville paused outside Grayson’s office. He hesitated to knock on the door.

A weight landed on his shoulder—Mr. Hewitt’s hand patted his shoulder with a condescending familiarity. "Don’t worry. I’ll put in a good word for you with Grayson."

What the hell does that—

Mr. Hewitt didn’t even pause. He strode past Bryan’s empty desk like he owned the floor, hand closing over Grayson’s office handle before Neville could even open his mouth.

BAM!

The door slammed open. Mr. Hewitt barged inside without so much as a knock, leaving Neville frozen in the doorway like a statue.

Through the open doorway, Neville saw Grayson behind his massive desk. Grayson barely looked up. Silver eyes glanced over Mr. Hewitt once, cold and brief, before dropping back to his work on the screen in front of him.

Not a word. Not a greeting. As if the man who had just stormed in was no more important than a fly buzzing against the glass.

Mr. Hewitt didn’t seem to notice—or pretended not to. He flopped down onto the sofa like it was his own home, legs crossing lazily. His taller companion remained behind him, the perfect image of a bodyguard dressed in an expensive suit.

Bryan appeared from the corner like smoke, his professional smile pinned in place, though Neville caught the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. With measured grace, he moved to pour tea.

Every flick of his wrist said: I am humoring you. Don’t flatter yourself otherwise.

Neville caught Bryan’s eye through the doorway.

The look Bryan sent back was sharp and clear: Close the door. Pretend you saw nothing.

Neville’s hand reached for the handle—until something on the table caught his attention.

Cookies. His homemade cookies.

It was made with the ingredients from the System Mall. The ones he had been secretly sending Bryan to test new flavors that might improve Grayson’s terrible eating habits.

They sat in their clear wrapping with a carefully tied ribbon, looking innocent. And Hewitt’s hand was already reaching for them.

"Interesting snack," Hewitt mused, already pulling at the ribbon without hesitation.

Neville saw Grayson’s lips pursed. Barely there, but he had spent enough months knowing him to recognize it.

That twitch of irritation spoke volumes. Those are mine. How dare this bastard touch them.

But Hewitt had already bitten into one. His eyes brightened, and he chewed with exaggerated relish. "Mm~ Not bad. Not bad at all."

Bryan glanced toward Neville again, this time adding a tiny shooing gesture with the teapot.

Right. This was not a circus to gawk at.

Neville closed the door with a soft click and retreated, thinking that this door might need another repair. Still, his enhanced hearing picked up the muffled conversation as he walked back to his desk.

"—Young Master Mick, to what do we owe the pleasure—"

Mick.

So that was Mick Hewitt, the adopted son who had clawed his way to power in HW Corporation through their survival-of-the-fittest succession rules. The business pages called him cunning. Ruthless.

But in person? He looked more like a spoiled brat who had never heard the word no.

...

Bryan was already informed of this young master’s presence, but nothing could prepare him for Mick’s annoying, unreasonable behavior. Grayson didn’t even care. He hadn’t looked up once, scrolling steadily across the screen as if the intruders were made of air.

"Killian, hand it over," Mick said around another bite of cookie.

His companion, Killian, stepped forward, smooth and silent. Bryan accepted the memory chip and slotted it into the table projector.

Killian explained, voice low and even. "The military has informed HW Corporation that Maxwell Corporation will no longer be the sole entity working on this project. Given that there was a proposal competition ongoing within Maxwell Corporation, it was deemed appropriate for HW to review the submissions as well."

A collaboration meant equal partnership, shared profits, shared credit, and... incessant interference.

Bryan looked at Grayson, who had finally paused his work. A more serious expression had settled on his face. His silver eyes, that was sharp and unreadable, lifted for the first time.

"Second Young Master, Mick Hewitt," Killian went on, "was unanimously voted to serve as HW’s representative for this collaboration."

Grayson had maneuvered for months to stop this, but it had inevitably arrived anyway.

"Free up some space on this floor," Mick suddenly said, his voice echoing in the office. "I like the atmosphere in the secretarial department. Perfect spot for my office, don’t you think?"

The sheer audacity of it made Bryan’s jaw drop. This was like planting a flag in enemy territory and daring them to do anything about it.

Grayson turned to Bryan and flatly said, "Do as he says."

"It should be done by tomorrow, right?" Mick pressed, grinning like a cat in cream.

Bryan wanted to plant his fist in that smug face. But he still replied, "We’ll see to it."

"Good." Mick leaned back, smirk tugging wider. "Oh, and for smoother communication—how about sending one of your people over to my side?"

"Fine," Grayson simply said. "Bryan can arrange that."

"I’ll pick one myself."

The silence was heavy.

Grayson’s gaze locked on Mick’s eyes.

The silence continued to weigh over time.

Then, finally, Grayson said, "Suit yourself."

"Perfect." Triumph dripped from Mick’s tone. He lifted the half-eaten cookies like a trophy. "Then, I’ll take these with me."