I let a stranger destroy me in a hotel room.
Two days later, I walked into my internship and found him sitting behind the CEO's desk.
Now I fetch coffee for the man who made me moan, and he acts like I’m the one who crossed a line.
***
It started with a dare. It ended with the one man she should never want.
June Alexander didn’t plan to sleep with a stranger. But on the night she celebrates landing her dream internship, a wild dare leads her into the arms of a mysterious man. He’s intense, quiet, and unforgettable.
She thought she’d never see him again.
Until she walks into her first day at work—
And finds out he’s her new boss.
The CEO.
Now June has to work under the man she shared one reckless night with. Hermes Grande is powerful, cold, and completely off-limits. But the tension between them won’t go away.
The closer they get, the harder it becomes to keep her heart and their secrets safe.
The Dare
June
There’s something about cheap tequila and half a degree of confidence that makes me think I can get away with anything.
"Okay, June, your turn." Leila waves her phone in my face. "Truth or dare?"
I lean back against the velvet bar booth, head buzzing from the last round of drinks. We’re four girls deep into celebration, lipstick smudged, heels lost, and so drunk. So so drunk.
"I pick dare," I say, because of course I do.
Leila’s eyes light up. "See that guy at the bar? The one in the dark gray suit, second stool from the end?"
I glance — and almost regret it.
Second stool from the end. Jacket undone, tie missing, shirt collar open just enough to see a sliver of chest. He’s got one hand wrapped around a tumbler of something dark, the other twitching on his knee like he’s trying to hold still. But his stillness is loud. Charged. Like a switch waiting to flip.
"Are you trying to get me killed?" I ask, my brows furrowing.
Leila snorts. “He’s hot. And definitely older. You said you wanted to be bold tonight."
"I also said I wanted to survive the night."
"It’s just a number, June. Not a marriage proposal." Kayla laughs, reapplying her lipstick.
I glance again.
His face is unreadable. Sharp jaw, cold mouth, eyes that don’t seem to be focused on anything at all. There’s something coiled in him, something fierce. Or maybe something barely held back.
Still, I can’t run away from a challenge. Especially not on a night like this, when I’ve just landed an internship at the biggest business enterprise in Las Vegas. When I feel electric and drunk and slightly untouchable.
"Fine," I agree, standing. "But if he arrests me with his eyes, you better post bail."
I walk up slowly, pretending my legs don’t feel like jelly and my stomach isn’t turning somersaults.
I slide into the seat next to him like I belong there with my chin high, eyes sparkling from the dare.
He doesn’t look at me right away. Just swirls the drink in his hand like he’s trying to hypnotize it.
"Hi," I wave, displaying my signature flirty smile.
There is silence, then, a “No.” Flat, deep and dismissive.
My lips part, half a nervous laugh caught in my throat. "I haven’t even asked anything yet."
He turns, slowly. His eyes are sharp, gray, like metal under ice. He looks at me like he’s already exhausted by my existence, which, frankly, only makes me more interested.
He groans, "You were going to ask for my number." It’s not a question. It’s a psychic read.
My pulse skips two beats, "So what if I was?"
He leans in, voice low and hot with whiskey and intent. "Ask for a night instead."
My eyes slightly widens. Not because I’m shocked. But because… I'm not.
This man is raw restraint, the kind of person who probably keeps an iron grip on everything until one thread snaps and it all unravels. And I wonder, maybe, if tonight’s that thread.
There’s no smirk. No flirtation. He means it. Every syllable feels like a dare.
I am getting excited.
I should laugh. Or walk away. But there’s something about the way he looks at me, like he’s trying not to. Like I’ve already made something in him snap.
So I say, "One night."
His brow twitches like he didn’t expect me to agree.
I lean in. “What’s your name?”
He downs the rest of his drink. "You don’t need it. Let's go." He stands up and I follow.
I wave a goodbye laced with a victory smirk subtly at the girls, noting their surprised expression at my success.
***
It's a hotel.
Not far from the bar. Clean. Modern. Two blocks away, but a whole other world.
The staff hands him the key without a word. I don’t ask why. I already guess this man doesn’t do things that haven’t been planned ten steps in advance.
We don’t speak in the elevator. His jaw ticks, and I swear he’s grinding his teeth. Like he regrets this already. Like he’s angry with me, or himself, or the world.
Maybe all three.
Inside the room, the lights stay off. Just the faint city glow coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
He tosses his jacket over the chair, rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. Still not looking at me.
“Last chance to leave,” he says, his tone undetectable.
"Are you always this dramatic?"
He steps forward and I flinch, not in fear, just in anticipation.
"You’re not much of a talker, are you?" I asked, trying to break the tension. I peeled off my coat, draped it over the arm of a sleek leather chair, and turned back to face him. “Or is this your thing? Brooding silence and expensive suits?"
The corner of his mouth tugged revealing not quite a smile. "You always make jokes when you're nervous?"
"Only when the guy looks like he could ruin my life."
His eyes sweeps down, slowly. Like a touch. "Can I?"
I swallow. "I guess I'm about to find out."
His eyes locks on me like he’d already decided what he is going to do to me.
And maybe worse, like he already had.
So no warning. No buildup. One moment he was standing across from me, the next, he was in front of me — heat rolling off his body, one hand gripping the side of my throat, his cold thumb tilting my chin up.
Not choking as I except, more like claiming.
"Don't regret this," he murmurs on my mouth. "You have no idea who I am."
"That’s the point,” I whisper, shutting my eyes, as I wait for a kiss, but he didn’t kiss me.
Instead, he pushes me backward until I hit the wall. The impact is soft, but my breath catches anyway. His hands goes to my waist, firm and possessive, tugging me close until our hips are flush. I feel the hard line of him — already thick and straining beneath his trousers, pressed against my abdomen.
I inhale sharply. "You're—"
"Don't say it," he growls, and for the first time, I feel something cracked in him. Not his mask, something deeper. Restraint.
He grabs the hem of my dress and yanks it up, bunching it around my hips. One hand slide between my thighs, cupping me over my panties — already fucking damp. Already unapologetically desperate.
"You’re soaking wet" he mutters, his voice dark with something between approval and disbelief.
"Maybe I like the suspense," I breath, biting my lips.
He doesn't laugh. But he smiles, sharp and amused, before dragging my panties down and off in one rough pull.
He dropped to his knees. No teasing or romancing.
His tongue found me like he’d been craving it for days. Long, deep strokes that had me gasping and grabbing at his hair, my thighs shaking from the sheer force of it. He effortlessly wrapped one arm around my hip to keep me from falling and used the other to press two fingers inside me, slow at first, then hard, curling until my back hit the wall.
I came embarrassingly fast. Too fast. His name wasn’t even in my mouth. I had nothing to moan but a broken, breathless "God."
He stood as I came down from it, still fully dressed, towering over me like I was something he meant to devour.
"Take your dress off," he says, and I read it as a sexy order.
I quickly did.
My pink dress slid off my shoulders, pooling at my feet. I stood in just my bra, breathing hard, bare from the waist down, and suddenly shy. That wasn’t like me. I wasn’t a shy girl. I didn’t do shy. Maybe it was because it was my first official time.
Don't get me wrong, I'm no virgin, at least biologically. That, I took care of a long time. Myself. But this was going to be my first with someone and, God, I am in the 7th heaven.
He undid his belt slowly. Intentionally. Pulls his cock free and stroked it once, it is thick, hard, flushed dark with need.
My mouth go dry. My pussy. More damp. Sticky wet.
"Still want to find out if I’ll ruin your life?" he asks.
"Only if you do it properly," I say, already reaching for him. He doesn't let me.
He spin me around, bending me over the bed.
No words. He gripped my hips, lined himself up, and pushed in with one, brutal thrust.
I cry out, in pain, in shock, in full pleasure. The fullness. The pressure. The way he held nothing back.
He curses under his breath, barely audible. "You're tight."
I couldn’t help it. I grinned, panting. "Maybe you’re just huge."
That got a real laugh from him. Low. Surprised. Almost boyish, then he growled — actually growled — and bottomed out inside me.
"Say it again," he rasped against my neck.
"You’re huge."
"Say my name." Came another full slam.
"I...don’t know...it." I moan loudly and unintentional.
He stilled, breathing harsh, forehead against the back of my shoulder. "Exactly."
He thrusts again. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t slow. It was filthy and perfect and everything I hadn’t known I needed. The way he fucking fucked me, hard, deep, possessive, like I was the only thing in the world keeping him alive. His hands gripped my hips tight enough to bruise, his body slamming into mine with primitive, desperate force.
And still — he never kissed me.
He didn’t even try.
Even when I turned my head to look at him, to maybe see him, he dragged my face back down and pressed it to the mattress.
"Don’t," he murmured. "Just feel."
So I did.
I came again with a sharp gasp, my fingers fisting the sheets, my whole body going taut and then liquid. He followed seconds later, pulsing inside me with a deep, low groan that sounded like it was ripped from his soul.
He collapsed beside me, one arm flung over his eyes.
I laid there in silence. My chest heaving. My heart racing. My mind going blank.
And still… no kiss.
When I woke, he was gone.
The sheets were cool. The bathroom door was open. His scent still lingered on the pillow beside mine, clean, masculine, expensive.
My panties were folded on the nightstand.
Beside them was a note, written in sharp, elegant handwriting.
Thank you for tonight. Don’t look for me.
— H.
No number. No name. Just an initial.
I held the note between my fingers for a long time, feeling my heart doing something weird and fluttery in my chest.
I didn’t know who he was.
Didn’t know what he did.
Didn’t know why he refused to kiss me.
But I knew one thing for sure. I was going to have a hard time trying to forget him.
Promoted to Secretary
June
Two days and twelve hours.
That's how long it's been since I did the thing I said I'll never do. Again which is: sleep with a stranger.
It's hard getting 'em off your mind when you're done with 'em.
I try not to think about it, I just shove it down where all my bad decisions lives. Rent-free.
Because, I am here now... In front of my dream company — The building is so tall, it feels like it’s leaning over me.
Apex Corporation — A.C. in thirty-foot chrome letters, gleams above the entrance like it owns the sky. Which, technically, it might. The glass exterior mirrors everything: traffic, tourists, pedestrians, the massive LED screen that loops corporate ads like digital worship. But all I can see is my own face, small and wide-eyed.
I pause on the sidewalk and inhale. Once. Twice. Again.
"Calm down, breathe." I tell myself.
I clutch my leather folder tighter to my chest. It's the first day, a new start. Internship at the biggest enterprise in Las Vegas. It’s everything I worked for. Everything I need right now and the thing I can’t afford to screw up.
I swipe my newly acquired ID at the front security panel. It blinks green. It's game on.
The inside of Apex is whole different world. It's cold and lighting with breathtaking marble floors. People in neutral colored suits moving like blood through veins fast, efficient, and without hesitation. I already feel behind.
A woman with sleek black hair and an Apple headset greets me in the lobby. "You’re June Pearl Alexander?"
"Yes," I reply, trying not to sound like I just stepped out of a dream.
She offers a tight smile. "I’m Brenna. You’re assigned to the Strategy & Innovation team on Floor 39. Follow me."
The elevator ride is fast. Very fast.
I smooth my hair in the reflection of the polished walls. It feels like everyone in this building knows something I don’t. Like they were born wearing pinstripes and I’m still figuring out how not to sweat through my blouse.
When we reach the 39th floor, the doors open to a wide, open workspace featuring chrome desks, massive touchscreen boards, a floor-to-ceiling window view of the city that makes my knees a little weak.
A man in a navy suit walks toward us with a tablet tucked under his arm. He looks like he's in late thirties, has efficient energy with a business smile.
"June?" he asks.
"Yes. That’s me." I answer, almost too quickly.
"I’m David Scott, head of Strategy. Welcome aboard. We’re thrilled to have you."
"Thank you so much," I say, my voice just a touch too high. "I’m really excited to be here."
He nods and gestures toward the team bullpen. "Let me introduce you around."
As we walk, he points out departments: Market Analytics, Product Forecasting, Risk Oversight — and it all spins in my head like I’ve stepped into a live-action case study.
We reach a semicircle of desks where a few team members are mid-discussion.
"This is June, our new intern," David introduces with a clap of his hand.
I smile nervously, "Hi. I am June Alexander."
They all turn, polite and curious.
"June will be shadowing some of you this quarter,” he continues, "learning how Apex moves in fast and—"
The door bursts open.
A tall, thin man in a black vest, clearly senior in rank, strides in with the kind of urgency that makes everyone shut up.
"Scott. Sorry to interrupt."
David straightens. "Of course, Mr. Paul."
Mr. Paul doesn’t smile. "The CEO just dismissed his secretary. We need a temporary replacement now. Someone sharp, quick, discreet."
David blinks. "Uh… well…"
His eyes flick to me. I blink back.
“You’re June, right?” Paul asks, already assessing me like a file he doesn’t have time to read.
"Yes?" I answer, half-answer, half-question.
"You’re the new intern."
"Yes. Yes Sir."
"Good. You’re promoted. For the week."
"Wait, I—what?" I snap my head at David and he gives me an awkward shrug. "You said you wanted exposure to the executive side of things."
I open my mouth. Close it. Exposure wasn’t supposed to mean escort to hell.
"Come," Paul says. "He’s waiting."
My stomach tightens. My ears catches the murmurs and whispers of my almost-colleagues.
"It's just been a month since he became CEO, and he's already sacked three secretaries," one says.
"Good luck to her," another muttered.
"Poor thing. She just got here."
What? A new CEO?
I didn’t know about this development.
Way to go, June. That’s what you get for skipping your research just to surprise yourself at your dream company.
I’m cooked.
As I follow Paul, my heels suddenly becomes too high, my heart too loud, and my brain too aware of how this place smells like cold coffee, printer toner, and high ambition.
We take a different elevator. The numbers climb fast as usual in my brain.
Stop breathing like you’re going to faint, June. You’re fine. You’re fine.
The elevator dings on the top floor and stops, causing my heart to have a little spike.
We step out into a hallway lined with black-tinted glass. The carpet here is thicker, I note, quieter even, and every surface gleams.
Paul gestures to the double doors at the end. "There. Good luck, and please don't get fired early." he says, half-smiling, half-pleading.
And then he’s gone, like he had just presented bait to thousands of hungry fishes. (I am too dramatic, I know)
It's just me now.
I push the doors open, it doesn't open. Shit. Am I supposed to push or pull? I tried the latter, and it opens. Good job, June.
I see him...
He’s standing at the far end of the office, back to me, his suit jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Looking out the window like he owns the horizon. Which, apparently, he does, I mean, he is the CEO of the biggest enterprise in the city.
But wait... I know that back. I know the slope of those shoulders. That veiny arms is familiar, too familiar, I tried to get it out of my head, days ago.
He slowly turns, and I forget how to stand.
I knew it! Slate-gray eyes, like metal under ice.
Twitchy Jaw. He's the same man, from the hotel. From the night I try to forget.
He stares at me and I try to stare back.
Neither of us says a word. The silence spreads like a crack in glass waiting to shatter.
His face doesn’t flinch, but his jaw tenses, just enough for me to notice.
I think I stop breathing altogether.
Because this man, the one who pressed me into a hotel mattress two nights ago, who left without a name, who touched me like... like I was the only thing in the world keeping him alive.
Is my new boss. The CEO of Apex Corporation.
My eyes drop to the golden nameplate in front of him: Hermes Grande, that's his name.
And he looks at me like he doesn’t know me.
Like I don’t already know him.
I'm real cooked!!! You don't need to say it... I'll help.
I SLEPT WITH MY BOSS???
Obsessed
~Hermes ~
Fuck!
The word echoes through the glass walls of my office like a bullet off marble.
I don’t whisper it. I mean it.
She messed up a date on the board presentation. One date. But it could’ve cost us a multi-million-dollar partner. I don’t tolerate sloppiness, especially not in the current situation I am.
So I fired her.
It’s barely 8 a.m., and my blood pressure’s already peaking. My jaw aches from clenching. I roll my shoulders back and pour a shot of espresso from the machine behind my desk, black as night. I swallow it like a drug and drop the glass back in the tray.
The office is too bright.
I walk to the window and let the sun cut into my face. I should be focused on the shareholder report, on the quarterly pivot for Apex’s innovation funnel, on… anything other than her.
But I’m not.
I can’t stop thinking about the girl from the bar.
That mouthy, tequila-soaked, hazel-eyed girl with the boldness of a poker player and the dress of someone who didn’t know the word “modest.”
Her eyes... Her eyes looks like she's about to swallow your pride, so well, you'll never forget the process.
She could have done it that night. I want her to do it. If I see her again. Fuck! I shouldn't been thinking of that now.
I told myself it meant nothing. Just a body. Just release. But God damn, it's a body that I want to keep hitting until I get tired of it.
She sat beside me like she had a right to. Asked for my number like it was a game. Said “A night?” without hesitation when I told her to.
God, that fucking night.
Her skin was soft. Tan. Smooth like heat and chaos and sunshine wrapped in sweat. Her mouth didn’t shut up, not until I buried myself inside her. And even then, she had the nerve to grin.
“Maybe you’re just huge.”
I loved the way she said it, that I made her say it again while I bury myself inside her again.
I didn’t leave her money. That’s a rule I never break. A little envelope, no name, no number. Keeps things clean and in control.
But I left her a note instead.
Thank you.
Like a fucking amateur.
I exhale, long and sharp, and go back to the desk. The board files are still open, so I swipe them shut.
"Need to focus," I mutter.
I pick up my phone to schedule a therapy session. I need the routine again. I’ve been spiraling since I took this damn job. Since the press started calling me Lucien’s Legacy. When I inherited a rotting empire I now have to bleach clean with my bare hands.
I tap the assistant line.
"Paul," I call when he picks up. "Get someone in here. Temporary secretary. I don’t care who. I just need competence and silence."
"Yes, sir."
I hang up and take the jacket off, toss it over the back of the chair.
The cuffs are too tight, so I roll them up, until my forearms breathe.
I’ve fucked my own hand too many times thinking about her. And it still doesn’t get her out of my head, instead, it fuels the unspeakable thoughts.
I look out the window to busy my raging mind. The city looks smaller from up here. The whole strip, glittering and pathetic. Las Vegas, where illusions run on electricity and greed. And somehow, this mess is mine now.
I rest one hand on the glass and look down.
The door clicks behind me and then I smell it.
That perfume. Peony, citrus, clean skin. Too distinct to be coincidence. My neck goes stiff. My entire body stills.
No. It can’t— I must be over imagining things.
I turn slowly.
And there she is in my office wearing a blouse she’s trying to look confident in. Leather folder clutched like a shield. Her wild chest-nut brown hair back, barely. Her full, slightly bitten pink lips parted. Those same hazel eyes — wide and wickedly sexy.
My heart doesn’t race, instead it drops. Heavy and sudden, like it’s trying to hide inside my ribs.
She freezes, and I do too.
She knows what I know.
Fuck.
I school my face, tighten my jaw and straighten my back. I say nothing and I don't move.
She looks at the nameplate like it’s a twist in a bad soap opera. Her gaze flicks to me again. There’s shock, sure. But there’s more, fear, confusion, heat.
I make my eyes cold and my hands still and see her shift on her heels. She's nervous.
I nod once. The barest motion. "Close the door," I instructed, voice frost-bitten.
She jumps, then obeys. The click of her door feels louder than it should.
And I stare at the girl I swore I’d never see again. The girl I shouldn’t remember.
The girl my body won’t let me forget.
I close my for half a second — just enough to block out the sudden flood of imagery: her parted lips, her skin flushed beneath my palms.
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, grounding myself, but it does nothing. The images keep downloading, fast and dirty, like a virus I can’t debug. That's the thing with being hypersexual. It's not just hunger — it’s obsession, the mental noise and constant, relentless. I can fuck someone once and be haunted for years.
And this one? She’s an itch I can’t even scratch in private anymore. She's here.
"Sit," I say, harsher than intended.
She lowers herself slowly, her legs pressed together, her eyes wide with recognition.
I hate that I notice. I hate that I want to notice.
My gaze drops anyway. Down to her thighs, barely visible beneath the fabric of her skirt. My thoughts derail before I can stop them, that same thick thigh I gripped as I made my way to her slick, trembling core. The sound she made when I bit her just above the knee. The way she looked when she came.
Fucking hell.
I blink hard. Force it down. Did she see where my eyes went?
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even pretend to introduce herself. Maybe she’s waiting to see if I’ll acknowledge it.
But that’s not the issue.
The issue is that I ruined her before I knew her name. And now she’s mine, in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with proximity.
She’s my secretary and current obsession.
And my condition? It doesn't come with an off switch as my therapist says.
What the fuck am I supposed to do now?
Be Professional
June
I’m not breathing.
Or maybe I am, it's just so shallow it doesn’t count. The type of breathing people do when they’re trying not to panic, not to sweat, not to scream.
Because he hasn’t said a word.
Just a nod, barely — like I’m the delivery girl dropping off his lunch.
"Close the door," he says, voice dipped in frost.
I flinch, shouldn't I?
The door shuts behind me with a final, unforgiving click. And for a second, there’s nothing but silence.
I don’t know where to look. I don’t know who he is anymore.
He stares at me like I’m… new. Like I didn’t have his teeth in my neck two nights ago. Like I didn’t fall apart beneath him with his hand gripping my thigh and his voice dragging moans out of me I didn’t even know I had. He looks through me.
I want to believe he’s pretending. That this is a game. That this is part of some bigger...thing. But if it is, I don’t know the rules. And I’m already losing.
Then he says it:
"Sit."
It’s not a suggestion. It lands like a slap.
I lower myself into the chair like it might bite me, every inch of me tight and trembling. My skirt rides up a little when I sit, and I feel his eyes drop — just for a pulse beat — before snapping away.
I don’t speak. I don’t ask questions. What the hell would I say, anyway?
"Hi, remember me? You ruined me in the best way possible and then ghosted like a coward?" No.
So, I sit quietly, matching his cold gaze. I pretend I don’t notice the tension thickening the air like fog. I pretend I’m fine. That he’s just another boss. That I’m just another intern.
But my stomach is in knots. Because why is he pretending?
No — that’s not right.
He remembers. I saw it. That flicker in his jaw, the way he blinked too hard. He’s pretending it didn’t matter.
Shit–
He walks to his desk, smoothly and controlled, and picks up a sleek black folder. His fingers are precise and cold, and he drops it on the small desk in front of me.
"You’ll be working off my schedule. Here’s the weekly agenda. You’ll be expected to memorize it,” he says, tone flat and efficient. “Meetings, calls, events. If I’m there, you’re there. You do not get to ask questions about what I do, where I go, or who I speak to."
My fingers freeze on the folder.
"There are rules," he continues, stepping back with the full gauge of stillness. "You do not speak unless spoken to. You do not linger. You do not initiate personal conversation. You do not comment on my mood, my voice, or my body language."
My head starts spinning. What did hell kind of rules are these?
He turns fully to face me, and it hits harder than it should. He’s taller than I remember. Broader in this lighting. Like the hotel softened him and the office weaponized him.
"And above all," he says sharply, "you do not look me in the eyes unless I’ve permitted it."
My breath catches. It’s not the words — it’s the way he says them. Like they cost him something.
I nod, slowly. "Understood. Sir."
Sir. The word tastes sour.
His eyes linger on me for one full dangerous second, and then he looks away, as if I’ve burned him. He pulls a printed itinerary from his desk and lays it next to the folder.
"Today, you’ll accompany me to a press conference at 11:30. Then a lunch meeting with regional heads at 1:00. You’ll stay outside the rooms unless otherwise instructed. Make yourself useful. If you’re confused, figure it out."
The click of his pen is the only sound for a beat.
"I expect my assistant to anticipate needs before I have to voice them,” he adds. “Don’t disappoint me."
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood.
He finally sits behind his desk and pulls his tablet toward him, dismissing me without a single glance.
I swallow. "Where... where should I sit?"
He pauses. His eyes flicking toward me, sharp and cutting, then he lifts one hand without looking, gesturing to the small secretary desk by the wall. It’s isolated. Far from his own.
"There," he says. "Obviously."
Obviously.
I nod quickly. "Right."
The silence in the room vibrated like tension on ice. My chest feels like it’s splintering under the pressure of not reacting.
Then, a knock. The door opens slightly, and a familiar face pops in.
"Mr. Grande?" It’s Mr. Paul — the man who placed me in this situation. "Just got off the call with logistics. Everything’s prepped for the press floor."
Hermes or should I say Mr. Grande doesn't look at me.
"Good," he mutters. "I’m ready when you are."
Mr. Paul glances at me, offers a polite little nod. "Miss Alexander. Settling in okay?"
I force a smile. "Yes, thank you."
You've not idea, Paul. No idea.
Mr. Grande is already gathering his things briskly, so I take the hint. I rise from the chair and leave the office quietly.
I make my way back to the little secretary desk, my desk now, apparently, and sit. I try to focus, try to breathe, try not to feel like a kicked dog. I feel the minutes crawl. The silence of the outer office feels colder than his voice.
Then I hear footsteps.
They walk out from his office, discussing, more like gossiping, 'cause I can't hear a word.
They walk past the hallway leading to the elevators. I keep my head down, but I heard him stop mid-stride. He turns his head and looks directly at me.
"What are you doing?" he snaps.
My head jerks up. "Sir?"
"You’re sitting," he says, like I’ve committed a sin. "You’re supposed to be shadowing me. Do you not understand what assist means?"
The words slice deeper than they should.
I shoot up from the chair, nearly knocking it backward. "Yes, sir. Sorry."
He’s already turning again, walking away without a second glance. Mr. Paul gives me a tiny, pitying look, and I hate that even more.
I hurry after them, and right there, halfway to the elevator, something sharp blooms in my chest.
So this is it.
I’m not being ignored.
I’m being punished.
For what? For letting him touch me? For moaning at his touch, in a hotel bed when I didn’t even know he was a goddamn CEO?
For thinking, even for a moment, that it might’ve meant something?
Fine.
If he wants professional, I’ll give him professional.
I square my shoulders, open my folders and follow, but my hands won’t stop trembling.
I Can Handle It
June
I storm into the apartment like a volcano erupting.
Thankfully, shorty after press conference, he dismissed everyone, and left the company. In. A. Foul. Mood.
The front door slams hard enough to shake the keys off the hook. My jacket gets flung onto the floor. My bag drops next. My rage, though, I don't think that one leaving soon.
Kayla sprawled across the couch with her phone in hand, legs swinging over the armrest like she’s auditioning for a toothpaste commercial. She barely blinks.
"You’re back early," she says, chewing gum like it’s my soul. "Didn't expect that from the newest intern in the city,"
I don’t answer. I start pacing, kicking off my heels, one, then the other, both clattering against the tile.
Kayla watches. “Sooo... something happen at the Apex Palace of Corporate Despair?”
I spin around, wide-eyed. "Something happened?" I laugh, and it sounded like a threat. "You want to know what happened to me hours ago? I just found out that the guy I slept with two nights ago, the one Leila dared me to flirt with, is my boss. Not just my boss. He is the CEO of Apex,"
Silence suddenly took over. Dead, pin-drop, murder-scene silence.
Kayla blinks, then sits up straighter, then blinks again. "Wait. What?"
I nod, arms crossed so tight they might snap. "Yep. Hermes freaking Grande. The new CEO of Apex Corporation. Also known as the man I slept with, without knowing his name."
Kayla’s mouth drops open like a broken Pez dispenser. "Wait, wait, wait. You’re saying the guy you hooked up with at the bar is your boss?"
"Correct."
Leila looks up from her laptop across the room, mouth parted, eyes wide. "June... are you serious?"
"I wish I wasn’t."
Kayla whistles. "Well, damn."
She pauses. Then adds, like a mosquito with lip filler, "You do realize this is kind of on you, right?"
I blink. "Excuse me?"
Kayla shrugs. "I mean, the dare was to flirt. Get the digits, maybe a drink. You didn’t have to go all the way. Especially not with someone you knew nothing about."
My jaw drops. "Are you seriously blaming me right now?"
She holds her hands up. "I’m just saying, maybe next time don’t throw your whole career into a one-night stand."
"What the hell Kayla, It wasn't exactly written on his forehead!"
"Exactly."
My hands curl into fists. "Your opinion? It doesn’t matter."
Kayla raises her brows. "Okay. Touchy."
I turn away before I do something illegal. My chest tightens, and suddenly the room feels too hot. My eyes flick to Leila, who is still quiet.
She hasn’t said a word.
"Leila?" I ask, softer this time. “Are you seriously not going to say anything?”
She looks at me slowly, like she’s been watching a train crash in slow motion.
"I’m thinking," she reply
"About what?"
About how to fix this," she replies calmly. "Instead of blaming you for it."
My throat stings. For a second, I forget how to respire.
Kayla’s phone rings. She picks it up and disappears into her room, still chewing smugly.
And then it’s just me and Leila and a silence that feels safer.
I sink into the couch, hands on my knees. "Kayla's right. I'm to blame, God, I feel like the biggest idiot alive."
"You’re not," she says immediately.
"I let him touch me. I let him... God, I let him ruin me. And now he looks at me like I’m dirt under his shoes."
Leila doesn’t say much, but she reaches over and grabs my hand and squeezes it. That’s enough.
Later that night, I'm on the rooftop.
It’s quiet up here, the quiet that lets you hear your own thoughts, which is dangerous, because mine haven’t been kind lately.
I’m lying on my back, watching the stars blink through city smog. Leila joins me, hoodie pulled tight, blanket around her legs. She says nothing for a while, she just sits, hugging her knee.
Then she asks, "How many stars?"
"Fourteen and a half," I reply, deadpan.
She snorts. "How do you count a half?"
"One was hiding behind a cloud. I gave it partial credit."
She chuckles softly. Then, "Do you want to quit?"
I sit up and look at her like she grew a second head. "The internship?"
She nods.
I laugh. For real this time. It’s wild and bitter and a little unhinged. "Quit? Leila, I’ve been clawing my way toward this internship for two years. I’ve eaten beans out of cans to afford this city. I’m not letting a man, especially that man — scare me off."
Her eyes study me in the dim light. "Even if he keeps treating you like... that?"
I square my shoulders. "Then I’ll treat him like he doesn’t matter. Professionally of course."
She doesn’t argue, she just gives me a slow nod, then leans back and counts stars beside me. And for a moment, I think maybe I can handle it. No, I can handle it.
****
I cannot handle it.
The next morning starts with hope and ends with humiliation.
I bring Mr. Grande a coffee, a peace offering, my "please don’t fire me, because I've seen you naked." bribe. I checked the order three times.
He takes one sip and scowls. "This isn’t what I asked for."
"It’s dark roast, almond milk, one sugar—"
"Then you weren’t listening,” he says flatly. "Try again. This time, use your ears."
I swallow the retort clawing up my throat.
I go downstairs, and order it again — different roast, extra shot. I double check. Triple check. I hold the cup like it’s a glass bomb.
I return, and he doesn’t touch it.
"No. This isn’t what I want. I guess I’ll be making my own coffee from now on, since my secretary can’t get it right."
I nearly throw it at him.
Please do. Make your own damn coffee. The machine is right there. Across from you. It’s not a decoration, Mr. Grande.
I should say this.
But instead, I smile through teeth made of knives and ask a coworker for help cracking the code. It takes two more tries, three more burns, and one shaky breath in the women’s bathroom.
By the time I finally get it right, he barely looks at me.
"Meeting. Come."
I blink. "But I thought—"
"You’re coming," he says, already walking.
And I follow like an idiot with no spine.
-----
The restaurant is stupidly fancy. White tablecloths, glittering chandeliers, and waiters who look like they charge by the syllable. I trail behind him, already feeling like a fraud.
He tells the hostess, "Private room. Grande."
Then I wait outside like I’m supposed to.
I make use of my eyes, soaking in the gold fixtures and marble floor, when I hear it—
"JUNE ALEXANDER?"
I turn.
It's Tyler. Kayla’s fifth ex-boyfriend. Tall, goofy, with too-loud jokes and energy that could crack a ceiling. He’s wearing a blue button-down and a grin big enough to eat the sun.
"Well, well, well," I laugh, already walking toward him.
We hug. We talk. My mouth runs, and I begin to feel lighter than I have in days.
We joke about Kayla. It’s easier because they didn’t break up on bad terms. Then we drift into stories about bad tequila and worse hangovers, he was my drinking partner the time he and Kayla were together.
"So, what’ve you been up to these days?" I ask, eyeing his upgraded fit.
"You know, stuff like—"
"Inside."
I freeze.
That voice, it's deep, gruff, and sharp as glass. It's Mr. Grande, and he is standing right behind me.
"What?" I ask, dumbly.
Thirty-two hours with him and I know one thing: he doesn’t repeat himself.
He points toward the private dining room.
"But... you said I should stay outside for meetings."
"I changed my mind." I watch his cold eyes flick to Tyler for a second. Just a second. But I see it; that weird twitch in his jaw.
I glance at Tyler, his face has shifted, it's guarded now.
I murmur, "Sorry. He’s my boss," and follow Hermes inside quickly.
And for the life of me, I can’t figure out what the hell is wrong with him now.
Inappropriate
~Hermes~
I should’ve transferred her.
Yesterday, at my urgent schedule session, my therapist, Alan advised me to, and I agreed, because it was the right move.
But I didn’t, more like I couldn't.
She’s still here, sitting in front of my office, breathing in my space, and making it hard for me to think straight.
So, I form another strategy, if I can’t stop wanting her, I’ll burn the want out, not with distance, but with discipline.
Obsession only has power if you let it stay soft, so I'll make it sharp, cold, and controlled.
I’ll turn it into something I can use. Something like hate.
This morning, she brings me coffee like I can't make mine.
She’s wearing a navy shirt dress, tailored and tasteful. Office-approved, but it hugs her waist too well, and when she leans forward to set the cup down, the top button tugs, just a little, and just enough to show the soft swell of her breasts, barely caged in.
I should be thinking about the numbers on my desk. The lawyer's meeting is in an hour, but all I can think is that if that button gives out, I’d finally get a clean look at what I already fucking remember.
Her breasts.
The feel of her under my hands. The way she gasped when I pushed inside her. The heat of her mouth, her skin, her body.
I take a sip.
Fuck wrong.
"This isn't what I asked for," I scowl, building the anger in me.
"Dark roast, almond milk, one sugar," she says, trying to sound confident.
I don’t look at her. "Then you weren’t listening,"
"Try again. This time, use your ears."
My cock twitches in my slacks and I want to put a bullet through my own temple.
She leaves again. Good.
I rake a hand through my hair, trying to get the blood out of my groin and back to my head.
But it doesn’t help.
She comes back with a new cup, and same dress, same fucking button. It’s hanging on by thread and I hate it. Hate that I want it to give up.
Her brown hair is curled today, tucked clean behind her ears. It's neat and polished, and all I can picture is how wild it looked splayed on a hotel pillow.
I don’t touch the coffee.
"No. This isn’t what I want. I guess I’ll be making my own coffee from now on, since my secretary can’t get it right."
That’s cruel.
She flinches, which is good. Let her feel it.
If she stays afraid of me, maybe I won’t end up pinning her to my goddamn desk.
She leaves again.
Eventually, she brings one that smells exactly right. Exact temperature, and roast. She got help, I know she did. She probably cornered some employee in a panic. I should say thank you, but I don’t. Instead, I check my Rolex.
It’s time for that damn meeting — the first step in saving this goddamn company.
I should go alone.
But I won’t be able to think if she’s not near me.
So she’s coming. "Meeting. Come." I say
She blinks. "But I thought—"
"You’re coming." I stand and walk out, because if I don’t, I’ll say something filthy.
Or worse, I’ll beg to touch her again.
***
We're at the restaurant.
I leave her outside, for my sanity, and so I can talk to Gavin about the next step in saving this company before it burns it to the ground.
"You look like shit," Gavin says as he stands, adjusting his cuffs.
"And a good day to you too, Gavin." I mutter sliding into the seat. I scan the room. "Where’s Jake?" I ask, remembering I was supposed to meet with my two lawyer friends.
"Running late. Something about a deposition running over."
Of course. Jake’s always late.
Gavin pulls out a folder, and tosses it on the table between us. "You sure you want to do this here? In a restaurant?"
"It’s a private room," I mutter, loosening my collar slightly. "Besides, I wanted a neutral setting. Somewhere we don’t look like we’re plotting a hostile acquisition."
Gavin snorts. "Because we’re not?"
I say nothing.
He opens the file. "So, Virex. I’ve gone through every page of that internal leak again, and it’s surgical. No timestamps, no metadata, no traceable senders. The whistleblower knew exactly what to wipe."
"And the press?"
"Circling again. Someone’s feeding them."
"From inside?"
"Possibly. But Virex has more rats than a sewer system. It could be one of theirs trying to drag Apex down with them."
I run my tongue across my teeth. "Xyren-4 was their trial, their dosage, and their approval pipeline."
Gavin nods. "And yet, your father’s name is on the release forms."
A silence drops between us.
"He didn’t say a word," I mutter. “Before the stroke, he just… stared. Like he already knew what I’d find."
"And you think he’s guilty?"
"No." I look up at him. "I think he was protecting someone, which is worse."
Another pause.
"You know the board’s going to push for a scapegoat," Gavin says. "They want someone to bury, and right now, all arrows point to Lucien Grande."
I lean back in the chair, flexing my jaw. "They’ll get someone. Just not my father."
Gavin watches me. "And who, then?"
The door opens, and Jake walks in, late and unapologetic in his usual tailored chaos.
"Apologies," he says, brushing his sleeves as he takes a seat. "Murderous traffic."
"Always is when you drive like an eighty-year-old in a Bentley," Gavin mutters.
Jake shrugs. "I like my life."
Then Gavin smirks, like he’s been waiting. "So... Did you hear? Hermes got a new secretary. Apparently, he brought her to the restaurant."
Jake laughs softly. "Don’t tell me it’s the brunette chatting away outside."
I freeze.
He goes on, unaware. "Pretty thing, loud, and wearing a shirt that’s fighting for its life.”
My hand curls into a fist against the table.
Jake blinks. "Wait... is that her?"
I stand without a word, because of course it’s her. She’s out there, smiling like nothing happened, like I didn’t spend the morning tasting the ghost of her skin every time I blinked.
The door swings open under my hand.
I see she’s laughing at something an idiot in the hallway just said, standing too close to him, while her shirt hugs her too tight.
“Inside,” I say, voice low.
Her head snaps toward me, and she blinks. "But you said—"
"I changed my mind." I snap, entering inside the room, and she follows, because she has to.
Because if she stays out here another second, I might do something not worth it.
"Damn, she really is the one," Jake hoots, adjusting his collar as he stares after her.
"Good–good day, sirs," she says shyly, eyes down with a soft voice.
"Come, come, sit with us. We don’t bite," Gavin says, pushing back his chair to let her squeeze in.
I sigh. It was better when she was outside. I’ve just dragged her into the wolves' den.
She glances at me, waiting for some kind of nod, some cue to sit. I don’t look at her. I keep my eyes on the folder like it holds my self-control.
"What’s your name?" Gavin asks.
"June. June Alexander."
Her voice is small, and careful. This wasn’t how she sounded the night she said I was huge.
"June?" Jake repeats. "Huh. Sounds familiar."
I curse under my breath.
He’s trying to flirt.
I lift my head and look—
And nearly throw the damn folder across the room.
The button. That button I watched strain all morning like it was holding on for dear life—has finally given up. Popped open. Just enough to show the swell of cleavage that should only be for me.
Good, but wrong fucking timing.
Jake’s already ogling, but she... she’s fucking oblivious.
I feel the heat crawl up my neck, and I lose it.
"Alright. Meeting’s over. Let’s go." I stand so fast the chair screeches.
Gavin blinks. "Wait—what?"
Jake stares like I just slapped him.
But June’s already springing to her feet, bag in hand, scrambling to follow me.
"But, we’re not done with our discussion," Gavin calls, but his voice fades as we leave the room.
Outside the restaurant, I can’t bring myself to look at her.
She rushes to the curb, opening the back door just as my driver pulls up.
I move to slide in—then stop. There’s no way I’m sitting in the same car with her. Not today.
"You’re not going back to the office with me," I say.
She blinks. "What—are you…?"
"You can have the rest of the day off," I cut in, signaling the driver.
"Give her your jacket."
The driver doesn’t ask questions. He’s seen it too. Hell, everyone sees it.
Everyone but her.
She takes the jacket, confused, until she looks down. Her face drops, and a small gasp slips out. Then she throws the jacket on, scrambling to cover herself.
"I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize that—" she starts.
I cut her off again. I can’t hear that voice right now. It’s torture.
"Tomorrow," I say, coldly, "wear something more appropriate."
Then I get in the car, and I leave her behind.
It’s better this way.
Intentions
June
Phew. I sigh as I watch the car drive off.
For a second there, I thought he was going to fire me.
Relief washes over me… then embarrassment slaps me in the face.
How the hell did I not notice my tits were practically on display?
Oh God.
First, I sleep with him—and now this? He’s going to think I’m doing it on purpose. Like I’m trying to seduce him.
Shit.
I hail a cab and go straight home. CEO’s orders.
As I step inside, Leila lifts a brow, unplugging her curling iron.
"Well now, you’re awfully back early. Did you get kicked out of the internship or quit yourself?"
I collapse onto the couch with a loud groan. "Thankfully, I survived Day Two. But something so embarrassing happened."
Her eyes go wide. "What? What is it?" She rushes over.
I don’t answer. I just shrug off the driver's jacket and show her the shirt underneath.
She stares, confused, at first, then slowly, her mouth parts.
"No." A horrified gasp.
I nod. "Mm-hmm."
"You didn’t know?"
"Not a single freaking clue. And I followed him to a meeting like this." I cry out.
"No way!"
"He ended the meeting early and told me to go home. Said I should wear something more ‘appropriate’ tomorrow."
I bury my face in my hands, dying all over again.
"Jesus Christ. Girl—” Leila is gaping.
"That’s it. I’m done. He's definitely going to think I did it on purpose. Like I was trying to remind him we’d slept together, which I wasn’t! But now—ugh."
Leila is speechless. She just stares at me.
I spring to my feet, already spiraling. "I’m not going back tomorrow. Not a chance. I can endure his cruelty, but not this level of embarrassment."
"Wait—what?" Leila jumps up too. "You’re quitting?"
"I guess so." I pout, defeated.
She blinks at me, baffled. "But... you said you’d handle it. What happened to the girl from yester—"
Her phone rings. Loud and sharp, that we both flinch.
"It’s my mom. Excuse me." She glances at the screen and steps aside to answer.
I collapse back on the couch, rubbing the back of my neck.
Leila’s like my moral compass. And the way she was staring at me just now… God, why can’t I handle this?
She returns a few minutes later, her tone rushed. "My mom needs help at the store. I’ll be gone for a few days."
She darts into the room, grabs a small bag, and comes back out.
"And please...don’t quit over this. You’re stronger than a wardrobe malfunction. We’ll figure out a way to redeem yourself, okay?"
She’s already halfway to the door. "I’ll call you when I get to Spring Valley. We’ll surely figure something out."
Then she pauses at the doorframe. "And...you’re all alone now. Kayla traveled too. She’s not coming back for a while."
I lift a hand, half-heartedly. "Great. Y’all just leave me to my fate."
Leila laughs and blows me a kiss. "See you soon. Love you!"
“I love you too,” I mutter, rubbing my forehead.
The door closes behind her, and just like that, I feel completely... alone.
I pull out my phone, go straight to Go*gle, and type:
“How to redeem yourself when your CEO, who you accidentally slept with without knowing his identity — thinks you’re trying to seduce him.”
I stare at the screen, sighing. The answers are vague, ambiguous and useless.
Nothing about tits and billionaires and former one-night stands turned bosses.
I scroll, and scroll. Swiping through blog posts, HR advice threads, and some shady Red*it comments.
None of it helps.
Then, somewhere between humiliation and despair, my eyes grow heavy, and I drift off to sleep, with my phone still in hand.
One second I'm on the couch, the next, I’m in his office.
Of course I am. Because even in my dreams, I’m apparently still employed.
Except I’m not wearing pants.
"Miss Alexander," Hermes says with a voice like gravel dipped in silk, "you’ve forgotten something."
I look down. My shirt’s buttoned wrong, my legs are bare, and my panties are bright red — cherry red. The slutty emergency pair. Why did I wear those? Oh god.
"I—I can explain," I stammer, grabbing a file to cover myself.
"Don’t bother," he says coolly, but his eyes drop, and stay there. "You’ve made quite an impression."
He rounds the desk, and I back away, but my heel snaps, so I fall, and land right in his chair.
"Oh, how convenient," he murmurs.
Then he’s kneeling in front of me, undoing the buttons I definitely don’t remember allowing. His hands are warm and slow. Too slow.
"Mr. Grande," I whisper.
"Hermes," he corrects, his mouth ghosting the inside of my thigh. "You’re now off the clock."
I let out a sound that is not professional. At all.
He leans in like he’s about to kiss me, right there—
And the door slams open.
Leila walks in with a clipboard. "You’re late for your firing."
"What?"
"You heard me." She squints. "Also, did you seriously wear red panties on evaluation day?"
"I didn’t know it was evaluation day!"
Hermes sighs dramatically. "A shame, really. I was going to promote you to... personal use."
"Excuse me?!"
"Unfortunately," Leila says, flipping pages, “HR says your thighs are a liability.”
"What the hell does that mean?!"
"You’re terminated," Hermes purrs, dragging his mouth up my belly. "But not before I finish my sentence."
"I didn’t even commit a crime!"
"You did," he growls. "You made me want you. That’s punishable."
"I’m suing."
"You’re moaning."
"Okay, that’s... fair."
Then everything melts. His hands, the desk, the walls — they all turn into dripping coffee. Literal coffee. I’m naked and drowning in it and Kayla’s voice echoes from somewhere like a deranged Starbucks speaker:
"This is why you don’t sleep with your boss, June!"
I wake up with a gasp, heart thudding, and my body sweaty, with my panties soaked.
What the actual hell.
What kind of dream was that?
I blink up at the ceiling, disoriented. My phone is nowhere in sight. I scan the room, spot it on the floor, and snatch it up.
Thankfully, no cracks.
Woah—7PM?
How many hours was I out? No wonder I had that weird, fever-dream level of nonsense in my sleep.
This whole situation is becoming a full-blown menace to my mental health.
I need to stop obsessing before it gets worse.
And it is getting worse.
My stomach growls, loud and aggressive.
Of course. I’ve been loosing my shit all day and forgot to feed myself.
I scramble to the kitchen for anything remotely edible. After a questionable combo of toast and leftover pasta, I feel semi-human again.
Now, it's time for solution mode.
My phone buzzes — a message from Leila.
Leila: "Just do what he said. Wear something more appropriate tomorrow."
Thanks, girlfriend, but it's a late for the pep talk, I already beat you to it.
Right now, I’m standing in front of my closet, digging through fabric like I’m on a scavenger hunt for decency.
It’s 9PM.
I still haven’t found a single thing that screams “professional decent woman” instead of “street-certified disaster.”
I’m just now realizing...
My entire wardrobe belongs to the streets.
What the hell do I do?
****
On my way to the office, I try not to make eye contact with anyone in the elevator.
But it’s impossible when everyone is staring at me like I just stepped off a spaceship.
One man who's halfway in the lift actually pauses, his eyes darting from my neck down to my shoes like he’s trying to solve a riddle, then steps back and takes the next elevator.
Cool, just great. This was exactly the reaction I was hoping for when I slipped into this thrifted nun-core maxi dress at six in the damn morning.
From neck to ankles. Long sleeves. Modest to the point of martyrdom.
It technically passes as office wear — clean, dark, minimal. But here at Apex, where the unofficial dress code is "power-hungry chic," I look like I took a wrong turn into the HR department of a monastery.
Still… if this is what it takes to convince Mr. Grande that I’m not trying to seduce him, then so be it.
I got it from an overnight thrift shop three blocks from hell, and I had to talk the cashier down from asking if it was for a funeral.
But whatever, the mission is to de-sexualize myself is in full swing, so I don't care.
I get to the office even earlier than yesterday, determined to erase all doubt about my professionalism.
I sorted the necessary folders, cleared and color-coded the E-mails, made his coffee: strong, dark, exactly how he likes it.
I place it carefully on my desk like an offering, and sit quietly, smoothing out the dress like I’m preparing for prayer.
And then—
The elevator dings.
I don’t even need to look up. I feel him before I see him.
Hermes Grande walks in, and God help me, the man is dressed like a goddamn thirst trap.
No tie, fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearm, collar open just enough to see a hint of skin, tailored navy slacks.
His hair is moussed into an effortless slick, that same look he had the night I met him — the night he ruined me for any man who can’t whisper with his eyes.
He strides across the floor like he’s in a slow-motion cologne commercial, and I just stand there behind the desk, slack-jawed, blinking like an idiot.
I catch myself, and quickly close my mouth.
Jesus, June. Focus. Focus.
I’m dressed like a nun on a business retreat and he’s walking in here like lust itself in Italian tailoring.
No, I do not have sexual intentions.
...Right?
Right?
Because the way my body just reacted like a heat-seeking missile says otherwise.
