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???

~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?

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.