1. Anya #3
If they're making me prove myself, it's because they take business seriously, not because they enjoy watching me squirm.
Although the watching-me-squirm part might be a bonus.
Their voices fade as they head toward the elevator, leaving the wing quiet except for the soft hum of computers and the distant sound of traffic from the street below.
Jones's office light is still on, door still closed. I can see his silhouette moving behind the frosted glass—tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of controlled presence that dominates a room even when he's alone in it.
I should leave. It's past six, I've been here for eight hours, and I've accomplished more in one day than their previous secretary probably managed in a week.
But leaving first on my first day feels wrong—like admitting I can't keep up, like proving I'm not as committed as they are.
So I stay. I finish entering the last of the patient data, double-check the appointment confirmations for tomorrow, organize the supply invoices into neat stacks.
The tasks are mostly busy work now, but they keep my hands occupied and give me a reason to still be here when Jones finally emerges.
Except he doesn't emerge. Twenty minutes pass, then thirty, and his door stays closed while I run out of legitimate work to do.
The quiet of the empty wing presses in around me, making me hyperaware of every small sound—the soft click of my keyboard, the whisper of papers being shuffled, the barely audible hum of the air conditioning.
Then he calls my name. Just my name, nothing else, his voice carrying through the door with that low authority that makes something in my chest tighten.
I go.
The walk from my desk to his office feels longer than it should, each step echoing in the quiet hallway.
His door is closed, and I push it open to find him behind his massive dark wood desk, still in his dress shirt but with his sleeves pushed up higher, revealing more of the ink that spirals around his forearms.
The office is larger than I expected—floor-to-ceiling windows, leather chairs, built-in bookshelves lined with medical texts and journals. Everything about the space whispers success and control and the kind of quiet authority that doesn't need to announce itself.
"How's your first day?" he asks, leaning back in his chair.
The question sounds casual, but his blue eyes are focused on me with an intensity that makes my skin feel warm.
I cross my arms and try to look unbothered, which is a joke because nothing about being alone in this room with him feels bothering-adjacent.
"Fine." The word comes out flat, professionally neutral, exactly the tone I was aiming for.
Something shifts in his expression—subtle, barely noticeable, but there. The shift from politely interested to focused attention, like I just said something more interesting than I intended.
"We need to do something about that attitude of yours."
My spine goes straight, chin lifting automatically. "What attitude?"
He stands, the movement fluid and deliberate, and starts walking around the desk toward me.
Each step makes the space between us smaller, makes the air in the room feel thinner. I should back up, should maintain some professional distance, should remember that he's my boss and rolling my eyes at him probably wasn't the smartest career move.
I don't back up. I want to, but my feet seem rooted to the expensive carpet, and something stubborn in me refuses to give ground just because he's tall and broad and moving toward me like he has every right to take up all the space in the room.
"You don't roll your eyes at your bosses," he says, voice dropping to that low register that does things to my pulse I absolutely cannot afford to acknowledge.
The urge to roll my eyes again is almost overwhelming, but I resist it. Barely. He's close enough now that I can smell whatever cologne or soap he uses—something clean and warm with an edge of something distinctly masculine underneath.
My body is responding in ways I did not authorize and cannot control, heat pooling low in my belly, awareness spreading through my bloodstream like honey.
He reaches up and hooks one finger under my chin, tilting my face up to meet his eyes. The touch is light, barely there, but it might as well be a live wire for how it affects me.
My lips part slightly, breath coming faster than it should, and I hate every traitorous cell in my body for reacting like this.
"Why are you blushing, sweet stepsister?"
The nickname lands somewhere between affection and possession, and my face gets hotter in response. Because I am blushing, obviously and embarrassingly, the kind of full-body flush that starts at my chest and works its way up to my hairline.
"I'm not." The lie comes out breathless and unconvincing, which makes it worse.
His thumb brushes along my jawline, just once, and I make the mistake of looking at his mouth.
The smile that curves his lips is different from the brief, professional ones I've seen all day—slower, warmer, with an edge of something that makes my thighs clench together involuntarily.
He leans forward, close enough that his breath touches my ear when he speaks, close enough that the heat of his body surrounds me like a warm wall I want to sink into.
"I've always found you so fucking beautiful," he says, voice low and rough and devastatingly honest. "But this—when you're being stubborn and full of attitude—I seem to like it better."
My mouth opens, some sharp retort forming on my tongue, because that's what I do—I get sharp when I'm cornered, I fight back when someone gets too close to something I'm not ready to examine.
But before I can say anything, before I can armor myself with sarcasm or deflection or righteous anger, he kisses me.
His mouth covers mine, warm and sure and completely without hesitation, and every thought in my head disappears.