Wrong Number, Right Man

My life was a carefully curated disaster. I was an underpaid assistant by day and a chronic over-sharer by night. My best friend, Chloe, was the only one who got the real, messy, desperately-horny-for-my-unobtainable-boss version of me. Our text chain was my therapy. Until my thumb slipped. I sent that message—the one detailing exactly what I'd let Alexander Thorne do to me on his mahogany desk, in graphic, humiliating, spell-checked detail—to him. Not to Chloe. To Alexander Thorne himself. My CEO. The man with a stare that could liquefy steel. The man whose tailored suits I secretly inhaled when I hung them up. I had exactly seven seconds of blissful ignorance before my work phone lit up with a single, devastating line: "My office. Now." This wasn't just getting fired. This was a spiritual evisceration. I was prepared for cold fury. For security to escort my plant (Kevin, a resilient snake plant) and me out of the building. I wasn't prepared for him to lean back in his throne-like chair, my explicit text displayed on his monitor, and say, "The third paragraph. The thing with the tie. Explain your reasoning." Now, the man I've fantasized about for two years knows every corrupt thought in my head. And instead of ruining me, he's offering a deal: my discretion for his… curiosity. He wants to know if reality can live up to the fantasy. My job, my reputation, and my sanity are all on the line. I should run. But the look in his eyes isn't anger. It's hunger. And God help me, so is mine.