Tossing my phone onto the kitchen charger like it’s a hot potato, I make a beeline for my bed. The whole text message debacle has left me in a state of mental chaos, with embarrassment and anxiety duking it out for top billing. Then there’s this constantly returning grin as I remember how Ivan squeezed every last drop of my climax with those soft, beautiful lips of his. Holy hell.
As I lay there in the dark, I start the process of convincing myself that everything will be fine. ‘Ivan’s too busy to take this whole thing seriously,’ I mutter to the ceiling, an assumption meant to soothe my frayed nerves.
The more I think about it, the more it’s probable. The man barely has time to breathe between meetings, let alone overthink everything we just did. Besides, he needs me. I am stellar at my job. He can’t deny it.
I’m the gatekeeper to his world of high finance and endless negotiations.
Comforted by this logic, I almost convince myself. Almost. But then, sleep brings with it a dream that’s too vivid, too accurate.
I toss and turn, caught in the throes of a fantasy that rapidly spiraled out of control.
So there I am, lying in bed, a bundle of nerves and hormones, fantasizing about my boss filling me to the brim, continuing what we started tonight while simultaneously dreading the very real possibility of professional suicide. It’s as if my brain can’t decide whether it’s horny or horrified, so it settled on a maddening mix of both.
As the night drags on, sleep remains elusive. Every time I close my eyes I’m back in that same dream, with Ivan and my damn phone. And every time I wake up, it’s with a sinking feeling that tomorrow is going to be one hell of a day at the office. Maybe my last.
I reluctantly drag myself out of bed, exhausted from the restless night of unwelcome dreams and thoughts, and too much tossing and turning. My phone feels like a ticking time bomb as I gingerly pick it up the next morning.
The screen lights up, a calendar invite from Ivan staring me in the face. It’s a meeting request. Well, shit.
My heart plummets into my stomach and a cold sweat breaks out across my skin.
For a fleeting second, I entertain the idea of calling in sick. It would be so easy to hide away, to avoid facing the consequences of my actions. But that’s not who I am. I don’t run away from my mistakes. If Ivan is going to fire me for this, then so be it. I’ll face it head-on. He partook in it, too. He carries some of the responsibility. I doubt I’ll have the actual courage to say that to his face.
I stand in front of my wardrobe, my mind racing. This could be my last day at Stepanov Holdings, my final moments as Ivan’s assistant. If that’s the case, I’m going out in style.
As I head out the door, my mind replays the events of last night, over and over. It’s like a bad yet dangerously catchy song stuck on repeat, each replay a fresh wave of embarrassment. But I square my shoulders, determined to face whatever comes.
The train ride to work is a blur, my mind a whirlwind of what-ifs and maybes. But one thing is clear—I’m going to walk into that office, head held high, and take whatever Ivan throws at me. In Armani and Louboutin’s, no less.
The familiar hush of the building in the early morning feels different as I walk in, charged with an unspoken tension as I make my way to the nearly deserted floor. It’s a quiet that usually brings a sense of peace, a moment to gather my thoughts before the whirlwind of the day. But today, it feels like the calm before a storm.
As always, I arrive just before seven forty-five, a routine that’s become second nature. The floor is still, the only sounds present being the soft hum of the air conditioning and my own steady breathing. Ivan’s already in his office. He’s a man who thrives on being the first to arrive and the last to leave, his work ethic as relentless as it is impressive.
Dropping my stuff off at my desk, I take a moment to steady myself. My heart is racing, a fluttering bird trapped in a cage, as I mentally prepare for the impending meeting. This isn’t just any regular morning briefing or review session.
This is a moment that could redefine everything.
With a deep breath that does little to calm my racing heart, I walk toward Ivan’s office. Each step feels heavier than the last, my heels clicking against the floor like a metronome counting down to an inevitable conclusion. My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and scenarios, each more nerve-wracking than the last.
I reach his door and pause. It’s seven fifty-nine, sixteen minutes before the scheduled meeting time.
Part of me wants to just get this over with and march right into his office now, but I know how much he values a scheduled routine. So instead, I sit at my desk and turn on my computer, knowing there is no possible way I’m going to be able to concentrate on anything.
The minutes tick by in agonizingly slow fashion before finally the reminder on my phone goes off.
Eight-fifteen.
The moment of truth has arrived.
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