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Content Note

Adults only. This is fictional workplace erotica intended for readers 18+. Contains sexual tension, power dynamics, and explicit themes in future installments.

Reminder! This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of my imagination or are used in a made-up way. Any likeness to real people, living or dead, or actual events is totally coincidental.

An After Hours Installment:

Susan Lewis

Beacon Hill looks different at night, the kind of pretty that thinks it’s better than you. The red-bricked townhomes stand shoulder to shoulder in their black trim and polished shutters, all old money and locked doors, pretending they don’t have secrets sweating behind their windows. Streetlamps drag long shadows over the brick and ironwork, making the whole narrow street feel like a throat closing. Perfect place for Miss Vale to hide, if she didn’t have someone like me watching.

I was responsible for her initial employment onboarding. Address, personal phone number, emergency contact, tax forms, direct deposit paperwork, building badge, parking pass: all the puzzle pieces of a person a company collects before deciding they’re useful. I didn’t need to be clever. I only needed to be the woman no one noticed sitting behind a desk, filing everyone else’s lives away. The work is boring, sure, but secrets have a pulse if you know where to press your fingers. The thrill is what keeps me clocking in, day after day, smiling at people who have no idea how much of them I keep.

Today was my luckiest day of sleuthing to date, and honey, I don’t believe in luck. Luck is what pretty girls call it when the world bends over and opens every door for them. Women like me have to notice details. We have to collect scraps. Earlier this evening, I noticed how close Anatolia and Cassian stood beside each other, close enough to make the space between them feel deliberate. They barely spoke, but that was the filthy little beauty of it. One look between them told me everything: those two were waiting for the office to empty.

What are you two going to talk about after hours, this dreadfully late on a Friday night?

Tim’s office shares a line with Cassian’s through some old routing glitch IT still hasn’t fixed. I can catch echoes of Cassian’s private calls and, occasionally, conversations through the speaker. It depends on how close he stands to his desk. One of the girls in IT told me about it over lunch months ago, explaining the technical crap in painful detail. I forgot most of it. I only remembered the part that mattered.

When I overheard Cassian talking with Anatolia, I had to clasp a hand over my mouth to stop myself from squealing. I finally had the chance to catch the two of them together. I don’t know exactly what they talked about, but the two pieces must be connected. The gossip alone was worth risking my job. I only have Anatolia’s address. Now I just need to pray that Cassian is visiting her, and not some other lady of the night. I’ve worked for executives like him before. They think they’re slick, but they all get careless eventually. All it takes is one misplaced phone call on an office line instead of a cell, one name spoken too softly behind a closed door, one address repeated when they think no one important is listening.

The taxi drops me two houses down from her townhome. I pay in cash and leave a crumpled twenty on the seat before stepping out into the cold.

I watch the driver pull away, tires hissing softly over the street as he turns toward the city center to pick up another fare.

One of her neighbor’s lights is out, so that side is safer. I slip through the narrow space between the brick wall and a dense set of bushes near the entryway. From the sidewalk, the shrubs look thick and impenetrable, but inside, the branches hollow out just enough for a woman to crouch, breathe quietly, and see what she needs to see.

And now, we wait.

~

Near the hour mark, a silver vehicle with tinted windows turns the same corner the taxi disappeared around. I can’t identify the driver yet.

When I see that it’s Cassian, I tuck my binoculars away, careful to avoid catching any light on the lenses and giving myself up.

~

Once he’s inside, I lift them again.

Anatolia’s red velvet slip hugs her body in all the right places, emphasizing her natural hourglass figure. I envy how easily it all comes to her. I remember what it felt like to be held in a man’s gaze, to have his hands touch my body, back when I cared about love. Love isn’t real. That’s what a business like ours does: packages up the idea that love is attainable, for a price.

Through the binoculars, I mentally catalog her soft breasts, narrow waist, and shapely legs, every pretty little detail that Cassian will most certainly ruin himself over. I can see why he’d be attracted to her. But I never thought the two of them would end up together. It’s too late now. Fate’s red thread has been cut. It feels good to be on the victorious side for once, instead of choking on my own victimhood.

Anatolia collapses onto Cassian’s chest, her own chest rapidly rising and falling. Then the two of them disappear below the window ledge, leaving me with a perfect view of her staircase and nothing else.

Wrong angle. Time to make my move.

Just like the videos showed me.

I tuck the binoculars away and crawl closer, keeping low below the black shutters. The brick scrapes my shoulder as I reposition myself under the window, close enough now to hear the faint shift of movement inside. I use my thumb to wind the disposable camera’s film wheel. No flash. I’m not stupid. Steadying the camera with both hands, I take a risk and rise just high enough to clear the window ledge, hoping Anatolia is still leaning against Cassian. I center them in the viewfinder, snap a picture, then drop like a jackrabbit and stuff the camera under my shirt, dampening the obscene sound as best as I can.

There’s no way he’ll be able to ignore me after this. I’ll have him like putty in my hands when he sees what I have on him, especially since I’m bringing all this delicious evidence with me. A forbidden photo of him and his love. Tsk. Tsk. Cassian, you messy man. Look at you. A boss and his underling. All the big heads will be at the funeral, so he can’t misbehave. And when he’s backed into a corner, who will he fall back on? Yes. Me. The one with the naughty evidence. The only person close enough to hurt him.

I’ve been due a promotion for ten years now. I’m getting older, and I don’t have the time or patience to take any more shit from this company. The work keeps piling on, especially with this new idiot, Tim, making every problem ten times bigger than it needs to be. My HOA dues jumped from $200 a month to $800 a month, and to make matters worse, I can’t afford them. Not without a decent promotion. My house is being foreclosed on, and ever since the foreclosure summons arrived, my life has been in shambles. My fear of homelessness grows with each passing day, with no financial relief in sight.

It wasn’t always like this. I used to have money in my bank account. An annual Hawaii vacation. A well-maintained, tight little body. Frequent sex. Sometimes with my husband, but not always. Then it all changed. How did it get this bad in just a matter of months? My grip on life feels like a fool’s errand. The tighter I squeeze the sand, the faster it slips through my fingers.

Fuck Cassian Rhodes. He has power, money, and status. He can share some of his treasure with us peons, can’t he?

I don’t have much choice. It’s bankruptcy or blackmail.

I’ve come too far to turn back now.

~

It doesn’t take long to get the photo processed at a film lab on Washington Street. Places like that still smell faintly of chemicals and old paper, but for enough money, even strangers know how to keep their eyes down and hurry.

I hold it up against the light.

There they are: Cassian and Anatolia, enveloped in a loving embrace, both of them flushed and messy, caught in the soft, damning aftermath. Sweat beads along their skin. Thankfully, her dim hallway lighting is just enough to bring the right details to the surface.

You watch yourself at the office, Cassian. Because there will always be another set of eyes on you, recording your every move.

I practice my speech in front of the mirror.

Allow me to introduce myself properly, Mr. Rhodes. My name is Susan Lewis. I’m Tim Abbot’s secretary, and you’ve never once said good morning to me. I have a list of demands I believe you’ll be inclined to follow because, otherwise, you and your lover will become the kind of scandal no advertising agency in Boston will touch.

Subscribe now

Adults only. This is fictional workplace erotica intended for readers 18+. Contains sexual tension, power dynamics, and explicit themes in future installments.

Reminder! This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of my imagination or are used in a made-up way. Any likeness to real people, living or dead, or actual events is totally coincidental.

_{Photo by chloe s. on Unsplash}

~

8067 Cherry Ave. Unit B.

Anatolia’s red-bricked townhome stands before me, the metal letter B illuminated by a nearby streetlamp’s staggeringly bright light. The houses next to hers are also historic brick red, as many Boston neighborhoods often are, preserving their original designs. I wouldn’t know which house is hers if it weren’t for the metal plate beside her entryway.

But after arriving at her doorstep, I am pleasantly surprised to find she has a ceramic pot of assorted daisies. Their bright white and pink heads soften the harsh black paint coating Anatolia’s window shutters.

I readjust my grip on the bouquet, then lift a hand to knock before noticing the extraordinary woodwork on her door. I run my hand over its dark veneer surface, taking in this ancient hundred-year-old relic, its brass fittings, all fine handiwork. In my youth, I often daydreamed about being a woodcarver. At the time, not knowing the ways of the world, I thought it was an honorable career that would give me opportunities to work with my hands.

But I grew older, and my dream faded with time.

To my right, a shape moves.

From between wine-red curtains, a whiskery face pokes out. A gorgeous long-haired tuxedo cat sits on the windowsill, tilting its head ever so slightly as if evaluating my presence. Friend or foe? Who am I, a stranger and a man no less, to arrive on Miss Vale’s doorstep without prior approval from this magnificent creature, who continues to blink its bright, moony eyes at me from behind the glass?

I smile, then heave a sigh of relief.

I’m not sure what it is, but the tension in my chest melts away.

I’m glad she’s fond of cats too.

I didn’t think much on the drive here. I put the car in gear and left as soon as I received her text. But now, as I stand in front of her door, I realize the seriousness of the situation.

What if one of our coworkers lives here?

What if she has roommates?

What if this isn’t what she meant when she told me not to leave her waiting?

Before I can continue my endless spiral of what-ifs, the door swings open as if answering my questions with divine premonition. A slice of light crosses over me, momentarily blinding me. Then I’m left standing in the presence of who appears to be Anatolia.

But not the professional, minimalistic Anatolia I’m used to seeing around the office.

This is the real Anatolia. The version that I can touch. That I can hold.

She wears a red velvet slip that dips dangerously low across her bare chest, edged with delicate white lace. The fabric clings to her body in a way that makes every sensible thought in my head fade away. Her loose brunette curls fall over her collarbone, soft and tousled, as if she has spent the evening letting herself relax, shedding the office exterior, and becoming her true self.

My blood heats. Pressure gathers low in my body.

Her parted lips are inches from my own, but it’s her gaze that ruins me. That damning, sensual gaze inviting me inside. To grab her, take her into my arms. Devour her like the unleashed animal I’m slowly turning into. We’re beyond professional now.

My restraint thins by the second. Every part of me wants to press against her. To press into her. To find out if she tastes as dangerous as she looks.

I present the bouquet to her before I do something reckless.

Anatolia takes it into her arms, but her eyes never leave mine.

Two pairs of brown eyes weighing consequences.

She lowers her face to the flowers, breathing in the tulips, saffron crocus blooms, and poppies as if they had belonged to her long before I bought them. Cupping them against her chest, she gives me a second longing look.

“Cassian,” she whispers, “I don’t know how to thank you.”

She turns away and places the flowers on a nearby table.

When she returns, I don’t get a word in before she hooks a finger through my belt buckle and pulls me inside.

The door shuts behind me. My back meets the wood.

Anatolia is against me before I can breathe, her body warm through the velvet, her hands already testing the edges of my restraint.

“You’re a true gentleman, Cassian,” she says. “But you make me worry.”

Her mouth curves downward. “You don’t want me to worry, do you?”

“No,” I murmur. “I don’t want my sunrise to worry.”

Her eyes widen. Her name means sunrise. The sun rising in the East.

Slowly, I trace her jaw, taking in her beauty.

“Anatolia, darling. What is it? You can tell me anything.”

She brings her lips to my ear and whispers, “I’m worried you’ll never desire me. That you won’t see beyond our friendship.” Then her voice shifts, softening with sincere concern.

“I don’t want to ruin what we have.”

Dammit. She’s going to make me forget every careful thing I came here to say.

“I didn’t buy you flowers because I was worried about ruining our friendship,” I say. “I bought you flowers because I see you as more than my executive assistant. More than my friend. I want to see where this goes.”

Her breathing changes.

“But if you ask me to leave right now,” I continue, “I’ll go. I won’t say another word. I understand it’s late. I understand that this is…complicated.”

Anatolia narrows her eyes, studying me. Then she takes my hand.

She guides it beneath the hem of her nightgown and places it between her legs. My fingers find she’s warm. Naked. Already wet.

I stop, searching her face for signs of hesitation.

“Tell me to stop,” I whisper, “and I will.”

She holds my gaze.

“Yes,” she whispers clearly.

I slide one finger into her, and she gasps against my mouth. Her body tightens around me. She pulses her muscles, and I groan. Hungry to feel more of her, wanting to rip everything off and give it to her, right here on the hardwood.

I kiss her like I’ve been starved for months and have finally been invited to the table. She opens for me, hands moving to my belt, pulling at the buckle with impatient fingers. The leather slips free. It drops to the floor.

Her hands go to my zipper next, hurried, and the sound of it lowering is obscene in the quiet entryway.

I push a second finger inside her.

“Cassian,” she gasps.

I work my fingers slowly at first, then with more purpose, learning the rhythm of her body by the way her hips move against my hand. She lifts one leg around my waist, pulling us tighter together, and I catch her by the hip to keep her steady.

Her nails dig into my shoulder.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers.

I curl my fingers, and her head falls back. She trembles in my arms, her velvet slip riding higher, her breath breaking into smaller, needier sounds with every movement of my hand.

I want to know what she looks like when she comes apart.

I’m going to be the reason she forgets about the ugly things waiting for her next Sunday morning.

“Cassian,” she breathes again.

I lower my mouth to her throat.

“I’ve got you.”

With the hand cupping her ass, I move my fingers lower, reaching the soft spot of skin. I increase the pressure and Anatolia arches her back with pleasure.

Her body tightens around my fingers.

Once. Twice.

She shatters, gripping my shirt as she cries out against my shoulder, her hips rocking into my hand as pleasure moves through her in waves. I hold her there, steady and close, as she lets herself go.

She sags against me.

The hallway is quiet except for our breathing.

I ease my hand from beneath her nightgown and smooth the lace back into place with gentle care.

She laughs softly and bats my hand away.

“You’re putting them away already?” Her bottom lip pouts. “I still have more in me.” She looks down at my large bulge through her lashes.

“Do you?”

We share a sly, knowing smile.

Anatolia steps back, slowly unties the velvet belt around her waist, and lets it fall to the floor.

I lower myself to my knees and pull her close.

The fun’s not over yet.

The night has only just begun.

Adults only. This is fictional workplace erotica intended for readers 18+. Contains sexual tension, power dynamics, and explicit themes in future installments.

Reminder! This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of my imagination or are used in a made-up way. Any likeness to real people, living or dead, or actual events is totally coincidental.

Subscribe now

~

Anatolia leaves me a sticky note with the day, time, and place of the funeral.

At the bottom, in small, tidy script, is her personal phone number.

I let the note fall onto my desk.

It is too late for me now, as I have already promised Anatolia I will be her plus-one. Her date. Her shield. Whatever word I need to tell myself to make this task feel less impossible.

I have the board to think about. I have poured no small amount of time into this company: twenty years. I’ve built relationships with clients we once thought were unreachable for a company started by two friends on a night very much like this one. We were torn between choices, between being a money-grubbing company and doing what we chose to do: paying every employee a livable wage, with $60,000 as the starting entry-level salary, and the president’s pay capped at no higher than three times the lowest-paid employee. When it was Arthur and me, those kinds of decisions weren’t difficult to make.

Of course, Richard Veyron will attend his son’s funeral. And Tim Abbot, the president, might catch wind of rumors before the papers do, if the funeral is public. Every hungry set of eyes in that chapel would be waiting to turn my choice to protect Miss Vale into something ugly and selfishly profitable.

A VP walking into Veyron’s son’s funeral with his executive assistant, a woman nearly half his age, on his arm would draw one obvious question.

How long have they been together?

I need to protect her from scandal.

I need to protect my job, too.

Those two things are no longer separate. I have made my decision, and I stand by it, regardless of how tricky this situation may become.

Is she worth it?

I place both hands on the desk and let my head hang, wracking my brain for answers.

Is she worth all this trouble?

The question offends me the second I let it enter.

Anatolia makes all of this—my dull career, the distance growing between coworkers, the endless meetings, the intense pressure paired with tight deadlines, the awful loneliness of waking up every morning inside a life I have outgrown—feel worth surviving.

With aching realization, I clutch a hand to my chest, gripping the fabric tight.

She’s the first person I wake up thinking about and the last person on my mind before I fall asleep.

This crazy, stirring feeling in my chest has no professional explanation. No safe, risk-managed category to neatly file away.

I have chosen her.

I will protect her.

But my decision feels heavy, and I’m uncertain whether it’s reciprocated. What if she doesn’t feel the same way about me? From my position of authority, I know more about Anatolia than I should, by the nature of our jobs. Her schedule. Work habits. Her favorite ink pen. The way she takes her coffee black but her tea with cream. How she rubs her temple when Abbot asks, yet again, for another “quick revision” at five in the afternoon.

She knows almost nothing about me.

Not in the way two people know each other, when they look beyond the surface and see into each other’s most private, shadowed parts. Not the way I know how her eyes fill with tears when she’s overwhelmed with projects. How her left hand falls asleep when she types for too long without taking a break.

She deserves to know who I am, especially if she’s putting her career, her reputation, and possibly her safety in my hands.

I look at her phone number again.

Then at the note.

Then back at the empty chair.

I want to prove to her that I’m human, too. Not just her boss. I understand that her ask was more than a simple favor. And this isn’t an ordinary funeral under ordinary circumstances. What we have between us goes beyond an arrangement between a VP and his assistant.

A gesture.

What a terrible, dangerous word.

Fuck it all to hell.

I search for the nearest florist open this late on a Friday evening. Find one. Rain & Shine Florals. Five minutes away.

My solution.

*

A bell chimes as I push open the heavy wooden door leading into Rain & Shine. The shop smells like damp soil, freshly cut grass, a forest after heavy rain, and something sweet I cannot name. Buckets of flowers crowd the walls. Roses, lilies, carnations, blooms I have no name for. Everything is alive in the way my office never is.

An older woman with long silver hair braided down her back looks up from behind the counter and smiles like she has been expecting me. Her apron is dusted with soil, and her dusty pink gardening gloves look ripe with dew.

The florist. And my savior.

“Hiya, darling,” she says. “Welcome to Rain & Shine. I’m Sally. This shop has been in my family for generations, so if you need anything at all, don’t be shy. We have a little bit of everything, and if you have a special request, I can arrange that too.”

She reminds me of a loving grandmother, the nurturing kind who probably gives the best hugs and makes a wicked cup of tea.

“Sally,” I say, clearing my throat. “My name is Cassian. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Then my confidence gives way as I hesitate.

Anatolia isn’t just my assistant. And she’s not…a mistake.

She can be both my assistant and my heart’s ruin.

“There’s this woman,” I start.

Sally’s brows lift.

“I’m crazy about her,” I admit, and the words leave my mouth before my pride can stop them. “She’s brilliant. She knows the right thing to say when I’m spiraling. She makes my chaotic world quieter. She’s the light to my darkness.”

I hear myself and nearly wince. The sun to my moon is sitting somewhere in the back of my throat, thank God, still unsaid.

Sally puts one hand on her hip.

“Sweetie,” she says, “does she have a name?”

I stammer like a child caught eating too many cookies before dinner.

“Anatolia.”

Sally’s face changes slightly. Softens.

“Anatolia,” she repeats, like she is tasting the shape of it. “That is a beautiful name.”

“It suits her.”

“I imagine it does.”

She turns away, humming a melody only she knows, and begins moving through the shop with purpose.

“If you’d like to wait,” she says, “I’ll gather my babies together, something that will fit the mark.”

“Thank you.”

“Will you be taking them to her tonight?”

The question lands like a fist to the chest.

Fuck it to bits. I should have said no or made up a responsible-sounding excuse for the actual funeral we’re attending.

Instead, I say yes.

Sally only smiles, as if she knows exactly how much trouble I am in.

When she returns, she holds a massive bouquet tied with a shimmering brown ribbon.

Scarlet tulips. Violet saffron crocus blooms. Bright red poppies.

It is warm and bold and impossible to ignore. Elegant without being fragile. Beautiful, but not soft in a way that asks to be rescued. It looks like Anatolia.

I don’t have the right words to thank Sally because the bouquet goes beyond my wildest imaginings. It represents Anatolia’s elegance, her warmth, and the intoxicating beauty she carries around without seeming to understand the damage it does to men like me.

On my way out, Sally hands me a business card. My first instinct is to pull out my phone and text the contact to Anatolia, saving Rain & Shine as a future floral supplier for client gifts. Damn professional reflex—I can’t send her a florist’s contact on her personal number at six o’clock on a Friday evening while holding a not-so-subtle bouquet I have no professional business buying.

I shouldn’t give her the flowers.

No.

It would complicate our dynamic, but it would solidify my romantic intent. Meaning what, exactly? That she would open her door, see me standing there with tulips and poppies, and fall head over heels in love with me?

I pull the car over before I can make another irrational decision while operating a motor vehicle like a dumbass.

Headlights flash by.

Engines roar dangerously close to my door.

The bouquet sits in the passenger seat like evidence.

“What the fuck am I doing?” I say aloud.

Is this crossing a line with us?

With her?

I don’t even have her address. I have never saved it in my phone. I have never looked it up, because I’m not that kind of man.

So, what is my plan? Arrive on her doorstep like some pathetic knight in shining armor because I saw it in a movie?

Unbelievable.

I gently readjust the bouquet against the seat, then reach for my phone to tap the home GPS icon. Please don’t be over an hour in traffic. I repeat the mantra in my head a few times over, for good luck.

Before I can, the screen lights up.

Then vibrates again.

Two texts from Anatolia’s personal number.

Anatolia
hey

what are you doing?

Cassian
you’ll never guess

Anatolia
at home?

Cassian
nope

side of the highway

Anatolia
…

existential crisis?

Cassian
Hey.

Anatolia
I’m right.

Right?

Cassian
…

yes

Anatolia
hey

guess what

Cassian
what?

Anatolia
me too

Cassian
?

Anatolia
8067 Cherry Ave. Unit B

don’t leave me waiting

I stare at her address until the numbers blur.

I put the car in drive.

~

Reminder! This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of my imagination or are used in a made-up way. Any likeness to real people, living or dead, or actual events is totally coincidental.

I lower my voice.

“Then come back in twenty minutes. Close the door behind you.”

She understands what a risk this is. Because of my position in the agency, inviting her to have a personal conversation behind closed doors is not exactly innocent. I hope she doesn’t ask the impossible.

The animalistic side of me, the part that is hungry for Anatolia, has already given itself up to temptation. But thankfully, the mechanical inner workings of my brain keep reminding me that I am about to enter treacherous territory with her.

A point of no return.

~

Most of the office lights are off now, with only the bathroom hallway dimly lit. I use the next few minutes to casually stroll by the conference room.

Clear.

I check the cubicles for hidden coworkers.

Clear.

The kitchen.

Clear.

HR’s floor.

Dark, empty, and thankfully, clear.

I’m reminded of the early company days with Arthur, when we would stay up late, burning the midnight oil, tossing ideas back and forth across a conference table while our coffee went cold. But mostly, we dreamed about the future. Making a big name in the world. Building something that mattered. Back then, it felt like anything was possible.

Now, I’m afraid.

I’m frightened that Anatolia is the only spark left in my life. The only person who pushes me to wake up in the morning and face the music.

And the worst part?

I’m afraid of losing her.

That’s what scares me most of all.

~

By five o’clock, I’ve checked the cubicles, boardrooms, kitchen, and random hallways for evening stragglers. There is little to no risk of us being found this late on a Friday evening.

Little to no risk, ss if that makes this less dangerous.

I return to my office and shut the door behind me. I don’t lock it. I just let the handle rest where it falls. Anatolia will understand what it means.

She can leave whenever she wants.

A few minutes later, she knocks.

“Come in.”

She lets herself in, and without turning around, presses the door closed behind her. Her hand lingers on the knob for half a second, like maybe she is still deciding if she should be here at all.

I gesture for her to take a seat in one of the two conversation chairs. Earlier, I prepared a carafe of water on the coffee table, but now it feels a bit too formal. Like I’m conducting a quarterly review instead of listening to whatever private thing brought her to my office.

Anatolia and I know each other. We’ve laughed at each other’s humor. Cracked jokes when we thought no one else was listening. Shared looks across meeting rooms when Tim said something that made absolutely no sense.

Should we be friends by this point?

More than friends?

I feel like I don’t have any moisture left in my mouth. My knee is bouncing. I can’t get a grasp on reality.

Anatolia gently takes a seat in the opposite chair, and when she crosses her legs, her sheer tights catch the light from a nearby lamp. For a moment, her warm taupe skin peeks through the skintight material, revealing more of her curvy, shapely legs than I thought possible in office lighting.

My anxious mind quiets.

She’s watching me.

I don’t turn away from her.

I take too much care running my eyes down her beautiful body. Respectfully viewing but not touching. Her full hips. Lean calves. Soft, high arches.

Anatolia responds to me.

Painstakingly slowly, she arches her foot, allowing her patent heel to fall, gently hanging from ruby-red polish. She moves her toes, pumping the heel forward and back.

My mind goes somewhere where it has no business going. I imagine taking off that heel. Making her foot bare. Pressing my mouth to the soft skin above her ankle, then higher, and higher, until she is squirming in that chair and saying my name like she already knows how it feels.

This is all too much.

I turn away, heat flushing my cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” I hastily explain, running a hand through my dark brown hair. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Can we please restart? You shouldn’t be catching your boss—me—looking at you like that.”

Anatolia brings a hand to her chest and fakes a gasp, fainting a bit while using her other hand as a fan.

Catching me completely off guard, I laugh.

Then I quickly recovered, giving her a funny smile. “I’m glad we can laugh about this. But seriously, I’m sorry. I’m here to listen to you. You have my full attention.”

With that, I lean back in my chair and clasp my hands together, like what I imagine a professor looks like in a lecture hall.

Professional.

Steady.

Not at all imagining my mouth on her thigh.

She turns away from me. Hesitating.

Is she nervous? Of course she’s nervous. She approached me. She asked for privacy. She put her reputation on the line before I even knew what she wanted.

“Hey,” I say, softer this time. “It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay. This conversation stays between the two of us, I promise. Nothing will leave this room unless you want it to.”

She cracks a small smile. “Do you swear?”

“On Gilbert’s soul.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Gilbert?”

“My cat.”

“A cat?” She smiles a little wider. “I didn’t take you for a cat kind of guy. But then again, we’ve never really talked about personal matters. Not really.”

A few of her curls fall, framing her high cheekbones and heart-shaped face.

It’s not that I haven’t wanted to talk to her about personal things. I just never came around to doing it. I hope that doesn’t make me a coward. I’m just shy, I guess. More introverted than people expect. I never know when it’s a good time to share parts of my life.

“His name is Gilbert,” I say. “He loves those crunchy soft treats. The popular ones with the funny cat pictures on the box.”

“Tell me more about him,” Anatolia says.

“Well, for starters, he’s treat-motivated to a criminal degree. Absolutely obsessed.” I pause, debating if I should share more, then do it anyway. “About five years ago, my ex-girlfriend had just moved out. She drove off in a gust of smoke, giving me the middle finger from the driver’s side window, and, I should have been properly sad, but instead I got this nagging feeling telling me I needed to take a walk.”

Anatolia leans in a little.

“No less than five minutes later, I heard this heartbreaking meow. He was the size of my hand and furious at the world for existing.”

Anatolia’s expression softens.

“It wasn’t right,” I say. “So, of course, I took him home. We’ve been inseparable ever since.”

“You’re a good person, Mr. Rhodes. I could tell from the minute we met.” She tucks her hair behind her ear, then looks away, drowning part of her face in shadow. “Maybe I could meet Gilbert someday? And we can get coffee together?”

She pauses too quickly.

“Not like a date.”

“Sure.”

Anatolia blinks.

“But on one condition.”

Her fingers still.

“You have to call me Cassian. Not Mr. Rhodes. It makes me feel stuffy.”

She uncrosses her legs and nervously threads her fingers together. “I’ve made a mess of things already. This isn’t how I planned for this to go.”

Her fingers stop moving. She looks up at me.

Then, in a hushed whisper, she says, “Cassian?”

I swallow.

“Yes?”

“I’d like you to be my date to my ex’s funeral next Sunday.”

The room goes still.

“But I have a problem,” she says. “The kind I can’t fix by myself.”

She buries her face in her hands.

“What kind of problem?” I softly probe.

She looks up, and tears are already streaming down her cheeks.

“I’m so nervous, Cassian. I feel like my heart is about to explode. I—I don’t even know how to say it.”

“Take your time.”

She tries to breathe. It catches in her throat.

“My ex and I ended years ago. The relationship, I mean. Not his life. He died last month.”

I don’t move.

“His father sits on our board of directors.”

My stomach drops.

“Which board member?” I ask, even though I already know I’m not going to like the answer.

“Richard Veyron.”

Veyron Media.

Our largest account. Our most powerful client relationship. The account Tim Abbot would crawl over broken glass to protect.

“And he thinks it’s my fault his son is dead,” she whispers.

Every responsible thought in me sharpens.

“Why would he think that?”

“Because his son called me the night he died.” Her voice breaks. “And I didn’t answer.”

The room goes quiet.

“I hadn’t spoken to him in almost two years,” she says. “I thought answering would make things worse. I thought I was doing the right thing by not opening that door again. But now his family keeps sending lawyers to my apartment. There are cars outside my building. They keep saying they only want to talk, but it doesn’t feel like talking. It feels like punishment.”

“Anatolia.”

“I need to go to the funeral because if I don’t, they’ll use that too. They’ll say I’m cruel. Guilty. Hiding. But if I go alone, they’ll corner me.”

Her bottom lip trembles.

“I need someone with me who they can’t bully. Someone they have to behave in front of.”

Me.

She means me.

A VP from the agency walking into the funeral of a Veyron board member’s son with his executive assistant on his arm.

Tim would call it reckless.

HR would call it inappropriate.

The board would call it scandalous.

And Anatolia is sitting across from me with tears on her face, asking me to stand beside her because no one else can.

“I know I shouldn’t ask,” she whispers.

Before I can think, I move.

I cross the space between us, then stop in front of her before I touch her. My hands hover uselessly at my sides because I want to hold her, but wanting is not the same as permission.

“Can I?” I ask quietly.

She looks at me through wet lashes.

Then she nods.

I take her into my arms.

At first, she freezes.

I stop breathing.

Then she folds into my chest, grabbing handfuls of my shirt as if she is scrambling for some surface, like she is drowning and running out of oxygen.

“Cassian,” she sobs. “What do I do?”

Every safe answer leaves me.

I hold her carefully, one hand between her shoulder blades, feeling her shake beneath my palm.

“You don’t go alone,” I say.

She pulls back just enough to look at me.

My career, my reputation, my clean controlled life—all of it waits on the other side of this decision.

I should say no.

Instead, I ask, “What time do you need me?”

Reminder! This is a work of fiction. Na…

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