Intentions

June

Phew. I sigh as I watch the car drive off.

For a second there, I thought he was going to fire me.

Relief washes over me… then embarrassment slaps me in the face.

How the hell did I not notice my tits were practically on display?

Oh God.

First, I sleep with him—and now this? He’s going to think I’m doing it on purpose. Like I’m trying to seduce him.

Shit.

I hail a cab and go straight home. CEO’s orders.

As I step inside, Leila lifts a brow, unplugging her curling iron.

"Well now, you’re awfully back early. Did you get kicked out of the internship or quit yourself?"

I collapse onto the couch with a loud groan. "Thankfully, I survived Day Two. But something so embarrassing happened."

Her eyes go wide. "What? What is it?" She rushes over.

I don’t answer. I just shrug off the driver's jacket and show her the shirt underneath.

She stares, confused, at first, then slowly, her mouth parts.

"No." A horrified gasp.

I nod. "Mm-hmm."

"You didn’t know?"

"Not a single freaking clue. And I followed him to a meeting like this." I cry out.

"No way!"

"He ended the meeting early and told me to go home. Said I should wear something more ‘appropriate’ tomorrow."

I bury my face in my hands, dying all over again.

"Jesus Christ. Girl—” Leila is gaping.

"That’s it. I’m done. He's definitely going to think I did it on purpose. Like I was trying to remind him we’d slept together, which I wasn’t! But now—ugh."

Leila is speechless. She just stares at me.

I spring to my feet, already spiraling. "I’m not going back tomorrow. Not a chance. I can endure his cruelty, but not this level of embarrassment."

"Wait—what?" Leila jumps up too. "You’re quitting?"

"I guess so." I pout, defeated.

She blinks at me, baffled. "But... you said you’d handle it. What happened to the girl from yester—"

Her phone rings. Loud and sharp, that we both flinch.

"It’s my mom. Excuse me." She glances at the screen and steps aside to answer.

I collapse back on the couch, rubbing the back of my neck.

Leila’s like my moral compass. And the way she was staring at me just now… God, why can’t I handle this?

She returns a few minutes later, her tone rushed. "My mom needs help at the store. I’ll be gone for a few days."

She darts into the room, grabs a small bag, and comes back out.

"And please...don’t quit over this. You’re stronger than a wardrobe malfunction. We’ll figure out a way to redeem yourself, okay?"

She’s already halfway to the door. "I’ll call you when I get to Spring Valley. We’ll surely figure something out."

Then she pauses at the doorframe. "And...you’re all alone now. Kayla traveled too. She’s not coming back for a while."

I lift a hand, half-heartedly. "Great. Y’all just leave me to my fate."

Leila laughs and blows me a kiss. "See you soon. Love you!"

“I love you too,” I mutter, rubbing my forehead.

The door closes behind her, and just like that, I feel completely... alone.

I pull out my phone, go straight to Go*gle, and type:

“How to redeem yourself when your CEO, who you accidentally slept with without knowing his identity — thinks you’re trying to seduce him.”

I stare at the screen, sighing. The answers are vague, ambiguous and useless.

Nothing about tits and billionaires and former one-night stands turned bosses.

I scroll, and scroll. Swiping through blog posts, HR advice threads, and some shady Red*it comments.

None of it helps.

Then, somewhere between humiliation and despair, my eyes grow heavy, and I drift off to sleep, with my phone still in hand.

One second I'm on the couch, the next, I’m in his office.

Of course I am. Because even in my dreams, I’m apparently still employed.

Except I’m not wearing pants.

"Miss Alexander," Hermes says with a voice like gravel dipped in silk, "you’ve forgotten something."

I look down. My shirt’s buttoned wrong, my legs are bare, and my panties are bright red — cherry red. The slutty emergency pair. Why did I wear those? Oh god.

"I—I can explain," I stammer, grabbing a file to cover myself.

"Don’t bother," he says coolly, but his eyes drop, and stay there. "You’ve made quite an impression."

He rounds the desk, and I back away, but my heel snaps, so I fall, and land right in his chair.

"Oh, how convenient," he murmurs.

Then he’s kneeling in front of me, undoing the buttons I definitely don’t remember allowing. His hands are warm and slow. Too slow.

"Mr. Grande," I whisper.

"Hermes," he corrects, his mouth ghosting the inside of my thigh. "You’re now off the clock."

I let out a sound that is not professional. At all.

He leans in like he’s about to kiss me, right there—

And the door slams open.

Leila walks in with a clipboard. "You’re late for your firing."

"What?"

"You heard me." She squints. "Also, did you seriously wear red panties on evaluation day?"

"I didn’t know it was evaluation day!"

Hermes sighs dramatically. "A shame, really. I was going to promote you to... personal use."

"Excuse me?!"

"Unfortunately," Leila says, flipping pages, “HR says your thighs are a liability.”

"What the hell does that mean?!"

"You’re terminated," Hermes purrs, dragging his mouth up my belly. "But not before I finish my sentence."

"I didn’t even commit a crime!"

"You did," he growls. "You made me want you. That’s punishable."

"I’m suing."

"You’re moaning."

"Okay, that’s... fair."

Then everything melts. His hands, the desk, the walls — they all turn into dripping coffee. Literal coffee. I’m naked and drowning in it and Kayla’s voice echoes from somewhere like a deranged Starbucks speaker:

"This is why you don’t sleep with your boss, June!"

I wake up with a gasp, heart thudding, and my body sweaty, with my panties soaked.

What the actual hell.

What kind of dream was that?

I blink up at the ceiling, disoriented. My phone is nowhere in sight. I scan the room, spot it on the floor, and snatch it up.

Thankfully, no cracks.

Woah—7PM?

How many hours was I out? No wonder I had that weird, fever-dream level of nonsense in my sleep.

This whole situation is becoming a full-blown menace to my mental health.

I need to stop obsessing before it gets worse.

And it is getting worse.

My stomach growls, loud and aggressive.

Of course. I’ve been loosing my shit all day and forgot to feed myself.

I scramble to the kitchen for anything remotely edible. After a questionable combo of toast and leftover pasta, I feel semi-human again.

Now, it's time for solution mode.

My phone buzzes — a message from Leila.

Leila: "Just do what he said. Wear something more appropriate tomorrow."

Thanks, girlfriend, but it's a late for the pep talk, I already beat you to it.

Right now, I’m standing in front of my closet, digging through fabric like I’m on a scavenger hunt for decency.

It’s 9PM.

I still haven’t found a single thing that screams “professional decent woman” instead of “street-certified disaster.”

I’m just now realizing...

My entire wardrobe belongs to the streets.

What the hell do I do?

****

On my way to the office, I try not to make eye contact with anyone in the elevator.

But it’s impossible when everyone is staring at me like I just stepped off a spaceship.

One man who's halfway in the lift actually pauses, his eyes darting from my neck down to my shoes like he’s trying to solve a riddle, then steps back and takes the next elevator.

Cool, just great. This was exactly the reaction I was hoping for when I slipped into this thrifted nun-core maxi dress at six in the damn morning.

From neck to ankles. Long sleeves. Modest to the point of martyrdom.

It technically passes as office wear — clean, dark, minimal. But here at Apex, where the unofficial dress code is "power-hungry chic," I look like I took a wrong turn into the HR department of a monastery.

Still… if this is what it takes to convince Mr. Grande that I’m not trying to seduce him, then so be it.

I got it from an overnight thrift shop three blocks from hell, and I had to talk the cashier down from asking if it was for a funeral.

But whatever, the mission is to de-sexualize myself is in full swing, so I don't care.

I get to the office even earlier than yesterday, determined to erase all doubt about my professionalism.

I sorted the necessary folders, cleared and color-coded the E-mails, made his coffee: strong, dark, exactly how he likes it.

I place it carefully on my desk like an offering, and sit quietly, smoothing out the dress like I’m preparing for prayer.

And then—

The elevator dings.

I don’t even need to look up. I feel him before I see him.

Hermes Grande walks in, and God help me, the man is dressed like a goddamn thirst trap.

No tie, fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearm, collar open just enough to see a hint of skin, tailored navy slacks.

His hair is moussed into an effortless slick, that same look he had the night I met him — the night he ruined me for any man who can’t whisper with his eyes.

He strides across the floor like he’s in a slow-motion cologne commercial, and I just stand there behind the desk, slack-jawed, blinking like an idiot.

I catch myself, and quickly close my mouth.

Jesus, June. Focus. Focus.

I’m dressed like a nun on a business retreat and he’s walking in here like lust itself in Italian tailoring.

No, I do not have sexual intentions.

...Right?

Right?

Because the way my body just reacted like a heat-seeking missile says otherwise.