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.

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.