Lahat ng Kabanata ng Bend me over, Professor : Kabanata 121 - Kabanata 125

Part V POV Anaise“Someone moved my pen.”The words shot out of my mouth like bullets before the elevator doors even fully opened, my voice echoing off the pristine marble of the forty-seventh floor at exactly 5:30 AM. I was talking to absolutely no one. Just me and the rage that had been building in my chest since I’d walked into my office and found my Pilot Precise V5 sitting two inches to the left of where I’d placed it last night.Two. Fucking. Inches.“Someone was in my office,” I continued my one-woman psychotic break. “Someone touched my desk. Someone moved my pen, and when I found out who it was… I’m going to make them eat that pen cap-first while I recite the quarterly projections.”I was losing it. Completely, utterly, magnificently losing my shit over a pen that cost three dollars and forty-nine cents at Staples. But it wasn’t about the pen—it was about the principle. The sacred

POV Anaise “So this man took your coffee and made you his personal coffee maker? What the hell?” Maya’s voice cut through our apartment like a hot knife through butter, her dark eyes flashing with indignation. “He never notices you, never even tells you ‘good job’, and now he appoints another job to you? The one he paid his assistant to do?”I dropped my purse on the kitchen counter and shrugged, trying to look way more casual than I felt. “Well, it doesn’t really matter.”“You’re so down bad for him.”“I am not.”Maya snorted, crossing her arms over her oversized sweater. “Bullshit, Ana. Complete and utter bullshit.”Maya Patel had been calling out my lies since freshman year at college. We’d been randomly assigned as roommates. Me, the uptight finance major with color-coded everything, and her, the free-spirited art student who painted at three AM and left coffee rings on every surface.

POV Anaise "I hate that apartment.""Mother, please." I take another sip of coffee, trying to pretend this conversation isn't happening at one of Manhattan's most exclusive restaurants."No, Isabella, I've seen the pictures Marcus sent. That shoebox downtown with the broken air conditioning and the neighbor who practices trumpet at midnight."Well, she's not wrong about the trumpet situation.My mother, Valentina Martinez, sits across from me looking like she stepped out of Vogue Italia. Dark hair swept into perfect chignon, diamond earrings catching marina lights, red lipstick precise enough to perform surgery with.Looking at her is like staring into a mirror twenty-five years into the future. Same bone structure, same stubborn chin, same eyes that could cut glass when pissed off.Which she currently is."Isabella, darling—""Mom, it's Anaise. Has been for nine years."She makes this loud, disapproving sound that could probably shatter wind