Chapter 28
My first day at Marx Corp smells like printer toner, cold brew, and danger.
Mostly it’s just paperwork. Boring, wrist-cramping, soul-sucking paperwork. ID photos with the kind of lighting that makes me look like I haven’t slept since the Obama administration. Signing my name so many times I start to wonder if I’ve spelled it wrong my whole life.
But then, HR.
Which, fine. I knew it was coming. The consent form. The one where I officially disclose my pre-existing relationship with Caden Marx. Aka: the boss. Aka: the man who makes spreadsheets hot and accidentally left a few clothes in my house.
So, I’m sitting there across from this HR guy, who has the social energy of a filing cabinet. And he’s looking at me like I’m a delusional intern who thinks she can seduce her way into a corner office. Like I’m some deranged groupie who Photoshopped herself into his vacation pictures.
And I get it; I do, but also: screw you, Glen.
Then it gets weird. He calls in his secretary to “sit in,” like I’m about to climb across the table and shank him with my glitter pen. Which I might have done if I hadn’t caught the flicker of movement outside the glass door.
Caden .
Lurking. Loitering. Brooding.
Because I told him to go to his office after he walked me in this morning like I was a stray kitten who might bolt into traffic. We didn’t even drive together. We came in separate cars like we were in a spy movie, just to keep it "professional."
And now he strolls in, all clean lines and cufflinks, and signs the damn form without blinking. Like he hasn’t been standing out there the whole time waiting for his moment. Like he’s not low-key eavesdropping in case someone makes me uncomfortable.
And okay, I should be annoyed. It’s overbearing. It’s ridiculous. It’s infuriatingly sweet.
But here’s the kicker: I was hired to bring a feminist lens into management. Which is, you know… ironic. Because nothing screams “feminist credibility” like sleeping with the CEO.
Except, maybe it does? Maybe feminism is about choice. Maybe it’s about claiming the space I want, the love I want, the support I want. Maybe my rights include the right to keep the amazing , confusing, off-limits, infuriatingly wonderful relationship I’ve somehow stumbled into… with my boss.
So yeah. I'm sleeping with the man in charge. And maybe that makes me messy. But I’m also smart, competent, and entirely in control of my own life.
Am I a good feminist?
Hell yes .
Even if my mascara is already smudging and I forgot how to breathe the second he walked in the room.
“Hey Glen,” Caden says, smooth as sin and twice as smug.
The HR guy, sweaty, doughy, and clearly wishing for the sweet release of early retirement, jerks to his feet so fast he nearly knocks over the entire table. Papers go flying. My consent form does a sad little belly flop to the floor.
“Hel-hello, Mr. Marx, sir,” Glen stammers, straightening his tie like it might protect him from embarrassment. “I-I would’ve brought this to you, sir.”
And Caden, in all his infuriating, unfair, impossibly hot glory, just waves a hand. Casual. Like a god among mortals. “It’s alright. I wanted to show Ms. Scott around the office.”
His voice is calm, low, barely a flicker of a smile on his lips.
Then he turns to Glen and just, ends it. “Are we done here?”
Glen wilts. “Y-yes, sir.”
Caden guides me out with a hand that hovers, hovers , like a gentleman, like he’s respectful now, even though that hand was definitely gripping my hip this morning while I moaned his name into the pillow.
We make it halfway down the hallway before he leans in, voice barely audible over the sound of my entire nervous system going into cardiac arrest .
“Just wait,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Glenda is probably sending a mass text in the company group chat about us right now.”
I blink. “Who’s Glenda?”
“The secretary.”
I frown. “I thought the guy’s name was Glen?”
He smirks, full teeth, no shame. “It was.”
I actually have to stop walking. “Wait. You’re telling me, they are Glen and Glenda ?”
“Yep.” He’s too pleased with himself.
“Like, did he just hire her for her name?”
“Pretty much.”
“Oh my god,” I whisper, like I’ve just discovered a company conspiracy. “Wait, how do you know about the text?”
He shrugs. “Someone accidentally added me to it a while back. I never left. It’s…interesting reading.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What kind of interesting?”
Caden looks at me, dead serious. “According to last month’s thread, I’m gay, in a secret marriage with the CFO, and planning to fire half the marketing team because I don't like purple.”
I snort, which turns into an actual laugh, which turns into a full-on gasp because oh my god-
“You seduced me… while you were married. ”
He doesn’t deny it. Just gives me that look, the one that should be illegal in an office hallway, and says, “Don’t act like you didn’t seduce me right back.”
And damn it.
He’s not wrong.
I don’t even need to check the damn group chat to know Glenda’s lit it up like a reality show reunion. Because the second we step off the elevator, it’s like the air changes.
Everyone’s pretending not to look. Which is adorable. Because they absolutely are.
Heads down, eyes up. Screens open, but no one’s typing. One guy literally walks into a filing cabinet because he's too busy side-eyeing us like we just descended from the ceiling in slow motion.
And the vibe? Oh, it's a mix. A very spicy blend of fear, fascination, and office gossip-fuelled adrenaline. One thing is clear: they are definitely, definitely terrified of the married gay boss who just showed up with a woman.
I want to laugh. I want to grab Caden’s hand and twirl dramatically through the open-plan office like we’re announcing our engagement at a Bridgerton ball. But mostly, I just want to disappear into the break room and hyperventilate behind the fridge.
Because on one hand, yeah. I get it. Look at him. He’s tall, terrifyingly composed, criminally attractive , and walking exactly three inches behind me like some kind of corporate bodyguard-slash-boyfriend fantasy .
I feel like Bella when she walked into Forks High with Edward. Like, yup . This fine, brooding, emotionally complex specimen? Mine. Exclusively. Eternally. Bite me, whatever.
But on the other hand, I know what this looks like. I know what they think. That I got this job not because I’m qualified. Not because I have a degree and real ideas and something to say. But because I’m sleeping with the man who signs their checks.
Which, fine. I am sleeping with the man who signs their checks. But I also worked my ass off to get here.
And I hate that I suddenly feel like I have to prove it. Like I have to walk taller and smile less and use extra-long words just to compensate for the fact that I let him eat me out for breakfast this morning.
Caden leans in slightly, murmuring, “If it helps, no one here has the balls to ask.”
I smirk. “Even Glenda?”
“Especially Glenda. She’s too busy writing the next episode of The Marx sharp , brutal, brilliant women; and a few men too, who are running entire departments unofficially while being paid like glorified interns. Meanwhile, these bloated, golf-obsessed, khaki-wearing fossils are just… sitting.
Sitting in their overpriced chairs, sending three-word emails, getting their annual bonus to “motivate them” while people with actual brains and backbones are drowning under the weight of their laziness.
It makes my blood boil.
Which is perfect.
Because if they thought I got this job by riding Caden Marx into a promotion, they’re about to learn what happens when the girl you underestimate walks in with fire in her hands and your job performance on her desk .