My Love, My Boss

Raina’s pulse hammered as she crouched behind a velvet curtain at LUXE, Manhattan’s sexiest rooftop bar. Her phone trembled in her sweaty grip, aimed at the couple tangled in the shadows. The woman’s red dress rode up her thighs, and the man’s suit screamed power. They kissed like they wanted to devour each other.

“This must be a reunion of distant lovers or first meeting for online lovers” Raina thought as she watched how their lips crashed into each other and their hands moved unsteadily.

Raina’s body burned with the thrill.  The bar reeked of whiskey and lust, and she craved this type of danger but, she had no time for wishes so, she zoomed in. One photo tonight could save her from eviction.

She’d conned her way past the bouncer, heart pounding, in a cheap dress that hugged her curves and oversized glasses with fake diamonds that made her look unrecognizable.

The woman’s face hit her like a slap.

Isla Laurent.

Her foster sister, now a senator’s wife, grinding against a stranger. Not her husband. Raina’s breath hitched.

****************

Some hours earlier, Raina Cole's phone buzzed on the counter of her dimly lit apartment. The cracked screen flared to life. It was Malika - her best friend and roommate.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her heart was hammering too loud in her chest. Malika’s hope and her relentless positivity hurt more than the hunger that was ravaging her right now. Raina couldn’t bear the sound of her roommate’s voice, not when her body was screaming 'failure' in every cell.

Raina Cole kicked a crumpled beer can across the apartment’s warped floorboards, the sharp clatter bounced off the walls like a cruel reminder of her current situation - her life felt empty. 

The floor groaned beneath her bare feet. Her stomach twisted again… an empty growl that stabbed just beneath her ribs, echoing the dull, punishing ache in her skull. She crouched next to the kitchen counter, her legs shaking slightly, fingertips sweeping the scratched linoleum as she counted coins—three quarters, a dime, and a sticky nickel with something dark stuck to its edge. Not enough for food. Not enough for rent. Not enough for a decent life.

Her landlord’s last voicemail still rang in her head. Four days, that’s what the bastard gave her. Four days to pay up or get thrown out. 

At this point her apartment reeked of stale bread, sour sweat and loneliness. She shivered and shoved the coins into a chipped ceramic mug; exhaling deeply through her nose, hard and fast, trying not to shake. She needed a way out, and she needed it now. Not tomorrow.

Just then a memory hit her… uninvited and sharp.

The swing set at the orphanage where she used to play. Those rusty chains squeaking. Raina was barely ten and her legs were dangling. 

The fair little beauty - Isla’s curls bounced in the sun like a halo made of lies. 

“Little Ray, cry all day!” Isla had sung. 

The other kids circled her like predators, with laughter so shrill, so cruel, their voices cut her like a razor-blade. Raina had stayed frozen, blinking back tears, hiding the scream lodged in her chest.

Regaining consciousness, her throat burned again, dry and tight like she hadn’t swallowed in hours. Her lips parted, breath hitching.

“Not tonight,” she rasped, and the sound of her own voice cracked her armor just a little more.

She straightened her back. Her palms were slick with sweat. She wiped them on the thighs of her jeans. The cheap, threadbare denim clinging to her like a second skin, one ripped belt loop away from falling apart. 

The door burst open.

And there she was.

Malika.

In a blood-red leather jacket that clung to her waist, zipped halfway down to reveal skin that glowed a warm brown against the apartment’s filth. Her curls bounced as she walked, a halo of movement, sex and confidence. She tossed a greasy takeout bag on the counter like it was nothing, like they weren’t starving. The scent—fried dumplings, thick with oil and salt and heat—cut through the apartment’s stale air like a fucking miracle.

“Girl, you look like a ghost someone dragged out of a gutter,” Malika said, smirking, eyes gleaming. “Eat something before your tits fall off.”

Raina’s mouth twitched. “Can’t.” Her voice cracked, thin as wet paper. “Rent’s due.”

Malika’s smirk faded, but her expression didn’t soften. She stepped closer. Her perfume hit first—sweet cherry, sugar and sweat and something deeper, muskier. The kind of smell that got into your skin and stayed there.

“I got a tip,” she said, voice low, mouth barely moving. “LUXE rooftop. Paparazzi job. Tonight. Big names. Big payout. Quick and dirty.”

Raina froze. Her hand clenched around her phone. Paparazzi work was the bottom of the barrel. Sleazy, ruthless, half the time illegal—but it was real money. And fast.

Another memory flashed through her mind. It was when she just moved in here with Malika. They’d been broke then too. But they’d had hope.

“I’m in,” Raina said.

**************

Here at The LUXE, she watched the same Isla who had stolen her life, caressing and frolicking with another man who wasn't her husband. This would make juicy gossip for the blogs. She would enjoy  watching from the sidelines as they try to salvage the mess.

Raina’s thighs clenched. Heat pulsed between them.

This was it.

Her finger hovered over the button.

And then she remembered Isla’s smirk that day at the orphanage. Her curls bouncing as she walked away while Raina screamed her name.

Click.

Click.

The photos snapped. She had forgotten to turn off the flash - Shit!

The man’s head turned.

His eyes locked onto hers.

The air vanished.

Recognition didn’t flash in his gaze—but something else did. Something primal. He looked at her like he knew her. Like he’d find her. She yanked her glasses down, shoved the phone into her bag, and ran fast. Her heels clicked hard against the polished floor as she shoved through laughter and bodies and too much perfume.

She didn’t look back.

But his gaze followed her. She could feel it on her ass, on her neck, on her skin. The street was wet, dark, loud. She stumbled into a cab.

“Go,” she gasped.

The driver didn’t ask.

She cradled her phone in her lap, hands shaking. She checked the screen.

Crystal-clear.

Isla’s lips on his.

His hand on her throat.

This was five thousand dollars in one image.

*****************

Back in the apartment, she stripped down to a tank top, feet bare and hair wild. The laptop’s glow lit her like a crime scene. She uploaded the photos, watched them sharpen pixel by pixel—every detail was a dagger. 

She paced.

“Do it,” she whispered. “Send it. Do it.”

Her fist slammed into the counter. Pain exploded in her knuckles.

She hit send.

Seconds later, she received a simple response "$5000 by morning".

Her lungs emptied. And then she noticed another email. From Rainer PR.

Subject: Internship Offer.

She had been accepted.

Start Monday. Office 70B. Her blood went cold.

She dropped onto the couch. The springs moaned beneath her weight. Her thighs still pulsed with leftover heat from that man’s stare. Her skin still tingled.

“What the fuck just happened?” she whispered.

Malika’s key turned. The door creaked open.

She saw Raina deep in thoughts and paused.

“You alive?” she asked, soft but sharp.

“Got the gig.” Raina didn’t look up. “And a job.”

Malika blinked. Smiled. Didn’t pry. Just tossed a dumpling wrapper at Raina’s head.

“Proud of you.”

Raina caught it and barely smiled. But her eyes returned to the laptop. The email glowed like a trap. She stood. Paced. Her reflection in the cracked window looked like a stranger—eyes wild, lips parted, a flush still rising to her cheeks. Her thighs rubbed together. The man’s face hovered in her memory.