Lahat ng Kabanata ng Seduced by my Bosses: Kabanata 71 - Kabanata 80

The office was silent, thick with that stillness only found after hours. The kind that buzzed in the walls, soaked into the carpet, and seemed to listen.Naomi shifted in her seat, her pen hovering above a stack of untouched files. She glanced at the digital clock. 9:47 p.m.Her boss was still in his office.Of course he was.Mr. Elias Grayson never left before midnight. He didn’t stumble over furniture. Didn’t ask for help. He moved like a shadow—confident, lethal, always five steps ahead.And blind.Not that anyone dared say it aloud.He didn’t wear glasses. Didn’t use a cane. Didn’t tolerate pity.And still, somehow… he always seemed to see her.Naomi pressed her thighs together beneath her pencil skirt and stared at the glass door to his office. The lights were low, but she could make out his silhouette behind the frosted pane. Still. Waiting.Her stomach twisted with nerves—and something darker.Anticipation.Why was she still here?The report had been finished hours ago. She cou

The gates were twice as tall as Camila expected.Or maybe she just hadn’t expected anything at all.No photos of the elusive Dante Moreau had prepared her for this—his estate hidden deep in the mountains, guarded like a fortress, his name whispered in boardrooms and on scandal blogs alike. Ruthless. Brilliant. Dangerous.And now? Her responsibility.She was here to “babysit” the billionaire. That’s what the email had said. A temporary live-in assistant hired by his legal team to keep him away from reporters, alcohol, and women for six weeks while the world forgot about his latest scandal.Only, she hadn’t expected him.The door opened before she could knock.He stood there barefoot, in loose black pants and an open silk shirt that did absolutely nothing to hide the hard cut of his chest or the inked script crawling along his ribs.Dante Moreau.All six feet four inches of him.Dark eyes. Five o’clock shadow. A mouth made for sin.And entirely too amused.“You’re early,” he said, his v

Jenna Blake was the kind of assistant who never made mistakes.She arrived ten minutes early, kept her emails crisp and her skirt modest. Her heels clicked like a metronome through the marble floors of Voss Global Industries. She never dared to wear red lipstick. Never raised her voice. Never flirted.And yet, none of that mattered the moment she stepped into Cole Voss’s office.Because the second he looked up at her—sharp blue eyes narrowing over the rim of his glasses—every inch of her body betrayed her professionalism.Her breath caught. Her thighs clenched.And Mr. Voss noticed.He didn’t smile.He didn’t nod.He just stared at her like a problem he already knew how to solve.Cole Voss wasn’t a man who wasted words.His instructions came like bullets—short, direct, impossible to misunderstand.“Hold this.”“Read this aloud.”“Come closer.”Each time, Jenna did as she was told, wondering if her cheeks looked as hot as they felt. He never touched her. Never stepped over any clear li

The office was dead silent, the kind of stillness that only fell after 9 p.m. on a Friday. Most of the lights on the top floors were off, casting long shadows through the glass panels of Holt Enterprises. Eva Collins stood at the elevator, arms wrapped around a folder that contained the last-minute pitch her boss had demanded before vanishing into his corner office earlier that evening. She hated staying late. But when Grayson Holt said “stay,” you didn’t argue. You obeyed.She pressed the elevator button and waited, trying to still her racing heart. She hadn’t even seen him when she left his office. Maybe he’d gone. Maybe she could finally breathe.The elevator dinged.The doors opened.And her breath caught.He was inside.Grayson Holt. CEO. Her boss. Six foot three, broad shoulders, jaw cut like a blade. He stood with one hand in his pocket, the other gripping a phone he wasn’t even looking at. His eyes lifted when she stepped in, and for a single, loaded second, their gazes locked

It started with a lipstick smudge.Sierra Lane hadn’t even noticed it until she caught her reflection in the glass wall of Mr. Cross’s office. The curve of red on her upper lip had smeared slightly, likely from nervously biting down on it all day during back-to-back meetings. Normally, she’d have run to the bathroom to fix it before daring to walk into her boss’s office—but it was late, everyone was gone, and she had one last contract to drop off before escaping this pressure-cooker of a day.She stepped inside without knocking—he never cared for formalities, not with her. Damien Cross was seated behind his massive mahogany desk, jacket off, white shirt rolled up to his forearms, tie undone. A glass of whiskey sat beside a thick stack of reports, untouched. The room smelled like leather, wood polish, and faint masculine cologne—the kind that made her legs feel a little too warm under her pencil skirt.“Finalized contract,” she said, her voice cooler than she felt. She placed the folde