Chapter Text
✎ᝰ.
Rain drums against the glass walls of Aurion Tower as you step off the elevator, neon reflections cutting across the polished marble floors. Your heart hammering in your chest. First day. First real day at SevTek International. You’ve worked for this—but standing here, watching the city pulse below, you feel small.
And then you see her.
Sevika. Black tailored blazer, crisp shirt tucked perfectly into fitted trousers. Light catches on the sleek metal of her left arm as she adjusts her cuff, polished steel gleaming briefly. The faintest trace of cologne—warm leather, smoky woods, something sharp and clean—reaches you first, and then her eyes meet yours.
“You must be…” Her voice is low, smooth, controlled, like she’s measuring you with each word. “…my new assistant.”
You blink. “Y-yes. That’s me.”
Her gaze lingers a moment, assessing. “Follow me.”
Aurion Tower is sleek, glass and chrome, humming with quiet purpose. The elevator pings softly as you ascend, and the city stretches below in neon patterns reflected on polished marble floors. Everyone moves like clockwork—phones buzzing, heels clicking, laptops opening with practiced precision. You feel out of place, clumsy in your nerves, like you’ve walked onto a stage without a script.
Sevika leads you down the corridor, her stride confident. Colleagues bow slightly, nod, or lower their voices as she passes. Her presence bends the room around her, and you can’t stop your eyes from following her movements.
She stops beside a glass-walled office near the end of the hall. “This’ll be you,” she says, nodding toward the neatly arranged desk inside—laptop, planner, and a stack of documents waiting for review.
Then, with a brief tilt of her head, she adds, “My office is just across from yours.” Through the glass, you catch a glimpse of it—sleek and orderly, a sharp reflection of her.
“You’ll get your login credentials from IT by noon,” she continues, tone brisk. “Be set up and ready. We have a conference call in my office at 1pm sharp.”
You blink, startled by the abrupt transition. No hand-holding, no warm welcome—just immediate expectations. It’s clear she doesn’t waste time on pleasantries.
You’ve done this before—assistant work, schedules, damage control—but this feels different. Your last position was with a mid-tier tech startup, and even then, the pace had been brutal. Still, it taught you how to survive chaos with a polite smile.
You graduated a few years ago with a degree in business administration, chasing the vague promise of stability. You never pictured yourself working directly under a CEO—let alone one with Sevika’s reputation.
This is the kind of position people with twice your experience fight for. Honestly, you’re still not sure how you got it. Maybe it was luck, or maybe SevTek’s recruitment team made a mistake. Either way, you’re here now, standing beneath the weight of her expectations.
You square your shoulders, force your posture to match the confidence you don’t feel, and nod once. “Yes, Ms. Sevika,” you manage, hoping your voice doesn’t show your anxiousness.
You spend the next half hour settling in—arranging pens, adjusting the monitor, lining up your notebooks until everything feels orderly enough to calm your nerves. The view outside your window stretches across the city: streams of traffic, glass buildings catching the morning light, and the faint shimmer of rain on the horizon. It’s beautiful, distant, almost unreal.
You finish earlier than expected. With time to spare, you pull the top folder from the stack of documents on your desk—client proposals, project outlines, notes marked with Sevika’s sharp handwriting. You read through them carefully, tracing her precise edits, the clipped, decisive tone of someone who never second-guesses.
Your gaze drifts upward—through the glass—to her. She’s seated at her desk, sleeves rolled, focus absolute as her fingers move across the keyboard. The faint blue glow of her screen reflects off the curve of her jaw.
A soft chime pulls you back. Your inbox flashes with a new email from IT: login credentials, subject line crisp and impersonal. You exhale, shake yourself out of the moment, and get to work setting up your account.
By the time everything’s synced, you glance at the clock—12:50. Ten minutes before the conference call.
You grab your laptop and notepad, smooth your blouse, and cross the hall to Sevika’s door. Your pulse quickens as you knock lightly.
“Ms. Sevika, may I come in?”
She doesn’t look up right away, just gestures with a flick of her hand for you to enter. “Have a seat.”
The call begins moments later, her voice steady as she leads the conversation. You type notes quickly, trying to keep pace, occasionally catching the subtle edge in her tone when someone on the other end stalls or dodges a question. She doesn’t raise her voice—but she doesn’t need to.
When it ends, she leans back slightly, eyes still on the monitor. “Good work keeping up,” she says. “Now, do me a favor—coffee from the break room. Black. One green pack of sugar.”
First day jitters hit as you realize you don’t actually know where the break room is. Following the signs, you weave through the unfamiliar corridors, eyes flicking from arrow to arrow until you finally reach it.
The break room hums with low chatter and the hiss of the espresso machine. You scan the counter—brown, blue, pink, yellow packets… no green. Great. You grab one of each instead, balancing the cup carefully on your return.
“Sorry, Ms. Sevika,” you blurt as you set it down on her desk. “They were out of green packs, so I—um—brought options.”
Her mouth curves into the faintest grin, it feels like both approval and amusement. “Resourceful,” she murmurs. “Thanks.”
You smile, and retreat back to your desk, the sound of her low voice on another call following you through the glass.
✎ᝰ.
The afternoon moves fast. Meetings blur together—names, faces, projects—and you do your best to keep up, jotting shorthand notes while managing the constant ping of messages flooding your inbox. Once or twice, you catch movement through the glass wall—Sevika, focused, absorbed in her work, sleeves rolled to the elbow, the picture of control. She has the kind of presence that draws the eye without meaning to.
By five, your energy’s fading. You stretch your fingers, finishing the last of your scheduling updates, when the door to your office opens.
“Wrap it up in ten,” Sevika says standing in the doorway, hands tucked into her pockets. “We’re heading out for drinks with the Innovations team. Company cars’ll be downstairs at five-thirty.”
You blink up at her, surprised. “Oh—should I be tagging along?”
“Yes,” she replies. “Consider it… networking. And a test of endurance.”
Her mouth quirks slightly—barely a smile. Then she’s gone, striding toward the elevators as if the idea of you saying no never even crossed her mind.
You spend the next 20 minutes organizing your desk, rereading the notes from earlier, and refreshing your inbox to make sure you’ve missed nothing urgent. At 5:20, the office starts to empty— laughter echoing down the hallway, perfume mingling with the faint scent of rain from the vents.
You grab your coat and bag, take one last nervous look in the reflection of the glass wall, and head downstairs.
The plaza outside Aurion Tower glows under the city lights. Executives gather in small clusters, laughter spilling into the evening air as sleek black sedans line up at the curb. You spot Sevika near the front, speaking with a driver.
Her gaze flicks over her shoulder—just long enough to find you. A small nod, then she turns back to the car. Her hand catches the handle of the back door, a brief glint of metal under the lights, before she opens it and slides inside.
A company coordinator stands nearby with a clipboard in his hand, checking names as employees file into the waiting cars. When you approach, he glances up and gives a polite smile. “Ms. Sevika’s already in the first car,” he says. “You’ll be right behind her in the next one.”
“Got it,” you murmur, keeping your tone steady.
Still, confusion tugs at you—you’re her assistant, after all. Shouldn’t you be in the same car? Maybe it’s protocol. Maybe it’s just her way of keeping distance. After all, she does come across as someone who prefers space—who keeps people at arm’s length rather than letting them orbit too close. The thought lingers only a moment before you move to follow the coordinators directions, slipping into the car directly behind Sevika’s.
The interior smells of leather and perfume—expensive. Next to you sits a woman with glossy hair, bright eyes, and a grin that could melt tension on sight. She’s holding a silver flask, swirling it like a glass of fine wine.
“Hey! You must be the new executive assistant,” she says, all warmth and zero hesitation. “Amanda Holt — PR. Senior, unfortunately.” She gives you a quick once-over, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Still trying to find your footing?”
You blink, caught between surprise and amusement. “Is it that obvious?”
“Oh, totally.” Amanda bumps her shoulder against yours playfully. “First day under Ms. Sevika, huh? Brave soul. She’s brilliant — just... a little intense sometimes.”
You snort, tension easing. “I’ve noticed.”
Amanda grins, clearly delighted by your honesty. “You’ll be fine. And if you survive your first month without crying in the stairwell, you’re practically a legend.”
You can’t help but laugh at that.
Amanda’s the kind of person who fills a room — even a moving car — with noise and ease. She launches into stories before you can ask, all fast-paced and dramatic: campaign disasters, near PR nightmares, who once passed out in the copy room during deadline week.
You barely notice the ride passing at all; her commentary fills the space until the car slows, headlights glinting off wet pavement. The convoy of sleek black cars pulls up to the restaurant’s awning, engines idling in the drizzle. The doors open almost in unison—executives stepping out one by one, the shuffle of polished shoes and murmured greetings blending with the distant hiss of rain.
You hesitate for half a second before following suit, clutching your bag a little tighter. Sevika is already out front, her coat collar turned up against the chill, posture sharp. She doesn’t so much as glance your way as she walks toward the entrance, expecting everyone else to simply fall into step behind her.
You do.
Inside, the warmth hits instantly—the low glow of pendant lights reflecting off mahogany and glass. Sevika leads the way without a word, the group instinctively falling into formation behind her. You trail after them through the gleaming lobby and down a quiet corridor until the host opens the door to a private dining room humming with soft jazz. Conversations spark instantly, easy and familiar—everyone seems to know everyone.
Amanda hooks her arm through yours. “Sit with me, newbie. No hiding in a corner tonight.”
She orders shots before the waiter can even hand out menus. She raises her glass, grin mischievous as she leans in and whispers, “For the new blood. First day in the lion’s den—surviving Ms. Sevika deserves a toast.”
You stifle a laugh, glancing down the table where Sevika sits a few seats down, then clink glasses with Amanda. The shot burns on the way down, sharp and fiery.
Amanda doesn’t flinch. She sets the glass down with a thud and leans closer, her voice dropping to a low murmur.. “So, tell me—what’s it like working directly under her?”
You exhale a small laugh, feeling the alcohol warm your face. “Honestly? She’s hard to read. One look and I can’t tell if she’s impressed or already planning my termination.”
A wave of pure, delighted amusement washed over Amanda’s face. “Oh, that is classic Ms. Sevika,” she confirmed, nodding sagely. “She doesn't just manage people; she manages existential terror. The woman could silence a room with a single, unblinking stare—and somehow make every single person in it thank her profusely for the subsequent moment of quiet reflection.”
You giggle, shaking your head. “Yeah… I can see that already.”
You both laugh, taking another shot when the waiter refills your glasses. The air feels easier, looser. She keeps you talking—about your disastrous first impressions, the gnawing pit of nerves that hasn’t let up all morning, your humiliating university stories, and your admittedly questionable obsession with 90s indie music. She’s loud, unfiltered, and just the right kind of inappropriate to be disarming.
After a while, someone at the other end of the table calls Amanda’s name.
Amanda exhales dramatically, fingers brushing over the front of her blouse. “Duty calls,” she says with a grin, tossing you a playful wink before rising, and heading down to join them, her voice fading into the hum of conversation.
You take another sip of your drink—stronger than you remembered—and feel it go straight to your head. Maybe it’s the dim lighting or the steady flow of liquor, but your thoughts start to drift.
⋆˚꩜｡
You think about your old job, the cramped cubicle, the stale coffee breath of your old boss, Mr. Harrison, his constant, oily "friendly" touches— a hand lingering on your lower back, a brush against your arm that lasted just a beat too long, an unwelcome pat on your shoulder — sending shivers of revulsion down your spine. HR had been useless—more about forms and fake smiles than actually fixing anything. They didn’t solve problems; they just buried them under paperwork until you stopped trying, until you became an inconvenience easier to ignore than address.
The very idea of being in a vibrant, slightly chaotic place like this, letting your guard down, getting even slightly tipsy around those former colleagues, made your stomach clench. You wouldn't have felt safe. You wouldn’t have been safe.
Yet here you are, on your first day, surrounded by people you barely know—and somehow, you feel at ease. The energy’s different. No passive-aggressive comments, no weird tension, no wandering hands or jokes that go too far. Just respect. Simple, steady respect. You’re almost sure Sevika wouldn’t allow anything less, but knowing that and actually feeling it are two different things. It’s… nice. Comforting, in a way you didn’t expect.
⋆˚꩜｡
A shadow falling over your shoulder pulls you from your thoughts.
You turn to find Sevika. Jacket off, sleeves rolled, hair slightly mussed from the rain. Her gaze flicks to your empty glass, then back up to your face
“You holding up?” she asks, voice low.
You laugh softly. “Barely. Amanda’s a bad influence.”
“She always is.”
She moves around the far end of the table, then takes a seat directly across from you.
Before you can think of what to say next, a voice cuts in.
“Ms.Sevikaaa,” a woman sing-songs, slurring the name slightly. You glance up to see a woman approaching, balancing a half-finished cocktail in her hand. “You didn’t tell me you were coming tonight.”
Sevika’s brow arches, slow and unimpressed. “I didn’t think I needed to, Kira.”
Kira laughs, the kind of laugh that’s a little too loud for the room, the kind that draws glances. She sways a step closer, cocktail glass tilting precariously in her hand.
“You know,” she purrs, eyes flicking up and down Sevika’s frame, “for someone who runs this entire company like a damn empire, you could stand to smile more. You’d be lethal if you did.”
The air shifts. A few people glance up, conversations faltering. You freeze mid-sip, eyes darting between them. Sevika’s expression doesn’t so much as twitch, but the tension snaps tight across the table.
“Kira,” Sevika says — calm, and clipped. “Flirting with your superior in front of the team isn’t a good look. Go home.”
Kira blinks, realizing too late she’s stepped over a line. “I— I was just joking—”
“Sure you were. Just like last time, right?” Sevika’s tone doesn’t rise, but it lands heavy. “You’re drunk. Get some water, and leave.”
Kira stammers a weak apology and disappears toward the door, the silence she leaves behind almost deafening.
You try not to laugh, but the sound slips out anyway — quiet, caught between nerves and amusement.
Sevika’s gaze flicks toward you immediately, smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth. “You think that was funny?”
You lift a hand, still trying to stifle the grin. “A little.”
“Mm.” Sevika leans back, glass in hand, amusement flickering in her eyes. “You did good today,” she adds after a pause, quieter this time.
“Thank you, Ms. Sevika,” you murmur, trying not to sound too pleased.
✎ᝰ.
The night stretches on in a haze of laughter, clinking glasses, and low jazz humming from the speakers. Plates had come and gone, conversations that had started professional, slipped into gossip and careless jokes, fueled by one too many drinks.The edge of your nerves has long since dulled—replaced by warmth, by the soft blur of alcohol wrapping around your thoughts.
By the time you check your phone, it’s a little past ten-thirty. The crowd has thinned—half the team already gone, the rest leaning against chairs, nursing their last drinks. Rain still patters against the wide front windows, city lights smearing gold and blue across the glass. Amanda’s gone quiet beside you, mid-story, her head resting lazily on her hand, damp strands of hair sticking to her neck.
You felt the sudden urge for cool air and quiet. You stand to leave, but your balance wavers the moment your heels hit the slick tile. The floor tilts, your vision dips, and before you can catch yourself, a firm hand closes around your arm.
“Easy.”
The voice is unmistakable. Sevika. She steadies you, the scent of her cologne grounding you for a moment. You forced your leaden eyelids open, blinking at the sharp, tailored lines of her suit jacket. She looked down at you, her face carefully neutral, a mask of controlled irritation. A soft exhale escaped her—less a sigh than the quiet sound of professional tolerance.
“Come on,” she mutters, guiding you toward the door.
Outside, the air is cool and the smell of the wet pavement hangs in the air. A few company cars still wait at the curb, headlights slicing through the mist. Without a word, Sevika opens the rear door of one and nods for you to get in. You tried to pull yourself together, mumbling something about being “perfectly fine,” but it came out as a slurred puff of air. Sevika didn’t acknowledge it; she just held the door open until you slid onto the seat. With a decisive shake of her head—judgment passed without a word—she reached across your lap and took your purse.
“Hey—” you start weakly, hand reaching out, but a violent lurch in your stomach cut you off. Nausea hit like ice, forcing a gasp, your hairline prickling with cold sweat.
Sevika rummages briefly until she finds your wallet, and takes out your ID. She reads the address aloud to the driver.
“Get her home safely.”
“Of course, Ms. Sevika,” the driver replies.
She tucks your ID and wallet back into your purse and places it beside you before closing the door quietly.
The car hums to life, the city sliding past in blurred streaks of light. You sink against the cool leather, eyelids heavy, panic clawing at your gut. Saliva pooled in your mouth, a sure sign you were about to lose it. You clenched your jaw, forcing slow, shallow breaths.
Damn Amanda and her insistence on that last round, and damn yourself for thinking you could handle it.
The ride felt endless. When the car finally stopped outside your apartment building, the pressure became unbearable. You flung the door open, stumbling onto the slick pavement.
You didn’t make it two steps before doubling over, retching violently into the gutter.
“You okay?” the driver calls, leaning slightly out the window.
“Yeah,” you manage between coughs and heaves, voice hoarse. “Thanks. I’m fine.”
Wobbling, you make your way inside, kicking off your heels as soon as the door closes behind you. The hallway feels impossibly long, the lights too bright, and every step shakes your stomach. You finally collapse onto your bed, face-first, letting yourself sink into the mattress.
The world tilts one last, terrifying time, then mercifully stills. Sleep takes you before you can even change out of your clothes.
✎ᝰ.
Morning hits like a dull hammer.
Your head throbs—not the full weight of a hangover, but enough to make the sunlight leaking through your blinds feel like an accusation. You blink blearily, realizing you never made it under the covers. Yesterday’s clothes cling to your skin, rumpled and twisted, your blouse half-untucked and your hair a tangled mess against the pillow.
With a groan, you roll over and grab your phone from the nightstand. The screen lights up, and your stomach drops.
Sevika: Meeting at 8:15. Don’t be late.
The time reads 7:20 a.m.
“Shit,” you breathe, sitting up too fast. The room tilts for a second, punishment for last night’s drinks. You swing your legs off the bed, stumble toward the bathroom, and crank the shower on full blast. The cold water snaps you awake, though not kindly.
You’re moving on autopilot—rinsing, drying, tugging on a long pencil skirt and a crisp white blouse that refuses to stay tucked. Heels, the same ones from last night, click unevenly across your floor as you grab your bag and smooth your hair back into a sleek bun. The mirror shows someone who looks almost put together if you ignore the faint shadows under her eyes.
By 7:50, you’re locking your door and half-jogging down the street, clutching your purse like a lifeline. The bus comes around the corner just as you reach the stop, brakes hissing. You step on, breathless but relieved, and sink into a seat by the window.
The city blurs past in morning rush-hour haze, lights flickering across glass and steel. Every stop feels like it’s taking too long. By the time the bus pulls up near Aurion Tower, your watch reads 8:11.
You take the elevator, then hurry off heels clicking against the marble, pulse drumming in your ears. When you finally reach the conference room, the door’s already half-shut.
You slip inside just as the clock hits 8:15.
Sevika’s at the head of the table, mid-sentence. Her eyes find you instantly—cool—but she doesn’t pause, doesn’t call attention to your entrance. Just one raised brow as you slide quietly into an empty seat and open your notepad like you’ve been there long enough to know what’s going on.
✎ᝰ.
The meeting drags on for nearly an hour, filled with numbers, projections, and the occasional sound of fingers tapping against keyboards. You take notes mechanically, your headache thrummed behind your eyes, a dull pulse that matched the steady tick of the wall clock. Each second landed like a tap of pressure against your skull.
You just wanted quiet—your apartment, the dark, a few hours of stillness.
Every now and then, a faint chill worked down your spine. You didn’t have to look up to know it was Sevika’s eyes on you. You could feel her attention before you saw it—a glance, brief but weighted.
When the meeting finally ends, chairs scraped, papers rustled, conversations reignited as everyone made for the door. You moved slower, gathering your things one piece at a time.
“Feeling okay?”
You freeze, glancing up. Sevika stood a few feet away, arms crossed.
You blinked. “I—uh—”
“I take it you made it home in one piece,” she said before you could find words.
Heat crawls up your neck. “Y-yes, Ms. Sevika. Thanks to you.”
Her mouth curves faintly. “Try not to make that a habit.” She pauses, then nods toward the hallway. “Come with me.”
You hesitate but fall into step behind her. She leads you back to her office, the click of your heels echoing softly against the polished floor. Without a word, she crosses to her desk, slides open a drawer, and retrieves a small bottle of ibuprofen along with an unopened bottle of water. Setting them on the desk in front of you, she looks up.
“Two should do it,” she says, tone flat but not unkind.
You manage a nervous laugh, cheeks warm. “Right. Thank you.” You shake two pills into your palm, swallowing them quickly with a sip of water.
Sevika nods once, satisfied. “Good. Now I need coffee, black, one—”
“One packet of sugar,” you finish for her before you can stop yourself. “The green one.”
That earns you a pause. She tilts her head just a fraction, before she nods once. “Good memory.”
She settled into her chair, shifting her attention to the papers on her desk. You take that as your cue to leave. Drawing a quiet breath, as you head for the break room.
The smell of espresso hits you instantly, bitter and sharp, making your head throb a little more. Glancing at the counter, you remember yesterday — they’d been out of the green packets Sevika likes — so you’re relieved to see them restocked today. Grabbing a cup, you pour the coffee and tear open a green packet just as a groan echoes behind you.
Amanda stumbles in, sunglasses on, hair a little too wild to be office-appropriate. “I swear,” she mutters, “if anyone breathes too loud near me, I’m quitting.”
You stifle a laugh. “Rough night?”
“Rough everything,” she corrects, grabbing a mug and slumping against the counter. “Didn’t even get laid last night, which feels like a waste of perfectly good eyeliner and bad decisions.” She eyes you up and down, smirking. “You look like you could use some action too.”
You gasp, mock-offended. “Ouch. That’s harsh coming from someone who looks like death in fancy shades.”
Amanda grins, a flash of her usual spark returning. “Fair enough. But seriously — what about you? You seeing anyone?”
You hesitate, fingers tightening slightly around the coffee cup. “No. Uh… not right now.” A beat. “Actually, I’m… newly out. So I have no idea what I’m doing. Kind of just figuring it out as I go, I guess.”
Amanda froze mid-sip, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of her nose until her eyes were visible—sharp, suddenly alert. “Oh, really?” she said, leaning in, voice dropping like she was about to share state secrets. “You should definitely talk to Ms. Sevika.”
You nearly choke on air. “What? Why? No. Absolutely not.”
Amanda bursts out laughing, a rich, uninhibited sound that echoed slightly in the otherwise quiet office kitchen. “Relax, I’m not suggesting you try to date her!” she clarifies, waving a dismissive hand. “I just mean the woman’s got a reputation that precedes her by three hallways. Half her flings show up making a scene at reception, looking for her, sometimes even crying. She must be doing something right, whether it’s the sex or the dates. Maybe she has some tips on navigating… the scene, you know? She clearly knows how to attract people.”
You blink, a little shocked. You didn’t expect Sevika to let her personal life spill into work like that. Then again… maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she doesn’t let it spill. Maybe the problem isn’t her lack of discretion—it’s theirs. Her flings' lack of discretion. The thought caused a reluctant, slightly wicked grin to pull at your lips.
You shake your head quickly, trying to quell the internal amusement before Amanda notices. “Yeah, no thanks,” you manage, your voice firm despite the smile threatening to break through. “I like my job—and my dignity—intact.” The idea of approaching Sevika for dating advice, let alone anything else, was beyond the pale.
“Suit yourself.” Amanda shrugs, pushing off the counter. “But I’m telling you, a little danger never hurt anyone.”
You roll your eyes, grabbing Sevika’s coffee. “Good luck surviving the day.”
“Please,” she groans,“If I make it to lunch, it’ll be a miracle.”
You laugh softly, then head back toward Sevika’s office, coffee in hand. The door’s half-open, her figure outlined against the light, every movement visible through the clear glass — shoulders straight, attention fixed on her screen.
You knock once before stepping into her office. Sevika looks up briefly from the papers in front of her, her eyes meeting yours for a fraction of a second.
“Thank you,” she says simply.
You nod, setting the coffee on her desk. “Of course.”
Her gaze flicks back to the spreadsheet, frowning slightly as she refocuses on the numbers. You close the door behind you and retreat to your own office.
✎ᝰ.
The next hour slips into routine. Emails, voicemails, invoices, updates. Your fingers move automatically across the keyboard as you take calls, emails read, sorted, and filed; voicemails turned into tasks; invoices cross-checked; weekly updates finalized. It’s quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning and the occasional click of someone’s shoes passing by in the hall.
Eventually, you lean back in your chair, stretching your arms above your head until your shoulders pop. The movement draws a small sigh of relief from you, and for a brief moment, your gaze drifts toward Sevika’s office.
She’s seated at her desk, one hand braced against her chin, eyes narrowed slightly at her monitor. Her focus is sharp, unbroken.
Amanda’s words echo uninvited in your mind. You should talk to Ms. Sevika.
You suppress a small smile, shaking your head. She undoubtedly has more experience than you do in… that department. However, the idea of approaching her desk with your clumsy, uncertain issues—things tinged with emotional risk—felt like a professional death sentence. You were too new. Too unsure. Asking Sevika anything that personal felt like crossing a sacred line. And she doesn’t seem like the type to tolerate anyone testing boundaries.
You glance back toward her office— and freeze.
She’s looking right at you.
Your stomach drops. The moment stretches, just long enough for heat to crawl up the back of your neck, and then you whip your gaze back to your monitor, pretending to type something — anything.
A quiet ping from your inbox makes you jump.
You glance at the screen.
From: Sevika
Subject: Come to my office.
No message. No context. Just that.
You stare at it for a second, the image of her observing gaze still burned behind your eyelids, your stomach flipping a little harder now—a mix of dread and anticipation. You cross the short distance between your offices, smoothing the front of your shirt—a futile gesture intended to somehow convey a composure you absolutely do not feel.
She doesn’t look up right away when you enter. “You have lunch plans?”
“Uh, no. Not today.”
“Good.” She sets her pen down, finally meeting your eyes. “Work in here with me until 1. Then we’ll go downstairs and grab something.”
It takes you a second to process the ‘invitation’. “Oh—okay. Sure.”
“Grab your laptop,” she adds. “We’ll go over the quarterly drafts together.”
You nod, still slightly surprised, and hurry back to your office. When you return, Sevika has shifted a stack of papers to make space for you at the end of her desk.
You set up your laptop beside hers, and soon the low murmur of typing fills the room, the smell of her coffee lingering between you. For a while, it’s quiet — just the steady rhythm of work.
But no matter how hard you try, your attention keeps drifting. Your eyes find her again absorbed in her work. The way she moves is precise; even typing looked effortless, almost graceful. You catch yourself staring, heat rising to your cheeks before you force your eyes back to your screen. Still, that flicker of curiosity lingered.
✎ᝰ.
Every so often, Sevika leans over to glance at your screen, her voice low and even when she offers feedback.
“Double-check your totals here,” she murmurs once, tapping a cell on your spreadsheet with the blunt end of her pen.
You nod quickly. “Right.”
Other times, she doesn’t speak at all, just gives a small approving sound when you fix something before she can point it out. Despite your initial nerves, the quiet rhythm between you settles into something almost… comfortable.
At one point, she sits back, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. “You’re picking this up fast.”
The compliment catches you off guard. “Thank you, Ms. Sevika. Guess I had good notes to go off of.”
“Mm.” Her mouth tilts faintly.
By the time one o’clock nears, your headache has faded, but your stomach has started to growl in protest. Sevika shuts her laptop and glances your way. “Lunch?”
You nod, packing up quickly, and follow her toward the elevators.
The downstairs café is busy — a long counter, the hum of conversation, and the smell of something sweet cutting through the usual corporate blandness. You step into line beside Sevika, scanning the digital menu.
She gestures toward the screen. “The steak sandwich is good. Or the roast chicken wrap.”
“That sounds…” you start, but your voice trails off as your eyes wander toward the smaller section labeled Vegetarian Options. Meat never sits well with your stomach, and the thought alone makes your appetite disappear.
Sevika’s eyes flick to the menu, then back to you. “You don’t eat meat.” It isn’t quite a question.
You hesitate, explaining dietary preferences always feels like giving unwelcome homework to your dining companions.
You shake your head. “No, I—just… prefer not to.”
“Salad, then?” she asks. “The Mediterranean one’s solid.”
You smile, relieved she didn’t pry, and just offered a genuine, appealing solution. “Yeah. That sounds perfect.”
She orders for both of you without hesitation, moving with the sort of ease that makes you feel like you’re perpetually half a step behind.
✎ᝰ.
You’ve barely sat down with your trays when a tall man in a pale blue shirt approaches the table, grinning.
“Sevika! You’ve been dodging me all week.” The sheer volume of his greeting makes nearby diners swivel their heads.
You blink, surprise flickering across your face. Sevika? Nobody calls her that — not the interns, not even the most senior department heads. To everyone else, she’s Ms. Sevika, a name spoken with the kind of respect that borders on fear. The easy way he says it sets him apart immediately.
Her jaw tightens slightly, metal hand twitching out of obvious annoyance. “Tom.”
He doesn’t wait for an invitation—just pulls out the empty chair beside you and drops into it. “Mind if I join?” he asks, the question purely rhetorical, already leaning across the table.
You glance at Sevika, but she only exhales quietly through her nose.
Tom leans forward, elbows on the table. “So,” he says, looking at you. “You’re the new assistant everyone’s been talking about.”
You feel a flush creep up your neck, the sudden spotlight unnerving. “Oh, I—uh, maybe? I hope in a good way.”
“Depends who you ask,” he jokes, flashing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.“You must be good if you’re working with Sevika. She doesn’t tolerate amateurs.”
Sevika sighs, unimpressed. “And somehow, you still have a job, Tom.”
He laughs loudly at that, then starts droning on about some project upstairs. You focus on your salad, eating in silence while Sevika answers in clipped, efficient tones that suggest she’s seconds from telling him to leave.
Eventually, your lunch break ends. Tom insists they need to “sync up about some innovation reports,” and Sevika stands groaning.
“Go ahead and head back up,” she tells you. “I’ll be with Tom this afternoon.”
“Got it,” you say, trying to hide your disappointment at how abruptly the calm between you shattered.
✎ᝰ.
Back upstairs, the rest of the day blurs together. Calls come in one after another, voices stacking in your headset—some urgent, some clipped, some just mind-numbingly routine. You toggle between follow-ups, notes, and check-ins, tracking project updates. Your inbox pings again, then again.
You work until the last of the daylight slips off the windows, then finally pack up your things and head out at 6.
At the bus stop, you’re just about to put in your earbuds when your phone buzzes.
Amanda: Drinks tonight? We both could probably use the relaxation.
You tap out a quick reply.
You: Weren’t you just horribly hungover this morning?
Another buzz.
Amanda: I’m dragging you out either way, so you might as well say yes.
You can’t help but smile at that, shaking your head as you tuck your phone back into your bag.
By the time you get home, the skyline glows in the distance, a pulse of gold and glass against the darkening sky. You heat up something simple for dinner, the quiet hum of your apartment a soft contrast to the noise of the day.
Afterward, you pull open your closet, debating for a moment before slipping into a backless black dress — simple but elegant. Gold heels, matching gold earrings. You catch your reflection in the mirror, fluff your hair, and almost don’t recognize the confident woman looking back.
You grab your purse, keys, and phone.
You: Drop the location.
A second later, Amanda replies with an address and a winking emoji.
✎ᝰ.
The bar hums with music and low laughter, lights glinting off bottles behind the counter. Amanda’s already there, perched on a stool with two drinks waiting — one for her, one for you — and that familiar spark in her eyes when she spots you.
“You made it!” she cheers, raising her glass. Her eyes flick you up and down, taking in your outfit, and a slow grin spreads across her face. “Wow… I’m impressed.”
You grin back. “Figured I’d put in some effort.”
Amanda laughs. “Worth it.”
You slide onto the stool beside her, the edge of a smile tugging at your mouth. “I almost didn’t come, you know.”
“Good thing you did,” she says, sliding a fresh drink toward you. “I’d be drinking alone otherwise, and that’s just sad.”
You take the glass, chuckling. “Thanks.”
The two of you talk, drink, and unwind. The buzz loosening your nerves.
Amanda grins over the rim of her glass. “See? Told you I’d get you to relax.”
You roll your eyes, smiling. “Guess I underestimated you.”
She leans closer, mischief in her eyes. “Perfect opportunity, too,” she teases. “A hot stranger at the bar, you relaxed… basically a free pass to get laid.”
You snort, shaking your head. “Wow, Amanda. You really only care about one thing, don’t you?”
“Hey,” she says with a mock glare, “a girl’s gotta prioritize.” She smirks, glancing past your shoulder. “Uh oh. Incoming.”
Before you can ask, a low, sultry voice hums behind you. “Aren’t you just beautiful.”
You turn, pulse quickening. The woman standing there looks like she walked straight out of a fantasy — dark hair cascading over one shoulder, lips painted the color of ripe berries, a satin dress that clings to her curves and dips low enough to show the soft swell of her chest. Every inch of her seems designed to draw the eye, from the way her perfume curls through the air — something rich and warm, like amber and spice — to the lazy confidence in her smile.
Her fingers trail lightly up your spine, and you shiver at the touch. When your eyes meet, hers are heavy-lidded.
Amanda grins, already sliding off her stool. “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” she teases, giving you a wink before disappearing into the crowd.
You open your mouth to say something — anything — but all that comes out is a quiet, “T-thank you.”
Her smile deepens, lips curving like she’s just uncovered a secret. “Oh,” she murmurs, voice low and velvety, “you’re shy. That’s adorable.”
Heat floods your face, spreading fast.
The woman leans in just enough for her perfume to wrap around you. “Don’t worry,” she says, her tone dipping into something that sounds almost like a promise. “I don’t bite… unless you ask.”
Your brain short-circuits.
You don’t even have time to gather your thoughts, she takes your hand with a gentle tug. “Come on,” she murmurs, “let’s get somewhere a little quieter.”
She leads you through the crowd toward the bathroom. Your pulse hammers the whole way there, half from the alcohol, half from disbelief that this is actually happening. The door shuts behind you with a dull thud, muting the music to a distant throb.
Before you can think, she presses you back against the cool tile wall. The kiss comes fast—sudden and rough. Her hands are already on your waist, her body pressing close. You try to follow her lead, but you hesitate, movements clumsy and uncertain.
She pulls back after a moment, and sighs in frustration. “Seriously? What, have you never done this before?”
You freeze. “I—uh—”
She rolls her eyes, stepping away. “You’re fucking kidding. Maybe practice before you waste someone’s time next round. Waste of a pretty face.”
The words sting more than they should. She pushes past you and disappears through the door, leaving you standing alone under the flickering bathroom light.
For a long moment, you just stare at your reflection — flushed cheeks, smudged lipstick, eyes wide. Then you laugh softly, without humor, and whisper to yourself, “Well. That went great.”
You grab a paper towel, blot at the lipstick, and try to smooth your hair back into something resembling control. It doesn’t help much.
You take a steadying breath, and walk out of the bathroom.
The air outside feels heavier than before — too warm, too loud. You push through the crowd and find a quiet corner near the exit, half-hidden in shadow. The noise of clinking glasses and laughter fades just enough for your thoughts to start creeping back in.
You lean against the wall, exhaling. The sting of that woman’s words lingers — sharp, humiliating. But beneath it, something else simmers: confusion, maybe. Frustration.
You close your eyes, letting your head tip back.
⋆˚꩜｡
Before coming out, there had only been one person you got into a relationship with. A guy you dated for 5 months in college, he was polite, dependable, and completely wrong for you. You used to think that maybe the flutter in your stomach would come eventually, that attraction was something you could grow into if you just tried hard enough.
It never did.
You remember his kisses — quick, practiced things that left your mouth crawling with discomfort. The way he’d touch you sometimes, gentle but expectant, as if you were following a script you didn’t remember agreeing to. Most nights you’d pull away, murmuring that you were tired, that you didn’t want to have sex right now. He’d sigh—a sharp, frustrated sound that always knotted guilt in your chest—but he’d never press. And still, every time, the relief that followed felt almost as hollow as the avoidance itself.
Then one day, he stopped calling, stopped coming over. A week later, you found out he’d been sleeping with someone else. He said you’d “made it too hard to feel wanted.”
⋆˚꩜｡
You laugh bitterly under your breath.
The memory leaves a sour taste in your mouth, but it also makes something else click into place — why tonight’s kiss didn’t feel like a complete failure. Messy as it was, it hadn’t felt wrong. When her lips met yours, there was a spark — small, but real. A kind of pull you’d never felt before, even if it ended awkwardly. It wasn’t a failure, just proof that something in you was finally waking up.
Amanda’s words echo in your head again. You should talk to Sevika.
Maybe she could help.
But the thought of actually asking her, yet again, makes your stomach twist. The last thing you need is to look like some wide-eyed rookie begging her boss for intimate lessons. To confess such an embarrassing lack of knowledge on a topic like that, especially to her, felt like an unbearable, soul-crushing admission.
You groan softly and scrub a hand over your face. “Nope. Terrible idea.”
Pushing off the wall, you square your shoulders and step back into the crowd, scanning until you spot Amanda at the bar, laughing with some guy. She waves when she sees you, holding up two fresh drinks.
You force a small smile and make your way over, letting the noise and the neon lights swallow the last of your thoughts.
✎ᝰ.
The night winds down slowly. Laughter fades, glasses empty, and the bar grows quieter as people trickle out in twos and threes. You and Amanda linger near the door, finishing what’s left of your drinks before stepping out into the cool night air.
Amanda stretches, a slow, languid arch of her back, arms reaching toward the ceiling. A soft sigh slips out, caught somewhere between contentment and a half-suppressed giggle. “Alright, I’m heading out,” she says, waving for a cab. “Don’t miss your bus babes.”
You laugh weakly, promising you won’t. She gives you a sloppy salute before disappearing into the backseat of a yellow cab.
The bus ride home is a blur of streetlights and half-formed thoughts.By the time you reach your stop, the night air cuts cool against your skin, but it does little to clear the haze in your head. You fumble with your keys, shoes dangling from one hand, and step into the quiet of your apartment.
The lights stay off. You drop your bag and shoes by the door, and collapse onto the couch. The cushions dip under your weight, the room spinning just slightly. You tell yourself you’ll get up in a minute—just a minute—but sleep finds you first.
✎ᝰ.
You half-expect to wake up with your head pounding, but morning comes without the punishment you deserve. A small miracle.
By the time you reach the office, caffeine and fluorescent light do their job, pulling you the rest of the way into focus.
You settle at your desk, flipping through the latest batch of reports—numbers, invoices, the usual. It’s all routine… until it isn’t. A discrepancy catches your eye. Small. Easy to miss. But once you see it, you can’t unsee it.
An invoice sitting in the shared folder catches your eye. The numbers don’t add up — the total’s higher than it should be, the vendor name isn’t familiar, and the signature field looks… copied. You click through a few older reports. Someone’s been slipping fake payments through the system for months — small enough to pass unnoticed, just below the threshold that would flag a manager’s attention.
Your cursor hovers over the latest entry, heart ticking faster with each scroll. This isn’t a mistake. It can’t be.
You hesitate, glancing toward Sevika’s office. Through the glass wall, she’s in a meeting talking to her webcam. You almost let it go. The thought of knocking, of possibly being mistaken and wasting her time, tightens your throat.
But the unease won’t leave. It coils low in your stomach, steady and insistent. This isn’t just a hunch — it’s wrong.
You take a breath, steady your grip on the cool metal of your laptop, and cross the room toward her door.
You knock lightly.
She doesn’t look up. “Busy,” she says flatly.
“Ms. Sevika, it’s urgent,” you manage, trying to steady your voice.
That gets her attention. She turns back to the monitor, “Give me a moment,” she says to the people on the other end of the video call, then mutes herself.
Her attention shifts fully to you. “What is it?”
You cross the room and set your laptop in front of her, pulling up the report. As she scrolls, her brow furrows.
“Where did you find this?”
“In the shared finance folder,” you reply. “It looked off, so I checked the older invoices.”
A long pause.
“You were right.” Her jaw tightens. “These are fake vendor accounts. Someone’s been funneling company funds through them.”
She exhales slowly, then leans back in her chair. “I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have brushed you off so quickly.”
“It’s fine,” you murmur. “You were busy.”
Sevika’s eyes narrow slightly at the screen. “This needs immediate attention,” she mutters under her breath. “Contact finance compliance and internal audit. They’ll trace the dummy vendors and figure out who it is.”
You nod, already reaching for your laptop. “Right. I’ll get on it.”
Before you can turn, Sevika gestures to the chair across from her. “Sit.”
You hesitate, heart beating a little faster. But you sink into the chair, opening your laptop up again and draft emails, cross-referencing invoices, and pulling up internal reports.
Meanwhile, Sevika, her earlier focus still simmering beneath the surface, leans back into her virtual meeting.
Minutes stretch into an hour, the only steady sound is the rhythmic clatter of your typing and Sevika’s occasional, low-voiced replies to someone on the other end of the call.
After the meeting ends Sevika finally leans back, letting out a sigh.
You glance up from the screen. “I’ve… sent the messages,” fingers still hovering over the keyboard.
Her eyes find you. There’s a flicker of appraisal there, before the corners of her mouth tilt upward.
“Good,” she says, “You know,” she continues, her tone shifting, laced now with a teasing amusement, “for sharp eyes and quick action, you deserve a reward. I’ll make sure there’s a nice bonus waiting in your next paycheck.”
You smile, polite but faint, the expression barely holding together. A bonus would be nice. A tangible acknowledgment. Still, as the thought forms, something else edges in— Amanda’s suggestion.
You chew your bottom lip, weighing it all carefully. Sevika is confident. She carries herself like someone who has mastered every room she’s ever walked into. Someone who knows how to navigate… everything. She could offer more than just insight; she could provide genuine, invaluable guidance, perhaps even illuminate the pathways through territories you’d barely dared to dip a toe into, areas that felt exhilaratingly new.
But the counterarguments weigh just as heavily, dragging at the edge of possibility like an anchor. You’re still new here, still finding your rhythm, still learning the unspoken rules of the corporate hierarchy. To ask her now—after this moment, such a professional exchange— feels audacious. Reckless. It could easily backfire, creating an awkwardness that might sour your promising start. Worse, it feels like stepping over a line that isn’t written anywhere but still exists, clear and unmistakable.
The thoughts press down on your chest, leaving your breath uneven. But beneath the nerves, beneath the uncertainty, there’s something else — something that pulls instead of warns. The potential reward, for some reason, felt infinitely heavier, more tangible than any bonus line on a paycheck would ever hope to be.
And somehow, that feels like the most dangerous thought of all.
Fuck it.
Finally, you exhale, lifting your gaze toward her, though not meeting her eyes. “Actually… instead of the bonus,” you begin, voice tight but steady, “I… I need a favor.”
Sevika stills mid-motion, the faintest crease forming between her brows. “A favor?” she repeats, one eyebrow lifting as her mouth curves in something between amusement and disbelief. “You’ve been my assistant for less than a week, and you’re already asking for favors?”
You wince inwardly. She’s not wrong. It sounds bold, maybe even stupid, especially when she says it like that. But the words are already balancing on the edge of your tongue, and backing down now would feel worse than asking.
“Please,” you say softly, the word barely holding together.
A quiet beat stretches between you. Sevika leans back slightly, studying your face. Then, finally, she says, low and even, “Go on.”
You take a deep breath, cheeks warming. “I… I need your help. I don’t… I don’t really know how to—” You glance down at your hands, unable to meet her gaze.
Sevika lets out a low, amused sound—a quiet chuckle that carries more curiosity than mockery. “Is this about what Amanda mentioned in the break room the other day?”
You freeze, eyes widening, heat rushing to your cheeks. “W-what?” You stammer, horrified at the idea that your pathetic sex life might be circulating as office gossip.
She tilts her head, voice calm. “Amanda said she suggested you speak to me… about your… relationship issues.” She used the term 'relationship issues' with a clinical detachment that somehow made the embarrassment worse—as if she were discussing a poorly performing asset.
Your stomach drops, and you groan, burying your face in your hands for a moment. “When did she—why would she—?”
“She messaged me after your little chat yesterday. Although, I didn’t expect you to actually come asking for help.” Sevika says, shrugging as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
You peek up, mortified, your lips pressed into a thin line. “I… I can’t believe this.”
Sevika’s expression softens slightly, but there’s still that unmistakable glint of amusement in her eyes. “Me neither but here you are. So… what exactly do you need help with?”
For a brief, desperate second, you consider denying it, pretending this was about something else—anything else. But Sevika’s watching you, patiently, and you realize there’s no point. The damage is already done.
Fuck you, Amanda.
You exhale, resigned. Might as well see it through.
So, you begin to explain. The words tumble out now, desperate to get the confession over with. You tell Sevika about your first and only relationship, you recount, hesitantly, what happened last night at the bar, your complete inexperience with it all. Each word leaves your stomach fluttering, your face hot, but you push through, wanting to be honest. Laying bare your crippling inexperience.
Sevika listens, expression unreadable at first, then a soft laugh escapes her—low and amused. “Damn,” she mutters under her breath, shaking her head slightly.
Your eyes snap up, narrowing. The humiliation turned instantly into defensive anger. “It’s not funny,” you snap, heat rising in your chest.
Her smirk fades, though that trace of amusement lingers in her eyes. “You’re serious,” she says finally, leaning back in her chair. “You want me to teach you how to kiss—and have successful dates? That’s it?”
You hesitate. That is not it. That was merely the flimsy, socially acceptable facade of the problem. The unspoken words—the actual, heavier truth—lodged in your throat, a dense, suffocating obstruction.
Sevika watches the small, involuntary shifts of your body: the avoidance of eye contact, the nervous clench of your hand. Something in her expression sharpens. “Oh,” she says slowly, realization settling in. A beat passes. Then, with a faint huff of disbelief, “You need lessons in sex, too?”
You flinched at the brutal bluntness, the word, sex, hanging there like a physical object, heavy and shocking. But trapped in her gaze, already having revealed so much, you could only nod, shame curling hot and tight in your chest, a suffocating knot.
For a long beat, she just stares, letting the moment stretch. Then she leans back slightly and grins. “Okay… but only if you can look me in the eyes when you ask.” The condition was simple, brutal, and immediately effective. It demanded vulnerability.
Your breath hitches, your face flushing hotter. Words tangle in your throat, and you stammer, trying to find the right way to phrase it—to articulate the desperate need while maintaining some shred of dignity.
“…Never mind,” you finally blurt, getting up and turning toward the door.
“Where are you going?” her voice stops you mid-step. You catch the soft tap of her loafers on the floor before you feel the heat of her body close behind you.
Her hand moves, reaching over you to the control on the glass partition. With a soft click, the glass shifts—slightly foggy now, obscuring the view. You know what it means: no one can see in. Your heart jumps to your throat.
“First lesson starts now,” she murmurs.
You turn slowly to face her, heart hammering in your chest. Sevika’s smirk is slow. Her grey eyes boring into yours.
“Still want my help?” she asks, voice low.
Your throat goes dry. You meet her eyes, force yourself to hold the gaze, and croak out the single, necessary answer. “Yes,” you manage, barely above a whisper.
“Good girl,” she murmurs, lips grazing your ear, voice low and smooth.
✎ᝰ.