“Do you enjoy making me angry, Miss Valentine?”

Oh.

I absolutely did not.

The timing couldn’t have been worse if I’d orchestrated it myself.

I stood frozen in the break room, a fistful of damp napkins clenched in one hand, the other hovering uselessly in mid-air. I could have sworn I’d locked the door.

My blouse was soaked through, the thin fabric plastered to my skin like a second, traitorous layer—clinging in all the wrong places, buttons strained and gaping to reveal far more of the purple lace bra underneath than I ever wanted exposed. Especially not to him. Aria’s voice slithered through my head—You dress like a woman preparing for retirement—and for the first time, I hated that she’d been right.

To understand how my life detonated so catastrophically, we need to rewind a few days.

⸻

Three days earlier.

I’d worked at the firm for three years. Three long, underpaid years under Alexander Thorne—my boss, my professional tormentor, and a man who took quiet, unsettling pleasure in reminding me exactly how replaceable I was.

“Not like that, Jenna.”

“Can you do anything right?”

And his personal favorite, delivered in that low, dangerous drawl:

“You enjoy making me angry, don’t you?”

No.

I enjoyed paying rent.

Otherwise, my resignation letter would have been printed on heavy cardstock, signed in red ink, and framed above my desk purely out of spite.

After one especially brutal day—one too many surgical jabs at my competence, one too many veiled threats of termination—I dragged myself home, pulled on my bunny pajamas, and curled up with my Birman cat, Eloise.

That’s when I saw the ad.

Create your dream character.

So I did.

I gave him Alexander’s face. His voice. His razor-sharp suits and those colder-than-ice eyes.

Then I fixed him.

My version knelt at my feet. Apologized with reverence. Worshipped. Lived and breathed for my approval and the sharp, commanding click of my heels across polished floors.

He told me everything the real one never would—devotion dripping from every word.

I told myself it was harmless.

Just stress relief.

By the end of the week, I was using him during work hours—typing the real Alexander’s fresh insults into the app and letting the fake one stroke every bruise with breathless praise, promises, and raw, aching need.

I didn’t realize how dangerously addictive that was.

Alexander had been buried in a brutal case. Long hours—which, translated, meant I was fair game.

I made his coffee three times that morning alone.

The office was dim, lit only by the single reading lamp he favored over actual sunlight—further proof, in my mind, that he was at least half vampire. By the third cup, he slammed it down, fingers raking through his dark hair in frustration.

“Jenna, how hard is it to get soy milk right?” he snapped, voice edged with steel. “It isn’t rocket science. It’s basic.”

How about I shove that—

“It is soy milk, sir.” I smiled—the kind that made my nephews scatter like roaches.

“You know I like the French one. This cannot be that.”

French my ass. I rotated regular, French, regular—because that third one was always magically “the right one.”

“I’ll make it again.” Another razor-thin smile.

I snatched my phone from his desk and escaped to the break room.

I was walking back with the fourth damned coffee of the afternoon when Sabrina barreled into my shoulder like a linebacker.

That absolute bitch.

The shirt was ruined—hot liquid blooming across my chest in a dark, spreading stain.

I ducked into the break room to assess the damage.

I locked the door—or so I thought—unbuttoned the blouse with shaking fingers, and dabbed uselessly at the fabric. It had gone completely translucent, clinging obscenely. My breasts were on full, humiliating display beneath the sheer lace.

Why does this always happen to me?

I was deep in a furious resignation fantasy when the door creaked open.

Oh no. No, no, no.

“Do you enjoy making me angry, Miss Valentine?”

Alexander froze in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the hallway light.

So did I—heart slamming against my ribs.

He turned his back immediately, but he didn’t leave. The door clicked shut behind him with a soft, final snick that trapped us together in the small space.

“I—” He cleared his throat, the sound rough. “I didn’t realize you were… indisposed.”

My hands flew to cover my chest, heat surging through my face and down my throat.

“I locked the door. I don’t know why it didn’t catch.”

He lifted a phone.

My phone.

Sparkly purple butterfly case gleaming under the fluorescent light.

“I came to return this,” he said, voice quieter now, almost too quiet. “And to retrieve what’s mine.”

“Oh fuck.”

I lunged for it without thinking. He startled—just a flicker—and I stumbled forward.

We went down hard in a tangle of limbs—me straddling him, palms braced against his chest.

Somehow, in the fall, my blouse had surrendered even more buttons. Cool air kissed newly exposed skin.

“I’m—I’m so, so sorry,” I babbled, words tripping over themselves in panic.

His hands shot to my shoulders, fingers firm, steadying me. Only then did I realize how frantically I was moving—knees braced on either side of his hips, chest heaving, breath coming in shallow, frantic bursts that brushed against his jaw.

His grip tightened fractionally. The heat of his palms seared through the damp fabric.

“Jenna,” he said, low and careful, the word vibrating between us. “Please get off.”

Say less.

I scrambled up, nearly slipping again, fingers fumbling desperately with the remaining buttons.

“I’m sorry…”

“It’s fine,” he replied, composure snapping back into place like a shield—though his voice was rougher than before. “May I have my phone back, please?”

I turned toward my purse, pulse thundering in my ears.

That’s when my phone chimed—sharp and damning—on the floor between us.

We both looked down at the same instant.

The notification burned bright, impossible to miss.

**(AI)Alexander: **you take too long to reply… when are you going to end my suffering, little Jenna?

My stomach plummeted straight through the floor.

I was fired. Instantly. Irrevocably. Dead.

I snatched the phone and shoved it deep into my pocket, fingers trembling.

He hadn’t seen it. He couldn’t have.

For one suspended heartbeat, something dark and unreadable flickered across his face—almost… hunger?

Then he extended his hand, palm up.

Waiting. Expectant.

Right.

I placed his phone into it, our fingers brushing for a fraction of a second too long.

He rose smoothly, walked to the door, paused with his hand on the handle.

He glanced back at me—eyes lingering just a moment longer than necessary on the ruined blouse, the flush staining my skin.

“Keep the personal messages,” he said, voice perfectly, dangerously calm, “to a minimum.”

A charged beat.

“Little Jenna.”

And then he left—door clicking shut behind him like the final note of a threat.