My Boss's Fiancee’s Lover

"Tell me what you see, Anella," my boss's obnoxious but alluring voice buzzes through my earphones. 

Apart from the bizarre fact that I'm spying on my boss's fiancée with her lover, I don't think there's anything in my life right now worth talking about.

Well, there's the emails…

Oh no, not the godforsaken emails.

"Anella, I don't pay you to zone out. I pay you to spy. Intel. Now." He repeats more insistently this time, and I can practically hear him drumming his fingers on that stupidly expensive desk of his.

"Apologies, sir," I reply in that cool but fiery tone I've learnt to master after working with the most intolerable billionaire heir in all of New Greenland for over five years. "They're still inside Café Mistral. Kerry's wearing that white Chanel coat you got her for Christmas. He's in a black turtleneck. They're holding hands across the table."

The silence on the other end stretches so long I almost think the earpiece died.

"Holding... hands." June's voice comes out flat.

I adjust the oversized sunglasses perched on my nose and tug the brunette wig I'm wearing further down my forehead. The café's large windows give me a perfect view from where I'm pretending to browse the boutique across the street, but if anyone looked close enough, if he looked close enough, they'd see right through this pathetic disguise.

But June insisted. Twenty-four hours ago, he'd called me into his office at 11 PM, loosened his tie in that way he does when he's either about to fire someone or propose something insane, and said, "I need you to follow Kerry."

Just like that. As if he was asking me to book a restaurant reservation.

"Sir, I'm your secretary, not a private investigat—"

"Fifty thousand dollars."

I'd blinked. "Excuse me?"

"On top of your year-end bonus. If you can confirm whether she's..." His jaw had worked like he was chewing glass. "Whether she's faithful."

Faithful. The word had hung between us like a noose.

And here I am now, twenty-four hours later, watching my boss's fiancée stroke another man's hand like she's memorizing the shape of his knuckles.

"Describe him," June says suddenly.

I swallow. "Tall. Maybe six-two. Dark hair, looks expensive even from here. The kind of face that—" That would make anyone do stupid things. "—that photographs well."

"Name?"

"I don't know yet, sir. This is only day two of—"

"Find out."

The call cuts.

I stare at my phone, then back at the café. Kerry's laughing now, head thrown back, throat exposed. The man across from her is smiling, but it's not the smile of someone just having coffee. It's intimate.

It makes my stomach hurt for reasons I don't want to examine.

My phone buzzes. Not June this time; a text from Melly, my best friend and the only person I told about this whole mess.

Melly: girl r u really doing this??? this is INSANE

Me: i need the money. remember?

Melly: your brother's surgery isn't till June. that's 5 months away

Me: and the deposit is due in March. that's 6 weeks.

She doesn't respond. She knows I'm right. Jericho's medical bills have been bleeding me dry since the accident two years ago. The experimental surgery he needs costs more than I'll make in three years as June Jeremy's secretary, even with the bonuses.

Fifty thousand dollars though? That's everything.

I turn back to the café just as Kerry stands. The man stands too, and they're walking toward the exit, his hand on the small of her back.

Move, Anella. Move.

I duck behind a mannequin display as they step onto the street. They're close, too close, and heading toward the parking garage two blocks down. I follow, keeping a safe distance, my heart doing something stupid and erratic in my chest.

They stop at a black Maserati.

And then he kisses her.

Not a peck or accidental brush of lips. A full, claiming kind of kiss that makes my face heat even from thirty feet away.

Got you.

I'm about to pull out my phone to take a photo when a hand clamps around my wrist.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

The voice is low, smooth, and so close to my ear I can feel the warmth of his breath.

I freeze.

No. No no no—

The man from the café. Except he's not at the Maserati anymore. He's right behind me, his grip firm but not painful, and when I try to twist away, he doesn't let go.

"Who sent you?" he asks, and there's something almost amused in his tone, like this is entertaining. "June?"

My blood turns to ice. "I don't know what you're—"

"The wig's tragic, by the way. And those sunglasses? It's February. Overcast. You look ridiculous."

Shit. Shit shit shit—

I yank my hand free and spin around to face him, and that's my second mistake, because up close he's not just handsome… he's unreal. Sharp jaw, dark eyes that look like they could gut you without trying, and a mouth that's currently smirking like he already won.

"You should tell your boss," he says slowly, "that if he wants to play spy games, he should hire someone with better taste in disguises."

"I don't know what you're talking about." My voice is steady. Thank God.

"Right." He steps closer, and I step back, but there's a wall behind me now. When did I get backed into a wall? "And you just happened to be browsing mannequins outside the exact café I was having coffee in?"

"I was shopping."

"In an oversized wig."

"Fashion statement."

His smile widens, dangerously. "You're fun."

My pulse is rioting. "And you're delusional if you think I'm—"

"Anella Bymor." 

The sound of my full name in his mouth makes my stomach drop. "How do you—"

"I make it my business to know who's watching me." He leans in, just slightly, and I catch the faint scent of Mussé and something darker. "And you, Miss Bymor, have been watching me very poorly."

I lift my chin. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you've worked for June Jeremy for five years. I know you take the 8:15 AM metro every day except Thursdays when you stop by Saint Mercy Hospital first. I know you have a brother who's sick and that you'd do just about anything for the money to fix him."

My hands go numb.

"So here's what's going to happen." His voice drops. "You're going to go back to June and tell him Kerry's faithful. You're going to lie. And you're going to stop following me."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll make sure everyone knows June Jeremy's so insecure he's paying his secretary to stalk his fiancée."

The threat feels like a slap, and I hate him for it. I hate the way he's looking at me like he's already figured me out, hate the way my body refuses to stop noticing how close he is.

"I don't take orders from you," I say.

"No. You take them from June." He tilts his head. "But ask yourself—what happens when he finds out his precious Kerry's been spending her afternoons in my bed?"

And then he's gone.

Just like that. He walks away, hands in his pockets, like he didn't just blow my entire operation and half my dignity to pieces.

I stand there, shaking, wig askew, heart hammering, and pull out my phone.

New Email from: ForeverYours_1703

Subject: You looked beautiful today.

Even in that terrible wig.

My hands go cold.

No.

I scroll down.

I've been watching you too, Anella.

I delete the email so fast I almost drop my phone.

But the damage is done. Because I know—I know—that email address. It's been haunting me since university. Since the day I started getting anonymous love letters from someone who signs every single one the same way:

*Forever yours.*

And now I know two things for certain:

One: Kerry Showers is absolutely cheating on June Jeremy.

Two: I just got caught by the man she's cheating with.

And he knows everything.