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.

~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 br*asts, 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 brea*ts.

The feel of her under my hands. How she'll gasped when I pushed inside her. The heat of her mouth, her skin, her body.

I take a sip.

Fu*k 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.