Chapter 3
LILA
The next morning, I fight through a migraine and throw on clothes like I’m late for my own execution, because most of me knows I’m in trouble, but a small, traitorous part is thrilled that my long-standing fantasy about my silver-fox boss might finally be reciprocated.
On the train, a man stares at my legs. I stare right back until he looks away, then I answer an email on my phone because I’m already behind. Cross Enterprises is three stops from my apartment, and I use the ride to rehearse calm, because calm is armor and I need it today.
I don’t turn my phone on until I’m standing outside the building, and the second it powers up, my stomach drops again.
There’s a notification.
One message.
From Ethan Cross.
I lock the screen, and I walk inside like I’m not one wrong tap away from either a heart attack or the worst day of my life.
The lobby is bright and cold, the floors shine, and the security guard nods at me. I nod back and keep moving. The elevator ride up is silent, and I can feel my heartbeat in my throat, which is not helping the migraine, but I keep my face neutral.
The doors open on my floor, and the office is already busy. People glance up as I walk by, some of them smile and some stare. I keep moving. Being curvy in corporate is a full-time job on top of the job you’re paid for, and it’s exhausting even on a good day.
On a bad day, it’s war.
I pass the glass-walled conference room, and someone inside is talking about “presentation optics,” and I want to laugh because the optics in here always come down to one thing.
Who gets to take up space without being punished for it.
I make it to my desk, and I’m logged in before my coffee even finishes dripping, because Ethan’s calendar isn’t going to handle itself and his patience has never been a renewable resource.
My inbox is already stacked, and my first task is a reschedule, because the man refuses to acknowledge time as a limitation and insists on stacking meetings like he’s trying to win some private competition.
I’m adjusting a call with legal when I hear heels approaching. I don’t have to look up to know who it is.
Sloane Mercer is in business development, and she’s pretty in that a looks expensive and rehearsed way, and she’s been at Cross longer than me, which she brings up anytime she can. She also loves the kind of subtle cruelty that’s hard to report without sounding dramatic.
I look up anyway, because I don’t do fear.
“Morning, Lila,” she says, and her smile is bright enough to blind. “Cute skirt.”
“It’s a skirt.” I keep typing because I’m not giving her the satisfaction of watching me react.
Her eyes flick down, then up. “Brave choice for a Tuesday.”
I stop typing and meet her gaze.
“What’s brave about clothing?” I ask, and my voice stays mild, because mild is what you use when you’re about to cut someone down.
Her smile tightens. “You know. It’s just…noticeable.”
I nod slowly. “Yes, I’m aware my body exists, and I’m also aware that we’re at work, so if you need something professional from me, ask for it, and if you’re here to comment on my shape, you can do that somewhere else.”
Sloane’s eyes flash, and she shifts her weight like she’s trying to regain control of the moment. “I’m just saying,” she replies, voice sweet, “people talk.”
“I know,” I say. “People talk when they’re bored, and I’m busy, so unless you’re paying my bills, you’re not qualified to audit my outfit.”
Her mouth opens then closes.
I turn back to my screen, and I add, because I can’t help myself, “Also, if you’re worried about optics, you should focus on your numbers, not my skirt.”
The silence that follows is sharp, and I can practically hear her swallowing her pride.
She leans closer anyway, like she needs to win something. “Ethan doesn’t like sluts.”
I look up again, and I hold her stare.
“He likes competence,” I say. “If he ever asks me for fashion advice, I’ll let you know.”
Her cheeks flush, and she straightens fast.
“Whatever,” she mutters, then she walks off, her heels sounding angry against the floor.
I exhale, my migraine pulsing, but I feel better anyway because I’m not doing this today. I’m not letting some woman with too much lip gloss and not enough work try to make me smaller.
I take a sip of coffee, and it tastes like survival.
The morning moves fast and it has to, because Cross Enterprises runs on pressure and pretending you love it.
I field three calls in ten minutes, I reroute a vendor complaint, I fix a calendar conflict that would’ve put Ethan in two places at once, and I catch a mistake in a travel booking that would’ve sent him to the wrong airport.
At 9:12, my desk phone rings, and my spine tightens before I even pick it up.
“Cross,” his assistant line says on the display, even though I am his assistant, because the man needs his own label for everything.
I answer. “Good morning, Mr. Cross.”
His voice is controlled, nothing about it betraying what happened last night. “In my office. Ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” I hang up and sit there staring at my screen like it’s going to save me.
I think about the message he sent this morning and shake my head.
If I open it and it’s cold, I’ll feel humiliated.
If I open it and it’s not, I’ll lose focus, and I need focus more than I need answers.
So I grab the quarterly report binder, print the updated summary sheet, and check my reflection in the dark screen of my monitor.
Only then do I stand, smooth my skirt, and walk to Ethan’s office, just to find his door closed.
That’s new. I knock once, then I hear his voice.
“Come in.”
I push the door open. He’s behind his desk, sleeves rolled to his forearms, jacket draped over the chair, tie loosened just enough to make him look expensive, remote, and inhumanly sexy all at once. He looks up as I enter, and his eyes hit me hard.
The migraine spikes, my stomach flips, and I hate my body for being traitorous.
“Close the door,” he says.
I do, and the click feels final.
I walk to the desk and set the binder down carefully, then I stand straight with my hands at my sides.
He doesn’t reach for the binder. He just looks at me.
“You turned your phone off last night,” he says.
My heart stutters, but I keep my face neutral. “I do that sometimes.”
His gaze doesn’t move. “Do you always do that after midnight texts?”
My throat tightens, and I refuse to drop my eyes.
“I didn’t send it at midnight,” I say, because I’m petty, and also because I’m not letting him set the narrative. “I sent it at eleven something, and it was an accident.”
His mouth curls upward. “Was the rest an accident as well?”
My pulse pounds low, and my fingers curl slightly at my sides. “We’re at work.” My voice stays firm, even though my skin feels hot. “You called me in for quarterly reports.”
His eyes flick to the binder then back to my face. “Fine.”
He finally opens the binder, and I exhale quietly, grateful for the pivot. “Walk me through the revenue dip in Q2.” His tone turns business, but his gaze stays too aware.
I step closer, point to the highlighted section, and start explaining. It’s safer to talk numbers than to talk about what happened last night.
“The dip is tied to the delayed rollout in the west region,” I say, and I keep my voice even. “If the rollout hits on schedule this quarter, the recovery is on track, but the risk is the vendor backlog, so I’d recommend pushing procurement to clear it by next week.”
He nods once, then he slides a page across the desk toward me. Our fingers brush when I reach for it. The contact is brief, but my body reacts like it’s not.
I try to ignore it, pick up the page, and keep talking. “As for the attrition rate, it looks worse than it is, because it’s concentrated in one team. If you isolate that unit, the overall trend is stable.”
He leans back just a little, pen in hand, that smug smile still playing at his mouth—like watching me try not to fumble is the most fun he’s had all day.
I push through anyway. Because if I stop, I’ll lose the thread, and if I lose the thread, I’ll start thinking about his text, and then I’ll start thinking about his voice, and then I’ll be doomed.
I turn a page, and he reaches at the same time. Our hands touch again. This time, his fingers linger long enough that an ache kicks in between my thighs. My pulse races as I pull my hand back.
He doesn’t pretend.
His eyes drop to my lips then lift again.
“Continue,” he says.
My voice stumbles. “The, um, the marketing spend—”
I stop, because I never say “um” in his office, and the fact that I just did makes my stomach twist.
His mouth lifts higher, and his eyes begin to sparkle. He’s clearly amused. While that irritates me, it also does something else, something worse. I clear my throat. “The marketing spend is higher because of the campaign shift, but it’s still within budget, and the ROI projections are attached.”
He leans forward and tilts his head slightly, his smile growing wolfish. “You’re off your game today, Bennett.”
My chin lifts. “I’m not off, I’m tired.”
“Tired,” he repeats, and his gaze holds mine. “Or distracted.”
I don’t answer and tap the binder once. He slides it aside and rests his forearms on the desk. His voice lowers. “Did you sleep?”
I blink. “That’s not a work question?”
“It is if you’re stammering over numbers,” he answers, calm as ever.
I swallow. “I slept.”
His eyes narrow. “Liar.”
My heart kicks hard.
I should shut this down and walk out, or at the very least remind him he’s my boss and this is inappropriate.
Instead, my mouth opens before my brain catches up.
“I had a headache,” I say, and I immediately regret how close that sounds to telling him anything real.
His gaze holds. “From the wine?” he says.
I stiffen. “You don’t know what I drank.”
“I can guess,” he replies. His tone stays even, but his eyes don’t.
I force myself to pick up the binder again, because I need something to do with my hands.
“Do you want the Q3 forecast?” I ask.
He pauses, then he nods. “Yes.”
I flip to the next section and start talking again. He listens, asks pointed questions, and I answer them without letting my voice shake again. By the time we reach the end, my migraine is back in full force and my pulse is still wrong, but I’ve made it through.
I close the binder. “Anything else, sir?”
He watches me for a beat. “Come here.”
My stomach flips so hard it feels like I swallowed a stone, and I don’t move.
His eyes sharpen. “Lila.”
I take one step forward, then another, and I stop at the edge of his desk. He reaches for the sheet of paper I printed earlier, then he holds it out. He leans in slightly, and his voice drops.
“Don’t turn your phone off again.”
My throat tightens. “That’s not your call.”
His mouth lifts again, and now it’s definitely a smirk.
“It is when I want it to be,” he says, quiet.
My blood heats and my anger sparks, because he’s pushing, and he’s doing it because he can. I straighten. “If you want to discuss my phone habits, submit a request in writing.”
His eyebrows lift slightly, like he’s impressed, and I hate that I enjoy that.
“Go,” he says. The word is both dismissal and control.
I turn and walk out, and my legs feel steady even though I’m vibrating inside. I sit at my desk, pull up my calendar, and bury myself in work because it’s the only thing that keeps me from spiraling.
Sloane passes by again at noon, leaning on the edge of my desk like she owns the space.
“Busy morning?” she says.
“Mm hm,” I reply.
Her eyes flick to Ethan’s closed office door. “He called you in early.”
“Yes,” I say.
She smiles. “He’s particular about who he keeps close.”
I look up slowly. “I’m particular about who I waste time on.” I hold her gaze. “So if you have something you need, say it. If not, move along.”
Her smile tightens again. “Wow,” she says. “Touchy.”
“Efficient,” I correct.
She scoffs and walks away, and I go back to my screen because I’m not playing her game.
The rest of the day runs fast and clean. I keep my head down and do my job like it’s a weapon.
At five thirty, I start packing up and my stomach knots, because the day is ending and tomorrow is coming and I still haven’t figured out what to do with Ethan. I decide to open his message.
Ethan: Have dinner with me?
My heart stutters. Across the room, Sloanne’s eyes narrow like she knows something, and maybe that’s why I type what I do next.
Me: Fine. Just tonight.
I keep my phone face down anyway.
At six, I clock out and ride the elevator down with my shoulders tense and my thoughts scattered, already telling myself this night is over before it begins.
I walk fast, ignore the throb in my temples, and keep my head down all the way home, where I kick off my shoes and drop my bag like I’m done for the day.
I pour water, take two slow sips, and sit on the edge of the couch with my phone in my hand and my heart refusing to settle. I’m not waiting for anything, I tell myself, but I don’t put the phone down either.
The message comes at 6:24 p.m.
Ethan: Good girls keep their promises.
My breath catches and my stomach flips, but I don’t move—at least not until the next message lands with impossible timing.
Ethan: Your car’s outside.
I rise before I’ve made a decision, cross to the window, and pull the curtain back just enough to confirm he’s right. A sleek black car waits at the curb like it’s been there all day, and I stare at it long enough to give myself every possible reason to stay inside.
None of them win.
I change quickly, swipe on fresh lipstick, and step out the door with my heart pounding and my legs moving on their own. The car door opens as I approach, and the driver nods once before I slide into the back seat and let it shut behind me.
The ride is silent, smooth enough to feel expensive. I sit with my hands clasped tightly in my lap while the city blurs past, trying not to think about what happens next and failing completely.
When we pull up, the building is all glass and clean lines, the kind of place you don’t enter without a keycard and a tax bracket to match, but the driver walks me straight to the private elevator and uses a code without looking down.
My ears pop as we climb, and I can feel the blood rush in my throat as the doors open to a penthouse that smells like power and money and restraint.
I don’t wander. I follow the faint flicker of candlelight and step out onto the terrace, where everything stops.
A table set for two waits by the glass railing. Behind it, Ethan stands with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled, his eyes already on me like he never doubted I’d show.
The view behind him stretches wide enough to make the city look small, but it’s the way he looks at me that tightens my throat and steals whatever breath I had left.