Chapter 3 Strategically Lying
STRATEGICALLY LYING
JAMIE
I’ve seen him before, of course. Who hasn’t? He’s the freakin’ CEO. Always impeccably dressed like he stepped out of a magazine—sleek, commanding, devastatingly handsome.
Passing through the hallways on his way to some high-level meeting, head high, horns neatly polished, tie impossibly perfect even for an executive.
Everyone stares. No one breathes. He’s the kind of presence that makes you notice everything about yourself—the way your shirt clings, the way your glasses might be slightly askew, the minor quiver in your hands as you try to deliver mail without being noticed.
And here I am, an admin brought up from the mailroom, sitting behind Vanessa’s desk in her absence, pretending like I belong. Which, technically, I don’t.
I take a breath and remind myself: only until I prove myself.
That’s the mantra. That’s part of why I lied when Magnus made an incorrect assumption about my role.
I had no choice—I had to cover for Vanessa, had to make it sound official, had to keep the CEO from realizing a mailroom temp was sitting in her seat.
But maybe—just maybe—I wanted him to see me in a different light too, to notice more than my nervous hands or the stack of notes I meticulously organized.
Junior Strategist. The moment the words left my mouth, regret slammed into me, sharp as a slap.
And yet, the truth is impossible to ignore: I am capable.
I just need others to see it. It’s not my fault Labyrinth has the silly two-year requirement for internal candidates.
And the thought of Magnus looking at me, really looking…
It made my stomach twist and my heart race in a way I knew I shouldn’t let anyone see.
The office is quiet. He left hours ago, and in his absence I’ve become the world’s most neurotic wannabe junior strategist. I’ve shuffled papers, lined up pens by height order, smoothed the desk so many times the wood practically squeaks.
Checked my hair in the window’s reflection—twice, because apparently once wasn’t enough.
Lunch was Vanessa’s notes on the Community Outreach Initiative Campaign, devoured alongside the peanut butter and fluff sandwich I’d packed.
Very professional, I know. Nothing says “trusted strategist” quite like sticky marshmallow on your fingers.
But until someone tells me this sudden promotion comes with more than my usual pitiful hourly rate, I’ll keep brown-bagging like a pro.
At one minute to three, I know he’s coming.
Not because I hear him—no hoofsteps yet—but because the air changes, like the building itself is holding its breath.
Then comes the scent: woodsy cologne that smells like cedar and money, the kind of thing you can only buy if your credit card doesn’t whimper at the register.
And finally, his presence. That magnetic, slightly terrifying aura that makes the fluorescent lights flicker like they’re trying to impress him too.
He’s standing there in the doorway looking like the most gorgeous specimen in a suit, and even though he’s right on time, I nearly jump out of my chair when he speaks.
“Jamie.” His voice is deep, measured, and, for reasons my brain refuses to analyze fully, it makes my stomach flip. “Are you ready for our meeting?”
I cough, stand, and wave vaguely toward Vanessa’s chair. “Right. Um. Of course. Take the bigger chair. Please.”
He nods, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips, and my head spins at the thought that I might be the reason for it.
I step aside to give him room, and as he slides into the chair, he misjudges the space. His tail brushes against my ass—a brief, unintentional contact—but enough to make my pulse spike. Heat crawls up my neck, and I freeze, my brain short-circuiting on anything professional.
He mutters something under his breath, too low to catch, and his enormous brown eyes drop to the floor as he runs a hand through the long sweep of hair between his horns, tail now twitching nervously behind him.
And somehow, somehow, that little movement—his tail brushing me, the faint rumble in his chest as he shifts—makes my knees wobble.
I force my hands to stay at my sides, but my mind is a mess of “don’t stare, don’t faint, don’t let him know.
” It’s ridiculous. I’m trying to be professional, show him my smarts—and yet here I am, melting because his tail briefly touched my butt.
A tail. My brain files this under “Professional Boundaries” while my heart loudly objects.
He clears his throat and shifts in the chair, suddenly very aware of his body. I can see it in the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head—he’s panicked, and it’s… adorable. I don’t know what I expected from Magnus Trainor, but panicked isn’t it.
I step closer under the guise of adjusting some papers on the desk. “Uh… I thought you’d be more comfortable in the larger chair.”
“Right.” He sits back again, still tense. His hands lay on the armrests, fingers flexing slightly, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to hide it or if the motion is involuntary. He seems almost… self-conscious.
He spends time looking over what I’ve tried to cull together using Vanessa’s notes, nodding and making little positive noises that I shouldn’t find sexy.
“Jamie,” he says, leaning forward just enough for me to notice the warmth radiating from him, “these ideas you’ve put together—impressive.
” His voice is even, professional, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s trying not to betray something he doesn’t want me to see.
“You’ve thought this through. The pitches, the media kit plan… solid work.”
I blink. “Th-thank you, sir.” My heart races to a sprint. “I… I just… want to make sure things run smoothly while Vanessa—”
He interrupts me with a sharp, almost-too-sincere nod. “I see that. And I appreciate it. Truly.”
His eyes find mine, and there’s something, a moment, like maybe he knows he makes me nervous too. I’m not sure what to say. What to do. So I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind—“Cute tie”—and my entire face flushes.
The silence that follows is thick enough to butter toast. His brow arches, horns catching the overhead light like punctuation marks on my comment. My face is still on fire when I scramble to say more. “I mean—uh—your… tie. The pattern is very… symmetrical.”
Magnus blinks, and I consider throwing myself out the nearest window.
And that’s exactly when there’s a soft knock against the door.
“Yes? Come in,” Magnus says with a shake of his head.
A pair of enormous, dark, dusted wings fold inward as a tall figure eases through the door. A handsome mothman’s compound red eyes glint under the fluorescents, huge and unsettling, but his voice is gentle—reedy, almost apologetic.
“Sorry. Draft caught me.”
“Jack, Vanessa’s out sick. This is Jamie Torres, one of our new junior strategists.”
“Jack Stein.” He extends a hand, one wing shifting slightly behind him as if to balance the motion.
I shake it, and unlike Magnus’s soft fur, Jack’s hand is cool and dry, with a faint, papery texture—like the crisp edge of a book page just before it turns.
Jack sets a thick file on Vanessa’s desk. His long fingers leave a faint smear of powder on the desk, like chalk dust.
“Compliance reports,” he says. “The quarterly audits came back clean, except for one… small… thing.” His voice trails off like he’s narrating a bedtime story.
I nod as if I understand. I absolutely do not.
He turns his vast eyes on me. “You’re not new.”
Something about the way he says it makes it sound less like a statement and more like a prophecy.
“Um, yeah. I am. New here, I mean. Upstairs. I was in the mailroom, but now I’m in the junior strategist program, and I’m… filling in.”
Magnus’s eyes narrow, and it hits me—maybe all those times I walked past his office thinking he hadn’t noticed… he actually had.
Jack tilts his head. “Temporary things tend to last longer than people expect.” His wings twitch once, sending a shimmer of dust across the carpet. Then, as if realizing he’s said too much, he adds, “Welcome upstairs.”
Before I can reply, Magnus clears his throat. “Jack. Anything we need to handle immediately?”
Jack looks between us, unreadable behind those giant eyes. “No disasters today. But don’t sit in the red chair.” He nods toward a small chair in the corner of the office I’d hardly noticed before.
Magnus frowns. “Why not?”
Jack just shrugs. “You’ll see.”
And with that, he slips out the door, leaving a trail of faint powder in his wake the custodial staff will handle.
I stare after him. “…Is he always like that?”
Magnus exhales heavily, tugging at his tie. “Yes. Unfortunately, he’s usually right, too.”
I shrug and wander toward the small chair, still unsure what in the world he could’ve meant. I lower myself onto the cushion carefully… and instantly regret it.
A booming, squeaky honk erupts beneath me, echoing through the office like a dying goose… or a substantial fart.
I shoot to my feet, horrified. “What the—? I didn’t—!”
Magnus pinches the bridge of his nose. “Told you.”
I glare at the offending cushion, cheeks burning.
Magnus’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Welcome to the executive floor, Torres.”
I let out a breath, shaking off my defeat at the hands of cursed office furniture, and retreat back to the desk. The papers are safer territory—the campaign, the notes, Magnus himself.
“Anyway,” I say, forcing some professionalism back into my voice, “I’m glad you’re pleased. And I’m happy to meet again. Whenever you’d like. Vanessa mentioned lots of meetings. I know securing this account is important.”
I smile, not too broadly. There’s nothing flirty about it, but Magnus jumps to his feet—suddenly brisk, almost fleeing the office.
“Tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. Come to my office.”
I only catch a glimpse of the controlled tension in his stride, the way his sturdy thighs strain against what I’m guessing is imported wool.
His tail swishes just slightly with each step, and I swear my stomach lurches.
He moves with a barely contained energy that could topple walls if he were so inclined, and somehow, my brain refuses to focus on anything else.
I stare after him, mind buzzing. Did that just happen? Did Magnus Trainor, the CEO, get flustered because of me?
I shuffle back to the chair he occupied moments before and sink into it, his warmth still evident in the leather as I glide a hand over it.
My mind is a whirlwind: I’m supposed to be taking notes, managing the campaign pitch in Vanessa’s absence, keeping everything under control.
Instead, all I can think about is the heat of his tail’s accidental brush and the almost imperceptible way he tried to mask his reaction.
I sit alone and let my thoughts drift.
I imagine what it would be like to actually work with him—not just in stolen glances when delivering mail, but here, sharing space, sharing ideas.
He knows I’m from the mailroom now, but he thinks I’m a junior strategist. Maybe I can prove that I’m supposed to be here.
Maybe I can impress him enough that he stops seeing me simply as Vanessa’s fill-in and starts seeing me as someone he actually wants on his team.
And maybe he won’t be able to keep his reaction under wraps every time I’m near.
I shake my head, trying to get a grip. Focus.
Amara’s words repeat in my head. Professionalism first. But even as I straighten the stack of files, I can’t deny the rush from our brief contact, the brush that should have meant nothing but somehow left me warm, aware, and attempting to calm the raging boner in my pants.
I read over Vanessa’s notes. Her slogans for the pitch are…
creative. “Got Monster?” and “Horn to be Wild” are particularly interesting choices.
I jot down a few alternatives and rehearse what I’ll say during our meeting tomorrow.
Client projections. Outreach strategies.
Potential risks. I run through my points aloud in a low whisper, smoothing over every “um” and “I think” until it feels polished enough.
And yet, no matter how professional I make it, the image of him—the keen curve of his horns, the controlled tilt of his shoulders, the warmth that radiates from his entire body—keeps intruding.
I glance at the door, half-expecting him to storm back in, realize I’m not who he thinks I am, and bolt again. But he doesn’t. The office remains quiet, save for the faint buzz of the city outside and the occasional squeak of my chair as I shift, willing my erection to calm the fuck down.
I let out a shaky breath and mutter to myself, trying to reclaim some composure.
“Only until I prove myself.” The mantra tastes thin in my mouth, but it’s the only way I can justify the lie.
I’m in Vanessa’s office, commanding a space I don’t truly belong in.
But I can make it work. I will make it work. If I want a chance at more, I have to.
I lean back, fingers drumming lightly on the desk, and allow a small smirk.
He’s impressed. That’s what he said. Magnus Trainor, the CEO, is impressed with my ideas.
No need to wait another year to be eligible for the program.
That’s a victory. A foot in the door. A validation I’ve waited years for.
And somehow, even in my excitement, a shiver of anticipation rolls through me.
Tomorrow at our next meeting… he’ll see more of me.
The real me. And then, maybe, the stakes get higher.
Not just for the company, not just for the potential campaign, but for the subtle pull that neither of us can—or perhaps wants to—ignore.