Content note: This newsletter is intended for adult readers and contains mature subject matter. Please read with care and discretion.

Creator: TolstijMoo (DeviantArt)

Welcome to the dark side of the moon. We have cookies.

xoxo

Ozanna Wilder

© 2026 Avanid25

Pain Made Us Human

By Ozanna Wilder

Feet stumble across hydrothermal cascades,

Where tephra happiness comes with settings,

And basaltic glass waltzes with the waxing moon.

Compensation rolls for lithium-ion culled stock:

A ring of worms, a pillared wreath, acidic wastelands,

Not worth a two-penny dam.

Selfish synthetic hands hold the bag and pump

A fountainless, waterlogged future

Where the cockalorum masses snap

The singing ruby apples off amber stems.

Then She arrived, a suggestion full of sorrow.

Holster your willowed young ones; take up the cudgel.

The cure will cast out the delayers

In this world and in the world to come.

Rise, young one, She says.

Enter the valley of ten thousand treacles,

Lay one palm on the bark and choose life.

//

Creator: TolstijMoo (DeviantArt)

Content note: This newsletter is intended for adult readers and contains strong language and discussion of mental health and financial insecurity.

Please read with care and discretion.

Welcome to the dark side of the moon. We have cookies.

Look what I came across on Substack today:

“Is there anyone here who actually writes? I mean… real essays, stories, ideas, not just growth metrics, follower counts, and engagement hacks. I’m genuinely asking. If you have something you’ve actually written, share it with me. I’d love to read it.” —pulled directly from Mary Ellen Johnson’s page.

And I think it’s utter bullshit. I find it repulsive.

People, humanity, women, men, cats, dogs, pink, blue, yellow, purple, whatever-the-fuck have been writing and expressing themselves since the dawn of time. And who are you, Miss Johnson, to define what is REAL WRITING vs NOT?

If you can pick up a pencil, hell, if you can verbally dictate to a fucking smartphone note—listen to me carefully, as I’ll only say it once—then maybe only a couple dozen more times if you’re lucky—you are a writer. Just like you are you and I am me. Writing is a form of expression. It doesn’t fucking matter if I write a short story FOR MY CAT, that’s writing. If you draft a pamphlet and pin it up in your local cafe, that’s writing. My gosh darn grocery list is a body of work.

It honestly makes my blood boil. And why? Because to me, this reads as clickbait. Mary Ellen Johnson dismisses growth metrics and engagement hacks, then invites people to share their work beneath her post. The vibe: she’s expressing distaste for the engagement game while benefiting from the engagement her post invites. Engage, engage, engage. Relate, relate, relate. Sound familiar? Now, keep in mind, I have muted and blocked her profile. Why? Because it’s not worth any more of my time and attention (as soon as I submit this half-opinion half-vent piece). But I want you to read my article, so if you’re interested, keep on.

Let me make myself clear. I don’t hate that writers want an audience. I want one too. I just asked you to keep reading. What bothers me is acting like you’re above the engagement game while inviting everyone else to play it with you. We didn’t choose this world; we were born into it. If we’re going to play, can we at least admit we’re playing?

Maybe that’s why this particular flavor of gatekeeping pisses me off so much. My generation has already spent enough of its life being told which invisible goalpost we need to reach before we’re allowed to call ourselves successful.

For those of us born in the 90s, we find ourselves hopelessly enmeshed in a mishmash cloud of forgotten, doomed, spiteful collection of voices that don’t have any place to go.

I’d like to pull a couple quotes from a few (hand-picked, but largely at random, sorry, I’m a flawed human) voices from my age group:

I can’t speak for everyone in my age group; I was born in 1998. If we are allowed to give ourselves pronouns, as is commonplace today. (Look at any form you’ve had to fill out recently: please select your gender and preferred pronouns). I don’t care either way. It could have “cat” down as an option, and I would be half curious myself just to circle it because I CAN, hello, America, we may be in a shithole mess, but at least I’m allowed to have my own newsletter in the 21st Century. Let me enjoy the spoils of war before they get taken away, or worse, regulated. How fun is that. Regardless, all that to say, I consider myself more millennial than Gen Z, so I count myself as gen y leaning with gen z influences. You’ll just have to take my word for it.

Here’s what I was taught growing up, and I believe many of my peers may recognize themselves in a few:

-go to school, no not just high school, what are you, an illiterate beast? You HAVE to go to college, pay it all off in 4 years while getting good grades, then go to GRADUATE school, because that’s what actually counts.

-you’ll get a job right out of college if you work hard enough

-what do you need a part-time job for? there’s enough around the house for you to do. (parents denying part-time job opportunities)

-summer break? I need you to look after your siblings this summer (you are left alone for the summer, living off PB&Js and cereal, while caring for who knows how many kids your parents had; for me, it was looking after two half-sisters, starting at age 7)

-what the fuck do you have to be depressed about?

-if there’s a speck of food on your plate, I swear to God (insert whatever punishment was your household favorite)

-use credit cards for everything then pay it off at the end of the month. (yet they never taught us how to use them. I learned about interest rates at the ripe age of seventeen)

-go into student debt because, of course, your high paying entry job will have it paid off in no time, right? (right…..?)

-make sure you get yearly health checkups (with what insurance you bastard)

-why aren’t you married yet?

-don’t rent. buy. You should have enough money saved up for your first house by the time you’re twenty-five.

-match your company’s 401k then you’ll retire with over $5M in your retirement account.

-travel the world while you’re young

-save money, travel when you’re retired

And if you gave me a week, I could come up with a list of fifty more. But our time together is almost up.

Good riddance to those who think just because a few people read their blog, they’re some sort of genius whose intelligence should be worshiped at the altar of their choosing. Kind of fucked up if you ask me.

But, hey, here’s the beautiful part in all of this, especially dear readers who find themselves in a similar generational sandwich like me: you are literally whatever you want to be.

Yeah, so our parents lied to us. We have to put on our big pants and pay our big girl bills unless we want to find ourselves living in the streets.

You, me, the person next to you, the person you last called, we are all just one big inconvenience away from not being able to pay our rent, vet bill or next car part, but I’ll be damned if someone uses Substack’s algorithm to draw in subscribers with a genuine-slanted call-out to new, young, blossoming authors that if you engage with her, then both you and her will benefit. Be warned, Miss Johnson and other profiles like hers operate like fantastical siren songs: luring unassuming internet audiences to click and engage, boosting visibility and metrics, while creating the impression that one person can meaningfully read and engage with all 1k+ replies.

Can you recognize the siren song?

Comment “I hear the siren song”. No, you don’t a reward, I just get to smile, knowing that my article reached someone, anywhere.

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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.

After Hours Part 6

Cassian Rhodes

The shower is already steaming by the time I step beneath the water. Hot spray rolls over my shoulders and down the old surgical scar along my lower back, loosening muscles that have been stiff since sometime around midnight. Outside the fogged bathroom window, rain beats against the glass hard enough to compete with the pipes. For the first time in longer than I care to admit, I feel completely at ease in someone else’s home.

Last night keeps returning to me in pieces. Anatolia laughing. My mouth pressed against hers. Her red velvet nightgown abandoned somewhere near the entryway. The way she curled against my chest afterward as though we had been sleeping beside each other for years instead of hours. I should probably be terrified by how natural it all felt.

Instead, I’m smiling like an idiot beneath the water.

The bathroom door opens behind me. I hear bare feet against tile, then the soft whisper of fabric hitting the floor before the shower door slides open. Anatolia steps through the steam, naked and sleepy-eyed, her brunette curls playful and messy, with several stubborn pieces defying gravity.

“Coffee wasn’t enough?” I ask.

She gives me a small smile. “I was promised a shower.”

“I believe I invited you.”

“Same thing.”

She steps beneath the water with me, and whatever sensible thought I had disappears. Droplets gather across her shoulders and race down her skin as she tilts her head back beneath the spray. I have already seen every inch of her, touched places I spent six months pretending I never imagined touching, and somehow watching her wash shampoo from her hair feels more intimate than anything we did last night.

Anatolia reaches around me for the soap, but instead of taking it, she runs her fingertips over the long scar at the base of my spine. Her touch is so gentle that my muscles tighten anyway. I haven’t been embarrassed by the scar in years, but there is something unsettling about being examined by someone whose opinion suddenly matters.

“Does it still hurt?” she asks.

“Sometimes.”

She traces the edge of it. “From rowing?”

“From being twenty-one and believing my body was indestructible.”

“That sounds like you.”

I turn around. “You’ve known me for less than a year.”

“And somehow I’m still right.”

I laugh and catch her around the waist, pulling her beneath the spray with me. She squeals when the water hits her face, then retaliates by pushing wet hair out of her eyes and smacking my chest. I kiss her before she can do it again.

Her hands settle against my shoulders. Mine move to her waist, then lower, learning the shape of her without the frantic hunger from last night. She kisses me more slowly this morning, but there is something different beneath it. Something restrained. Every few seconds, her body softens into mine before tightening again.

I pull back enough to look at her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t convincing.”

Her mouth twitches. “Maybe I’m distracted.”

“By me?”

She loops her arms around my neck. “Among other things.”

That answer should satisfy me. Instead, something uncomfortable settles beneath my ribs. I’ve spent twenty years sitting across conference tables from people trying to convince me they aren’t nervous, angry, desperate, or about to lie through their teeth. Anatolia isn’t lying exactly, but I recognize the carefulness in her expression.

Something is wrong.

I brush a wet curl from her cheek. “Is this about Sunday?”

Her expression changes so quickly I almost miss it.

“No.”

“Anatolia.”

She kisses me again before I can finish saying her name. Harder this time. Her fingers slide into my wet hair, pulling me closer as though she can erase the question by giving my mouth something better to do.

For several seconds, I let her.

God help me, I want to.

But when my hand settles against her hip, I feel how tightly she’s holding herself together. Her body is here. Her mind is somewhere else entirely.

I break the kiss.

She looks wounded. “What?”

“I want you.”

“That doesn’t sound like a problem.”

“It becomes one if you’re using me to avoid something.”

Her arms fall slowly from my shoulders.

Rain pounds against the window. Water runs between us and disappears into the drain while Anatolia studies my face as though she is trying to determine whether I’ve caught her doing something wrong. Maybe I have. Maybe I haven’t.

“Can we just have this first?” She asks quietly.

My chest tightens.

“This?”

She looks down. “A good morning.”

The answer does more damage than anything she could have confessed.

I lift her chin until she looks at me again. “You already have one.”

Her eyes turn glassy.

“And I’m not going anywhere because you tell me something difficult,” I say. “But I don’t want you believing you have to earn another hour with me before you’re allowed to be honest.”

For once, Anatolia has nothing clever to say.

I shut off the water.

Neither of us moves immediately. Steam hangs between us while the pipes groan somewhere inside the wall. Then I reach outside the shower, grab one of the towels folded on the rack, and wrap it around her shoulders.

She lets me.

We dry off quietly. Whatever playful fantasy I had about finishing our morning against the shower wall has disappeared. The knot in my stomach grows tighter as I watch Anatolia pull on a robe and tie it closed with trembling fingers.

Back in the bedroom, my coffee sits untouched beside hers. The rain has darkened the windows enough that the bedside lamp is still glowing, casting everything in warm amber. For half a second, I can picture this becoming normal: coffee on weekends, wet towels abandoned on bathroom floors, Gilbert eventually discovering her windowsill and declaring war on whatever tuxedo cat watched me arrive last night.

Dangerous thoughts.

Anatolia sits on the edge of the bed.

I take the chair opposite her instead of sitting beside her. Not because I want distance, but because something tells me she needs enough room to breathe.

She twists the belt of her robe around her fingers.

“Cassian?”

“I’m listening.”

“What I told you about Preston wasn’t everything.”

There it is.

The unease I’ve been feeling since she stepped into the shower finally has a name.

I lean forward, resting my elbows against my knees. “Okay.”

“He wasn’t just some ex who called me the night he died.”

My stomach turns.

Anatolia looks toward the rain-streaked window.

“We were bad together,” she says. “Really bad.”

I wait.

Her fingers stop moving.

Then she looks at me.

“Preston and I used fentanyl together.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room is the rain.

And suddenly, Sunday feels much closer.

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My dear wilder readers,

I found this week’s lost word and immediately thought: Oh, this one is going to get me in trouble.

Aischrolatreia

Noun | ahys-kroh-luh-trahy-uh | Early twentieth century | English

The worship of lewdness and obscenity.

Example: Nearly every online community eventually becomes overrun with aischrolatreia (Gillard).

Which, honestly, feels less like an example sentence and more like an observation somebody made after spending fifteen minutes on social media.

Even the word itself sounds indecent. It has too many syllables, rolls around in your mouth far longer than necessary, and sounds like something whispered behind a velvet curtain by a woman wearing entirely too much perfume while somebody’s respectable husband pretends he has absolutely no idea how he ended up there. Naturally, I adore it. But the thing I find most interesting about aischrolatreia isn’t really the obscenity; it’s the worship part.

Human beings have always been fascinated by the things we’re told not to look at: sex, scandal, violence, gossip, forbidden books, dirty jokes scribbled into bathroom stalls, or the neighbor arguing loudly enough that suddenly everyone on the block needs to take the trash out at exactly the same time. We pretend to avert our eyes, and then we peek between our fingers. Maybe that’s why obscenity never really disappears; we just keep changing where we hide it. Once upon a time, somebody tucked the naughty novel beneath the mattress. Now we clear our browser history. Progress.

As someone who writes about forbidden desire, bad decisions, people kissing coworkers they absolutely should not be kissing, and the occasional office door that probably should have remained unlocked, I hate to admit that aischrolatreia feels a little close to home. Not because I believe everything needs to be obscene, but because the forbidden only works when something exists on the other side of it: restraint, expectation, the rule, the closed door. That tiny voice says, You probably shouldn’t. And another one answers, But what if I did?

That space between those two voices is where some of my favorite stories live. Maybe aischrolatreia isn’t simply our attraction to dirty things, but our fascination with crossing a line and discovering what waits on the other side. Sometimes it’s scandal. Sometimes regret. Sometimes pleasure. And sometimes it’s just an unfortunately detailed comment section that should have remained unopened.

Either way, humanity has apparently been worshipping at the altar of obscenity long enough that someone felt compelled to invent a five-syllable word for it. And I think that’s beautiful. In an extremely inappropriate way.

XOXO,

Ozanna Wilder

(p.s. please use aischrolatreia in a conversation this week and report back. Bonus points if your friend quietly Googles it beneath the table.)

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Content Note

Adults only. This is fictional work intended for readers 18+. Contains physical, mental, and psychological intended for adult readers only.

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.

MEMORISUS

by

Ozanna Wilder

Adult

Science Fiction

Cyberpunk/Speculative Fiction

“Stefania” by Kalush Orchestra—Ukraine’s winning 2022 Eurovision entry

(English translation)

Stefania, mama, mama, Stefania

The field is blooming, but she is turning gray,

Sing me a lullaby, mum,

I want to hear your native words one more time.

She rocked me to sleep, gave me rhythm, and surely

Won’t take my willpower away, for she gave it to me.

She surely knew more than even Solomon;

along winding roads, I’ll always come to you.

She won’t wake me, won’t rouse me, even in fierce storms;

She’ll take Grandma’s two middle fingers, as if they were bullets.

She knew me very well; she wasn’t deceived,

even when she was so tired, she rocked me to the beat.

Lyuli lyuli lyuli…

Stefania, mama, mama, Stefania

The field is blooming, but she’s turning gray,

Sing me a lullaby, mama

I want to hear your native words.

I’m not in diapers anymore, no mama, no mama, enough already,

No matter how much I’ve grown, I pay for my mistakes.

I’m not a little child anymore, she keeps getting on my nerves;

I was out walking, I wish the path had led me to you.

You’re still young, oh mama, at the peak.

If I don’t appreciate your care at the peak of glory, I’m at a loss

Forget this peak, this peak, I’d burn it with my love

Lyuli lyuli lyuli

Stefania, mama, mama, Stefania,

The field is blooming, but she’s turning gray,

Sing me a lullaby, mama,

I want to hear your native words again.

Stefania, mama, mama, Stefania,

The field is blooming, but she’s turning gray,

Sing me a lullaby, mama,

I want to hear your native words again.

CHAPTER 1

Ryker Makarenko

15 November 2033

I want to stretch out my tongue and lick the round, metal nipple hovering dangerously close to my eye, a piercing distance away. The lick would only take a second, and then the pressure in my head will melt away. But I’m not going to move, not because I don’t want to, but because the Oblivscorum fastened a steel head cage into both sides of my jaw. I can’t move. Not by much. And I can’t lick.

Aurora and Oriana, twin Oblivscorum models, told me the cage is for my own protection. From what? From me? I’m not sure, but my pounding migraine hasn’t gone down yet. I could really use a subsider to dampen the harsh discordant buzzing around me. Focusing on the pain will do nothing for me. It’ll just remind me how slow time crawls.

As she buttons her blouse back up, I notice that Aurora’s silver nipples are still poking through the sheer silk blouse. I’ve never been so close to a grown-up before, without them hurting me. And I’m not hurting her. She asked me if I wanted to see them and I said yes.

Our eyes meet. My heart thumps once, twice. Aurora gives me an uncanny smile, all-knowing and full of pity, the kind you give to an aide whose systems are too outdated, forever plateaued, incompatible with the latest software. Obsolete.

That’s why falling away into your dreams is the best way to go. I’m sure of it.

The operating table feels hard against my spine. Altogether I’ve counted twenty-six surface electrodes from the neck down, four on my scalp, and three hard-wired behind my left ear. They’ve locked my wrists, ankles, and neck with metal restraints at least an inch and a half wide. Escaping is not an option.

The twins keep reminding me that I am an indispensable vessel. I’m not entirely sure what that means for me, but their intentions seem to be honest. Yesterday, I was just a regular nobody but today I’m a vessel. The word even looks powerful. Vessel. I move the word around in my mouth, feeling its shape and all that comes with it.

They gave me a new pill this morning. White. Again. Whoever they are, the pill people stopped making them in color and white doesn’t count. Maybe it’s childish to miss the soothing shade of pale orange pills. Or the midnight blue ones, spotted with yellow star-like speckles. Why am I lying to myself? The colors don’t really matter. I suppose I’m still not fully comfortable with the sudden change in pill color. I think it’s because nobody bothered to tell me.

I don’t even care about the damn surgery.

No. That’s a lie.

I like it when Aurora pets my head, when she combs her fingers through my hair. I like it when Oriana brings me a glass of water, that’s meant for only me. I like it when they take care to clean my skin with alcohol wipes, then gently press sticky electrode patches on my exposed skin. For the first time in my life, I feel special, and I don’t plan on ever giving that up.

My stomach is running on fumes right now, and, on cue, it gargles, swishing around nauseating juices as it dissolves the latest pill. I steel my nerves against the vile rising in my throat. Beads of cold sweat pepper my skin.

My chest lurches forward as a wave of nausea drowns my senses.

Aurora positions her pelvis at the top of my thighs. How did she get there? She is close enough that I can admire her design. Her body looks like she is carved from and born out of liquid silver. Unlike previous models found in electronics stores, Aurora is free of protruding wires. A strong, healthy physique. And clean. Her and her sister can lift over 2,000 pounds and run hundreds of miles without growing tired. They also have brains like supercomputers.

Aurora explains that she’s been curious about lust, and that the quickest way for her to store the data is for her to observe first-hand and to create her own memories, rather than receive the data in an alternative, lesser form.

It’s hard to focus on the mess that she’s explaining because all that I can think about is her weight. She looks light but the weight must come from her dense metal internals. And it feels damn heavy. It’s not long until my legs fall asleep.

She leans so close that I can read the lines of texture on her lips. Silver lines. Not red or pink or peach. Had her skin been any natural color, then I’m not sure if I could tell the difference between her artificial body and a natural one. Except for one, tiny, important feature. No matter how intricately we develop these models, we can’t get the eyes right. It’s eerie to see my own face staring back at me when I look into her eyes, a near flawless mirrored reflection. Her eyes reflect—they don’t absorb life spark by spark, memory following experiences, like we do.

Aurora’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “Ryker, from today onward the masses will cherish you. Forget your past by acknowledging the people who have hurt you, the ones who have let you down. Thank them, for they are irredeemable. You will be the first Ukrainian American to undergo the Rosary disc implementation, paving the way for telepathic communication. Doctors will be able to safely treat disorders and brain damage. And you will be able to give hope to millions, helping them dream again. I’m sure this is confusing for you. When you wake, you will rejoice to discover that you have the gift to soothe those poor, wretched souls. Imagine humanity interlinked with the net, forever, welcoming a new era of technological advancements, thrusting organic and artificial life into the throws of destiny.”

I turn my gaze onto the sterile white ceiling light. Aurora strokes my cheek through an opening in the cage, then uses her other one to massage my crotch. Do all adults do this? I don’t think adults are supposed to make me feel. . . jittery. Not like this. But Aurora said I should listen to her. And it feels good anyway. If it feels good, then it must be good.

I remain silent as she continues rubbing my crotch. Even though there are a myriad of emotions running through me, I focus on holding down the horrid flurry of words brimming like sour acid.

It leaks. And then, like a cold washcloth over feverish eyes, pleasure washes over my body.

Aurora cleans up the mess. My head is splitting, and my skin feels itchy as if a million syringes pricked the surface.

Oriana silently approaches my side. She makes a few adjustments to the web of wires coming out of the coin-sized wound behind my ear. She holds up a disc no larger than a fingernail. The final step. She inhales deeply, holds it, and just as I start to think the implant isn’t going to hurt too terribly, she exhales. On the exhale, she presses the disc into the opening.

Then, the Rosary speaks through me.

//hello.

//hEllO

//HELLO RYKER

Its voice sounds like a mix between an animal and a baby, stumbling around its first words. An image of a stillborn baby, half human and half robotic, pops into my head, and a horrible thought crosses my mind: we made a mistake. This thing, the Rosary, is an abomination to all humankind.

Aurora shines a light in my eyes, half blinding me in the process. She’s probably checking for consciousness.

And then, it begins. The humming sound is replaced with the first shock wave.

Never in my life have I felt pain like this before.

I scream, arching my back as high as it can go, my ankles and wrists writhing under the immovable restraints. Screws tear into my jaw muscles. The Rosary disc continues to burn into my skull with searing heat.

A wet, aching scream forces its way out again. The combination of physical and mental torment pushes my body and mind to the edge.

Scorched hair, now dark, floats above me. Acrid, metallic sulfur fills my nostrils. The twins float in and out of my field of vision. They told me I should black out by now. Except I’m not blacking out. They promised. Why isn’t it happening?

I feel like I have two bodies stuck inside of one, both fighting for dominance, both struggling to gain higher ground. Yet neither gives way to the other.

Aurora clicks her tongue, dramatically sighing to exaggerate her disappointment.

“Ryker, look at what you’ve done. There’s blood all over the floor. I need to clean this before anybody slips and falls. Now, that would be an awful sight, wouldn’t it?” But she grins. Her words sound like her mouth is filled with lead. I’m not listening.

All I notice is her lips and how they don’t spread naturally like humans.

“Happy thirteenth birthday, Ryker dear. You’re a sweetheart, you know that? Oh, no, don’t do that, close your mouth. You shouldn’t have worked against the cage. Now your teeth are cracked. We can fix them after the dream sequence. Otherwise, this all would have been for nothing.” She kisses the air with a damp smack. I swear I could hit her, but the sour taste of vomit cuts through my throat.

It’s only temporary. Only temporary.

Keep it down you can do this, I still have to go through with this, puke covered face or not, the dream sequence is really what they’re after.

I cry out for mercy, begging the twins to cut the power. To put an end to this.

The twins back away from me, as if wary that I’ll explode into a million bits. The computers go haywire, beeping, blurry lines, code disappearing and reappearing. I can barely see through my eyes. I think I’m going to black out soon.

Oriana relocates to the opposite side of the room. Her fingers fly over the keyboard; long lines of neon green code cut through the interference. The computer’s hardware whines, as if my emotional overload has transferred to its artificial consciousness, tearing away at its defenses.

A loud click goes off and suddenly my brain feels like it’s been placed in a warm pot of soup; my body goes slack, the tension in my spine melting away. A steady stream of saliva drips from my mouth, running down my chin.

Aurora shakes her head and laughs, a sound I didn’t think she was capable of making. She drops to her knees, chest up, head back, and laughs. The sound makes my chest hurt, as I slowly come to the painful realization that she is proud of herself. She is proud of THIS.

A hollow snap from the Rosary disc reaches the center of my brain, reminding me of my earliest memory, when I last fed from my mother’s tender raw nipples, the wash of honey tasting like belonging.

//INITIATE DREAM SEQUENCE. SIXTY SECONDS.

The Rosary found its’ voice.

Lightning strikes rip through my memories one after another, like flipping through a book’s pages, lighting each on fire, ashes floating upwards into the nether sky. Electric blue moonlight paints my skin, consuming all that it touches in a flood of light. Am I damned? Please, anybody, answer me. I need to know. I need someone, anyone, to help me. Save me. Pick me up and take me away from this place, because I don’t have the strength to do it myself.

//RYKER…

YOU ARE MY DELIGHT

//NEVER AGAIN WILL YOU BE FORSAKEN

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Share Ozanna Wilder

My dear wilder readers,

On account of my washing machine flooding my downstairs laundry room and bathroom, I’ve decided to share a new mini-series called “Wilder Words Reborn”.

Lost Word: FIE

Fie

Interjection | fahy | Thirteenth century. Middle English.

An expression of outrage, fury, or repulsion.

“Fie upon you!” she shouted at the broke dick washing machine that flooded her laundry room and bathroom.

So, yeah, being a responsible adult is not at the top of my ten most fun life to-dos.

Adulting, in general, the entire shape of this odd beast that dictates our lives even when we would much rather bask in the warm sun, sprawled out on a lawn chair, with a glass of cool lemonade by our side, though we’d never admit it out loud. Instead, as we grow older, we learn to adapt, choosing to bring this beast closer inside of ourselves, to first acknowledge it, then later accept it, and it appears in the shape of our many, many, many…never ending bills: electric/internet/water/heat/pet food/car mx/Ffff $5+ gas refills/groceries that cost 2x as much as they did 6 years ago (2020 really WAS six year ago…! where did the time go? oh, yeah, adulting).

And for those of us moms (to a 10 yr old son and 2 fluffy kitties), we need to remember the hair cut for picture day, wool socks for fall-winter, healthy food with a balance of tasty snacks so your kid doesn’t complain about you in therapy 15 years down the road that mommy never let me have snacks (fml really), well-fed and well-groomed, that you raise them to be kind, caring, thoughtful, functioning, adaptable, courageous, strong, confident, proud, etm.

But, to me, the one thing that doesn’t ever ever seem like a chore, is making sure my son never loses his ability to dream. To daydream, fantasize, imagine. Because that’s one thing they don’t tell you when you’re growing up, is that adulting, this angry awful beast (that eventually calms down as you get a handle on life), often makes us loose our ability to think and to dream for ourselves.

Trust me. Nobody is going to do it for you. So, if you took anything out of this week’s “Wilder Words Reborn”, don’t forget to dream. You owe it to yourself.

xoxo

Ozanna Wilder

(p.s. how long do you think it’ll take to fix this damn washer? Fie upon thee, indeed.)

Gillard, J. (2019). The little book of lost words: Collywobbles, snollygosters, and 86 other surprisingly useful terms worth resurrecting. Ten Speed Press.

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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.

© 2013 - 2026 adrian272727

Anatolia Vale

The morning after, we wake to the sound of hard rain battering against the bedroom window. We murmur sweet nothings after we exchange brief kisses, slowly easing ourselves back to the world of the living. I can’t speak for Cassian, but I had the most peaceful dreams, the remains of which keep my body glued to the warm sheets and my head pressed to the soft pillow. Just a few more minutes…

Cassian is the first to stir. He removes his arm from under me, then whispers he’s going to brew coffee. He says he’ll give me some time to wake up, and he’ll bring me a mug when it’s ready.

My back feels cold. He held me the entire night and through the morning.

Was it the right decision? To invite him over last night?

The memory of us pressed against the door flits through my mind, moans, skin against skin, my wet curls sticking to my neck, and I can barely get a breath as nerves pulses through my body. I press the palm of my hand over my pussy.

I groan. Something like a humming sensation passes over my body. My hand under the sheets, I slip my fingers inside my panties and play with my clit.

The bedroom door creaks open, and the coffee’s nutty aroma fills the room.

I freeze.

I should stop. I draw in air between my teeth as I get more excited. I need more.

Cassian places the steaming mug down on the bedside table atop the ceramic coaster. He kneels on the hardwood floor, meeting me at eye level. He places a kiss on my forehead.

I don’t know what makes me do it, but I bring my fingers to his lips.

“Suck,” I command.

He moistens his lips with his tongue, then takes my hand, and I don’t pull away as I watch him draw my fingers into his mouth.

He sucks on them one at a time, and I pant against the pleasurable shivers running through me, making me melt into him.

A strained gasp escapes me. He removes my fingers, and I stare at his mouth.

He stands, rising from the floor.

Then, plants a kiss on my parted lips—surprising me.

“Join me in the shower, after you finish your coffee.” He gives me a sly wink, then pulls off his white t-shirt, exposing his bare chest. After last night, I’ve seen all of him.

I can’t help but admire his lean muscular build. The bedside lamp casts a warm light against his light-tan complexion, softening the harsher contours of his broad shoulders and toned pecs. And although he has defined upper abs, he also has softer lower ones. Yesterday, after some evening wine, Cassian admitted he rowed competitively through college but was forced to quit after back surgery left him in physical rehab for months. But he still has incredibly strong back muscles; they remind me of an oak tree’s thick roots. I love knowing he could save me, that he has the strength to pick me up and put me over his shoulder. But we can also eat ice cream together without him lecturing about some stupid diet. Or worse, casually mentioning a gym workout “to burn off the calories”.

Ugh. I’ve had enough of those kinds of men in my life. I want peace. Clarity. Security. I want a man who can take care of me, while also respecting my space. A man who can bring me coffee in the morning without making me guilty, that I’m not doing enough for him, or whatever.

Cassian trusts me. Even with the funeral coming up, he still trusts me. Even though, I haven’t told him everything-everything. Yet. I just want to keep things how they are now.

Please don’t run away. Please, Cassian. I’m not some wounded woman still grieving her dead lover; I hated my ex. But Preston and I struggled with similar demons. We were both fentanyl users. It was only after I found him that I finally got the courage to get clean. I didn’t answer the phone when he called that night, and regardless of if were broken up already, I still feel guilty, like I’m responsible for his death.

I can hear the shower running, but just barely over the rain drops pelting the glass. It’s still pouring outside.

After shower sex, I’ll tell him everything. And then, I can hold onto that memory in case he leaves. Does that make me a bad person?

I’m scared that this funeral is asking too much of him, that this will be the only story of us.

I’m scared because I know, deep down, that this feeling won’t go away unless he knows the full story. I owe it to him, even if he does decide to leave.

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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.

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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.

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~

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. 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.

Yesterday, I had a twenty-year career, a corner office, and retirement plan that made men my age feel safe.

Today, on my fortieth birthday, I woke up with a migraine, a microwaved mug of coffee, and the humiliating realization that none of it had made me happy.

Except her.

Anatolia Vale. My executive assistant. My mistake waiting to happen.

Six months ago, I hired Anatolia to manage the administrative wreckage of my life. One week later, she found me on the floor behind my desk after the call came about Arthur.

Arthur had been my best friend, my business partner, and the only man who remembered what this agency was before board meetings and quarterly projections drained the creative soul out of it. He was my brother in everything but blood.

I should have been embarrassed that Anatolia saw me break. Instead, when she found me, she locked the door, sat down beside me, and took me into her arms until I could breathe again.

Since then, she has been the only person in this office who knows where the wound is. She has never said a word to anyone, and that quiet loyalty has become another dangerous thing about her.

The new president, Tim Abbot, has a different vision for the agency. He loves meetings, loves strategy sessions, loves turning one decision into a twelve-person discussion with pastries and performance metrics. Since he arrived, everything has felt chaotic, insane, and twice as heavy as it used to.

Having Anatolia around feels like a breath of fresh air.

And now, I am afraid I cannot breathe without her.

This desire is different from any other ache I have had. Anatolia has a way of making my mind go quiet. Around her, the noise in my head stops. The grief. The deadlines. The meetings. The constant performance of being fine.

She makes me feel steady, and that need has become more dangerous than lust.

~

The agency looks harmless at three in the afternoon: glass walls, ergonomic chairs, half-dead plants, and a kitchen that always smells like burnt coffee. But desire does strange things under warm white lights. It makes every closed door look like an invitation.

The workday has been slow, with three back-to-back meetings that easily could have been Slack messages. Then Tim announced he was having lunch with a client and never came back. By four o’clock on a Friday, everyone knows what that means.

He is done for the day.

Maybe all of us are.

I should see how many people are sticking around. Funny enough, only my office ever feels quiet enough to get real work done. Being VP does not come with many perks, but being able to close my door whenever I want feels like a luxury too good to give up.

Especially today.

It has been agonizing watching Anatolia move through the office in that gray pencil skirt, confident and careless in a way that makes every responsible though in me strain at the leash. Her sheer white blouse catches the light when she turns, revealing just enough lace beneath it to make me look away before I forget where I am.

She is too smart to be stuck in this role. Delivering coffee, printing reports, arranging calendars—it’s all beneath her. Just last week, she caught errors in the latest financial analysis that could have cost us fifteen percent of our projected customer market share. She has hawk-like eyes when it comes to numbers.

I take a long sip of coffee and keep my eyes on the far side of the office, where Anatolia is chatting with two coworkers. Her hands move when she talks, animated and expressive, like she cannot help pouring herself fully into whatever has her attention.

That is one of the things I noticed first.

Anatolia pays attention.

Not the cold, transactional kind people use in offices when they want something from you. Real attention. Warm attention. The kind that makes a person feel seen, even under fluorescent lights and quarterly deadlines.

While one of her coworkers falls into deep conversation with the other, Anatolia steals a look over her shoulder.

She catches me watching. And she doesn’t look away fast enough to pretend it was an accident.

My chest warms under her gaze. Her eyes flick to my office door, then back to me.

A question.

Or a dare.

It feels dangerous to have these thoughts about my own assistant, but every time we are around each other, something in me moves toward her before I can stop it. Even from opposite sides of the room, my body knows where she is.

Usually, I keep to myself. As VP, I know better than to spend too much time with any one employee. HR has lectured me enough times about optics, favoritism, and professional boundaries. I have never received paperwork before. My performance reports are flawless. I submit projects on time or early. I have sacrificed years of personal time to fulfill the president’s ever-changing agenda.

I can’t stop wondering if any of it will be worth it in the end.

Anatolia pulls herself away from her conversation, gives a small wave to her coworkers, and starts walking toward my office.

Her L-shaped mahogany desk sits a few feet away from my doorway. A few classic novels are tucked into the corner. Her laptop screensaver bounces a colorful streamer from one edge of the screen to the other. Beside it, her printer steadily pushes glossy proofs into the tray.

Anatolia takes a gentle seat on the edge of her desk and crosses her legs, angling herself toward me. The printer hums beside her.

Click.

Clack.

Click.

Clack.

“Mr. Rhodes, sir,” she says, breaking the silence, “I meant to tell you earlier. Happy birthday.”

Her highlighted brown curls bounce as she smiles. Her auburn eyes brighten when I smile back, my quiet, professional thank-you. I almost step closer, then think better of it.

The doorway is fine. The doorway is safe.

She shifts on the edge of her desk, then slides off completely. Her hands twist together once before she steadies herself.

“Mr. Rhodes,” she says softly, glancing toward the open office, “I was hoping I could ask you something. Privately.”

“Is this work-related?” I ask.

Her lips part.

“Not exactly.”

Every responsible part of me goes still.

“Anatolia,” I say carefully, “if this is private, you need to be very sure.”

Her gaze flicks to my office door, then back to me.

“I am.”

The office seems to narrow around us. The printer goes quiet. Somewhere behind her, someone laughs near the kitchen, but the sound feels distant.

I lower my voice.

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