Semua Bab THE BOSS'S FORBIDDEN TWINS : Bab 1 - Bab 10

Elena Sunlight knifes through the curtains and I jolt awake with my pulse already sprinting. For half a second I have no idea where I am. Then the sheets register—stupidly soft, expensive, the kind of cotton that costs more than my phone bill—and the heat of the body next to me slams the rest of it home. Oh hell. I slept with him. The stranger. The actual definition of a one-night stand. I have literally never done this. I’m the person who buys the same brand of toothpaste for eight years because switching feels risky. I own a label maker. My idea of living dangerously is eating sushi on a Tuesday. My dress is a crumpled heap by the dresser. My bra is dangling off a sconce like it’s trying to escape. There are two empty champagne flutes on the nightstand that I do not remember drinking, and a faint purple bruise on my thigh that is 100 percent from when he lifted me onto the desk and— Nope. Brain, we are not doing the highlight reel right now. I sneak a glance at the clock: 6

Elena I didn’t go home. Home is a studio the size of a shoebox with a radiator that clanks like it’s dying and a mattress that still smells faintly like the coconut oil I put in my hair last week. If I walk in there right now I’ll just sit on the floor and replay every second of that conference room on loop until I’m sick. So I ride the subway all the way to the hospital instead. Visiting hours don’t start until noon, but the cafeteria never closes and the coffee is terrible enough to punish me. I get a corner table by the window that looks out on the ambulance bay and nurse-smoke-break area. The coffee tastes like it was brewed during the Clinton administration. I drink it black and scalding. My phone lights up. Sophia: SPILL. How bad was it?? Did you nail it?? Are we getting lunch on the company dime soon or what?? Sophia. My ride-or-die since we both cried over stats midterms. The one who basically shoved my résumé at HR because “they’re desperate for someone who

Elena Monday shows up ugly.Rain hammers the window of my tiny apartment like it’s personally offended. I’m up at five-thirty, standing in front of my closet in mismatched socks and the same ratty college T-shirt I’ve owned since sophomore year, having a full-on panic attack over fabric.Nothing feels safe. The black dress says, “Remember me on your hotel desk?” The red blazer screams, “I’m trying too hard.” Everything else looks like it belongs to someone who definitely did not ride the CEO like a mechanical bull three nights ago.I end up in the charcoal suit I wore to my abuela’s cousin’s funeral. If it was somber enough for that, it can handle today.The subway is a wet, miserable sardine can. I stand the whole ride, one arm hooked around a pole, the other clutching my umbrella like a weapon. Every jolt of the train feels like a countdown.Soph texts: already here. coffee before you face the firing squad?Tempting. But she’ll take one look at me and know. She always knows

ELENA I didn’t sleep.I just lie in bed all night, rehearsing. My presentation. My tone. How to stay professional around Damien Blackwood at an hour when the whole city is still half-asleep.By 4 AM, I’ve changed outfits three times. The black dress feels too fitted. The pantsuit too harsh. The blouse too revealing. I finally settle on gray slacks and a cream sweater—simple, calm, the kind of outfit that says I’m here to work.Not to remember the night he already saw me in far less.Stop thinking about it.I reach Blackwood Tower at 6:47 AM. The lobby is almost empty. A security guard I don’t recognize. A janitor buffing the marble until it gleams like ice. The elevator ride feels like a punishment—bright metal walls reflecting my tired eyes, my too-tight bun, my hands clenched on my portfolio.I look like a woman holding herself together with sheer will.The ninth floor is dark except for one office glowing at the end of the hall. Damien’s office. He’s already inside, shirtsleeves r

ELENA I'm in the office at 5 AM, watching numbers that don’t exist yet.The campaign goes live at 6. Across Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, YouTube—eight influencers posting at the same time, each with content made for their audience but tied together by one message: Real people. Real products. Real impact.It’s good work. Maybe the best I’ve ever done.It’s also a huge gamble. Could blow up spectacularly in my face."You're here early."I spin around. Damien stands in my doorway, two coffee cups in hand. Shirt wrinkled, no tie, dark circles under those impossible blue eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept either."I could say the same.""Couldn't sleep." He steps in, sets a cup on my desk. "Figured you couldn’t either."The coffee’s from that boutique place three blocks away, not the office machine. My usual order—oat milk latte, extra shot, vanilla.He remembers."You didn’t have to—""I wanted to." He leans against my desk, careful to keep distance. "Nervous?""Terrified.""Good. You sh