14. The Boss’s Girl.

I woke up to the sound of the shower running and the soft aroma of coffee in the air. My body still ached—in the best way. Tangled in messy sheets, naked, skin marked with kisses and bites, I didn’t need to remember what we’d done. I felt it in every muscle.

John walked out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, chest bare, hair wet, that natural confidence of his glowing like it belonged there.

“Good morning,” he said, flashing that crooked smile that knew exactly the effect it had.

“It’s two in the afternoon.”

“Then good afternoon. Hungry?”

“I could eat a horse.”

“Better a steak,” he said. “We’re having lunch out.”

“Out? Like… in public?”

“Restaurant. River view. Terrace table. It’s already booked.”

“I don’t have clothes for that, John.”

He shrugged like it was no big deal.

“Not a problem. My assistant’s on her way with a few options.”

“Your assistant?”

As if summoned, the doorbell rang.

John didn’t even bother covering up more. He opened the door in his towel, and there she was: tall, perfect, carrying a folder in one hand and several hangers in the other. A woman straight off a Berlin runway. Porcelain skin, blonde hair in a perfect bun, matte red lips, oversized sunglasses, and a fitted outfit that left little to the imagination.

“Herr Blackwood,” she greeted with a sharp, sensual German accent. “The dresses are here.”

“Thanks, Ingrid. Come in.”

Cat. Of course her name’s Ingrid.

She walked in with practiced elegance, not looking around, like she already knew the place. Like she’d also once been naked in these sheets.

“Miss,” she said, addressing me with a polite, icy smile. “These were selected from Giselda’s boutique. All private collection. Haute couture. European designers. I hope one is up to your standards.”

“Thanks…” I replied, half-covering myself with the sheet. I felt naked under her gaze.

Ingrid laid out the dresses on the couch, hanging each with surgical precision. Twelve pieces. Twelve works of art. A tight black dress with a plunging V neckline and a slit that screamed *not for the shy.* A burgundy satin one that poured over skin like liquid. A white lace one, see-through, hand-embroidered flowers. A midnight blue backless dress with pearl accents. The rest were equally absurdly perfect.

And they all screamed one thing: She’s going out with someone important. Very important.

John slipped on a shirt while watching me from the kitchen.

“Pick whichever you like. Lunch is in an hour. Ingrid will help.”

Of course she would.

Ingrid stayed close. Too close. She offered each dress, suggesting in her cold accent which best highlighted my figure, which suited the time of day, which John liked best. And each time she said his name, it had a subtle familiarity. Not sexual. Worse. Comfortable.

I glanced sideways as she knelt to adjust a hem. Her low neckline looked casual. It wasn’t. And when she glanced up at John—who was now on the phone, back turned—it was just a second. But enough. She looked at him like she knew what was under that shirt. Like she’d already had it.

And there it was. That internal bite. Jealousy.

Me? Jealous?

Ingrid was his assistant. Professional. Impeccable. Blonde. Perfect. German. And, probably, in love with her boss.

But that wasn’t the issue.

The issue was something else. Something I hadn’t dared to admit until now.

I was naked in John Blackwood’s apartment. Trying on dresses worth more than my annual rent. Feeling watched. Challenged.

But what right did I have to claim anything?

Am I his girlfriend?

Or just another chapter for Ingrid?

I said nothing.

I chose the black dress. The boldest. The most me.

John hung up the call, turned, and looked me up and down.

Silence.

Then, that smile.

“Perfect. You won’t go unnoticed.”

“That’s kind of the point,” I said, smiling too, though my stomach was in knots.

Ingrid nodded, neutral, professional. Though I saw the frosted gleam in her eyes before she left.

And I stood there, in front of the mirror, the dress clinging to my body, with John watching me like he was already planning how to peel it off later.

And one question stuck in my chest.

Am I just the girl of the moment?

Or worse.

Do I want to be something more?