Taming the Alpha CEO: Mine to Ruin

I’ve thought about killing my boss exactly forty-seven times in the past three months, which means I average about three murder fantasies per week, and honestly, that feels low considering I see his face every single day and every single day he finds a new way to make me want to commit a felony.

Right now, standing in his massive corner office with my back straight I’m imagining sewing his mouth shut with a needle and thread and I’d start at the corner of his lips and work my way across while he’s mid-sentence about my terrible work or my “amateur” fonts. I’d pull it tight enough that his perfect face would pucker, and maybe then he’d finally shut up.

“Are you even listening, Voss?”

His voice cuts through my fantasy and I blink, refocusing on his actual face instead of my needle-and-thread version. He’s leaning back in his leather chair, one hand drumming his stupid pen against the desk with his slate-gray eyes are fixed on me.

“Yes, sir,” my voice comes out timid even though inside I’m screaming, and I’m also revising my murder fantasy to include slamming his face into that mahogany desk repeatedly until the wood splinters and his nose breaks.

He slides my presentation back across the desk, and I watch it glide toward me like a rejected prom invitation, and I already know what’s coming before he opens his mouth.

“This is garbage, Voss.”

There it is, and I feel my jaw clench so hard my teeth might crack, but I keep my expression neutral. I’ve been working here long enough to know that he feeds on fear and the tears of junior staff.

“Sir, I followed every specification you outlined in the briefing,” I’m gripping the arms of my chair so tightly that my knuckles are white, and I can feel my chipped nail polish scraping against the leather, and I make a mental note to fix that later.

“The color palette is pedestrian,” he says, tapping the paper with his pen, and I wonder if he knows how much I want to grab that pen and stab him with it, just once, right in his ridiculously broad shoulder, and watch his Tom Ford suit stain red. “The font choices scream amateur and this tagline?” Another tap, harder this time. “My grandmother could write better copy, and she’s been dead for fifteen years.”

I’ve heard the dead grandmother line before, and I’m pretty sure he uses it on everyone, but it still stings because I spent six hours on that tagline, tested it on Lena, and Googled tips at two a.m. I don’t sleep much since this job turned my life into a hellish cycle of work and exhaustion.

“I can revise it,” I hate how small my voice sounds.

“You’ll do more than revise. You’ll scrap this entirely and start over, and I want the new version on my desk before the day ends.”

I stare at him, and for a second I think I’ve misheard because the day is basically already over, it’s four forty-seven PM and I can see the sun setting through his floor-to-ceiling windows. “Before the day ends? That’s—that’s only seven hours and thirteen minutes, and that’s if I work straight through until midnight, which I guess is technically still today, but—”

“Then I suggest you stop wasting time arguing and start working,” he snaps, looking at me without an ounce of empathy. “Unless you’d prefer to join the unemployment line?”

I picture my studio apartment with the leaking faucet and the radiator that only works half the time.

“No, sir,” I manage, voice shaking.

“Good. Close the door on your way out.”

I gather rejected presentation and I close the door quietly even though I want to slam it so hard the hinges break.

The elevator ride down five floors feels like descending into hell’s waiting room, and I stop at Lena’s cubicle on the forty-second floor because if I don’t talk to someone in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to start screaming.

I collapse into her visitor chair, which is really just a rolling stool she stole from the conference room, and I drop my stuff on her desk, narrowly missing the framed photo of her.

“I’m going to kill him, Lena. I’m going to actually murder that smug bastard.”

Lena spins in her chair, and she’s eating trail mix from a Ziploc bag, she grins at me with that expression she gets when she knows I’m about to go on a rant. “Which method today? Poison? Blunt force trauma? Ooh, death by a thousand paper cuts?”

“I was thinking strangulation,” I can feel my hands curling into fists just imagining it. “Watch his face turn purple, watch those cold eyes finally show some emotion, maybe film it for TikTok so other people can enjoy it too.”

“Girl, he’d probably look hot even dying,” Lena says, popping an almond into her mouth.

I hate that she’s right. Even in my murder fantasies I know he is annoyingly attractive. “I hate him, Lena, I hate his perfect hair and his stupid expensive suits and his complete lack of empathy and his—”

“—his abs you stared at during the pool party last summer?” Lena interrupts, and she’s smirking now, and I grab her brain shaped stress ball and throw it at her head.

“We do NOT talk about that,” I say, and I can feel my face heating up because yes, okay, fine, I saw him at the company pool party in July, and yes, he was shirtless but that doesn’t change the fact that he is making my life miserable six days a week.

“You started it,” Lena catches the ball and tossing it back to me. “So what did he do this time? Tell you your work makes him want to gouge his eyes out? Oh, or did he do the thing where he stares at you like you’re a bug he’s considering squashing?”

“All of the above, plus he wants a completely new presentation by midnight. Seven hours, Lena, seven hours to design and write from scratch.”

Lena’s smile fades, and she puts down her trail mix, and I can see genuine concern in her dark eyes. “Astrid, that’s insane.”

“I know,” I slump forward, resting my forehead on her desk. “I know it’s insane, but what am I supposed to do? I can’t quit, I need this job.”

She pats my head like I’m a sad puppy. “You’re going to pull it off because you always do, and then tomorrow we’re going to have emergency Friday wine night and we’re going to talk about how much you hate Rhys Blackwood, and I’m going to convince you not to quit, and you’re going to eat my leftover lasagna because I know you’re living on ramen again.”

“You’re the only good thing about this place,” I tell her

“I know. Now go make something so good it makes him choke on his own arrogance.”

I gather my stuff and head back to my cubicle, which is in the corner of the forty-second floor, right next to the bathroom so I get to hear toilets flushing all day, and my lights that flickers every seven seconds like it’s trying to give me a seizure.

The building is now emptying out because it’s after five now, and normal people with normal jobs are going home to their normal lives.

I order Chinese food delivery because I’m going to need actual sustenance for this. While I wait I stare at the blank canvas, and I try to channel all my rage and exhaustion into something productive, and surprisingly, it works.

By seven thirty-four, I have a color scheme, multiple coffees and by nine I’m finishing touches, daring to hope Mr Blackwood might not hate it.

I save the file and then save it again because I’m paranoid about losing work, and then I remember that the color printer is on the forty-fifth floor in the executive area, so I’m going to have to go back up there, into enemy territory.

At 12:02 AM, I make my way to the executive suite which is dark except for one office at the end of the hall, and of course it’s his office.

The door is slightly ajar, and I hesitate because part of me wants to just slide the portfolio under the door and run, but that feels cowardly and also he’d probably find some way to criticize my delivery method. I take a deep breath and I push the door open.

He is standing by windows with his back to me, and he’s on the phone, speaking in a language I don’t recognize, something that sounds Mediterranean, maybe Greek or Italian.

I clear my throat.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he snaps as he spins, and he’s already hanging up the phone, shoving it into his pocket, and his expression is stormy, like I’ve interrupted something important, which I probably have but I don’t care because he’s the one who demanded this ridiculous deadline.

“You wanted this before the day ends. It’s done.”

He checks his Rolex watch and then he looks back at me. “It’s already 12:03AM. The day is already over”

Then he strides toward me and I instinctively step backward, I don’t see the stack of boxes behind me until my foot catches on a corner and suddenly I’m falling forward, my portfolio flying from my hands, and everything happens in this weird slow-motion way.

He reaches out to catch me, his hands coming up fast, and my momentum plus his movement equals disaster, and his lips landed on mine and there’s this electric shock that runs through my entire body, starting at my mouth and spreading outward like lightning through water.

My eyes fly open, and his eyes are open too, and time seems to stop for exactly three seconds while we’re frozen there, lips pressed together, and I can feel his heartbeat or maybe it’s my heartbeat or maybe it’s both of our heartbeats.

Then the details snap into place

Wolf ears, black and tufted, sprouting from the top of his head and behind him there’s a tail extending from his body.

I stumble backward, breaking the kiss, and my hand comes up to my mouth, and I’m staring at him, at the ears and the tail, my brain trying to process what I’m seeing except it can’t because what I’m seeing is impossible, completely and utterly impossible.

“What—” I start, but my voice cracks, and I try again. “What the fuck are you?“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​