Chapter 1 #2
At three fifteen, a coworker in HR smiles at me with that sweet fake politeness that always feels like a test.
“Lila,” she says, eyes flicking down my outfit again, “you look…nice today.”
I return the smile. “I always look nice.”
Her smile falters. Good.
At four, Ethan’s call runs long, so I stay late, because of course I do.
At six, I finally shut down my computer and grab my bag, telling myself I’m going home to eat something that isn’t sadness wrapped in plastic.
Ethan steps out of his office as I’m heading for the elevator.
He’s on his phone again, and his voice is low. He’s not looking at me, but he’s aware of me. He ends the call, and his eyes settle on me. “You’re leaving.”
“Yes,” I say. “It’s after six.”
He checks his watch, and his brows knit together in a frown. “You’re paid to be available.”
I don’t flinch. “I’m paid to be your assistant, and I’ve been your assistant for ten hours today.”
His eyes flash. For a second I think he’ll say something sharp, something that cuts. Instead, he says, “Tomorrow, be here at seven.”
My brows lift. “I’m here at eight.”
“Tomorrow,” he repeats, and he steps closer again. I can feel the heat of him, even though he isn’t touching me. “Seven.”
It’d probably be wise to say yes. My rent is overdue and my bank account is in the negative. I have no safety net.
I still say, “Then you’ll need to approve overtime, because I’m not doing charity work.”
Ethan’s stare hardens, and a small, dangerous thrill moves through me, because I’ve just said something no one says to him.
Then, slowly, he nods once.
“Fine,” he says. “Submit it.”
I blink again, because he agreed.
Then he turns and walks away like the entire exchange meant nothing.
But it meant something to me, because I can still feel his eyes on my body even after he’s gone.
I ride the elevator down with my heart pounding for no logical reason, and I tell myself to stop.
He’s my boss, and he’s rich and cold and probably dates women who don’t check their bank apps before they buy coffee.
Outside, the wind has a bite, the city is loud, and my feet ache in a way that feels personal. I walk two blocks to the subway, and I count my steps, telling myself I’m fine. I’m not fine.
I’m just used to it.
By the time I get home, my apartment smells faintly like old carpet and the neighbor’s cooking, and the ceiling stain over my kitchen sink looks bigger than it did last week.
I kick off my heels, drop my bag on the couch, and stand there for a second, staring at my own life.
This is what I’ve got.
A tiny one-bedroom with peeling paint and a faucet that drips, and a fridge that hums like it’s holding a grudge, and a job that keeps me one bad day away from disaster.
I open the pantry and stare at my options.
Pasta. Again.
I boil water, dump noodles, and lean on the counter while it cooks, because my body is tired in a way that makes me want to cry and punch something at the same time.
My phone buzzes again.
It’s my group chat.
GIRLS NIGHT EMERGENCY
Priya: Tell me you survived the Ice King today.
Jo: If he breathed in your direction I want details.
Dani: If he fired you, move in with me, but you’re paying in gossip.
I snort, because they know me too well, and I type with one hand while I stir pasta with the other.
Me: Survived. Barely. Also, I told him to approve my overtime and he did.
Three dots pop up.
Priya: I’m sorry, you WHAT?
Jo: Queen behavior.
Dani: Did he glare?
Priya: Did he punish?
Jo: Did he spank?
Dani: I’m asking respectfully, Lila.
I laugh, and it shakes something loose in my chest.
Me: He didn’t spank me, you animals.
Me: He just stared, then agreed, then walked away like he didn’t just acknowledge I’m a person.
Jo: That’s foreplay for him.
Priya: He’s gonna ruin you.
Dani: He’s already ruining her, we’re just waiting for the paperwork.
I drain the pasta, dump sauce from a jar, and eat standing up, because I’m too tired to sit and the couch looks like it would swallow me whole.
Then I open a bottle of cheap wine.
One glass becomes two, and two becomes three, because wine is cheaper than therapy and easier than pretending I’m not lonely.
By the third glass, the edges of the day soften, and my brain gets brave in the way it only gets when I’m off the clock and slightly buzzed.
I kick off my blazer and toss it over the chair, and I unbutton the top of my blouse, because breathing is nice.
I catch my reflection in the microwave door, and I pause.
Warm brown skin. Curly hair pulled into a messy bun. Hazel eyes with mascara I haven’t taken off yet. Full mouth. Full body.
Curves that don’t disappear just because someone in HR prefers women shaped like coat hangers.
I set my glass down, and I stare at myself like I’m seeing the problem and the potential at the same time.
Then my phone buzzes again.
Jo: I’m bored. Send something scandalous.
Priya: You won’t.
Dani: Send the outfit. For science.
I roll my eyes, but my mouth lifts.
Me: I’m literally in my apartment eating pasta.
Jo: Exactly. That’s the scandal. Free the nipple.
I huff a laugh, and the wine makes it feel like a good idea.
Not a nude. Not even close. Just a picture that says Yes, I’m hot, and yes, I’m still broke.
I adjust my blouse, and I angle the camera to catch cleavage without catching too much. I’m not ashamed of my body, and I’m not going to act like my chest is a weapon.
It’s just part of me.
I snap the photo and look at it. My cheeks turn red, because I look good, and I know it.
Then the stupid, reckless thought hits. If I leaned into it, if I used what I’ve got, could I fix my life?
The fantasy is easy when you’re tired and broke and you spend your days watching men with money make decisions that change everyone else’s life.
I type a caption with my thumb.
Me: Should I seduce a rich man or should I just eat pasta forever.
Priya: Seduce.
Jo: Seduce.
Dani: Seduce and then steal his wallet.
I laugh, exit the chat for a moment and take another sip. The buzz in my head turns warm and reckless. I could send the photo to them. They know how to hype me up. So I open the chat again and hit send.
The photo goes through.
For one second, everything is normal. Then my phone shifts in my hand, and the screen refreshes, and the chat header isn’t the girls’ group anymore.
It’s a single name on the top of my screen.
Ethan Cross
My throat closes. “No,” I whisper, and my voice sounds thin in my own kitchen.
I stare at the photo sitting in the thread, my cleavage and my stupid caption hanging there. Panicked, I jab at the screen, because I’m trying to unsend it, but it’s a text, not a miracle. This means I need to do damage control.
Me: Oh my god. I’m so sorry. That wasn’t for you.
My hands shake as I watch the screen. Nothing.
Then it changes.
Read.
I make a sound that isn’t a word as I stare, waiting for the universe to take pity on me, but the universe is busy. A second later, a message comes through, and it’s from my boss.
His reply appears on my screen, and I can’t breathe as I read it.
If you’re going to beg, baby girl…do it properly.