~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.

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.