"And one more thing," Danica said, spinning on her heel with the kind of flair that made her heels click against the marble like a gunshot. "Don't pretend to be my boyfriend in front of the employees. When I pretend, you follow. Until then, stay normal." She stabbed the word normal like it was an insult she was reluctantly forced to use.
"Normal is my middle name," Alfred replied with a lazy grin that made it crystal clear it absolutely wasn't.
He watched her saunter away, and if smirking was an Olympic sport, he'd just taken the gold. Alfred was more than happy with how the universe was currently arranging itself — like a cosmic game of poker, and for once, he had the winning hand. Danica wanted to play pretend? Fine. He could pretend so well she'd be proposing before the end of the fiscal year.
Still, a tiny itch gnawed at him: Who was this mystery guy? The one Danica was so desperately trying to trigger jealousy in? Alfred didn't know, but whoever he was, he deserved a fruit basket — or maybe a heartfelt "thank you" card and a firm handshake. Without him, Alfred wouldn't have been given the world's best excuse to hold Danica's hand in public.
Trailing after her, he followed into the main office area, where everyone was working with the kind of intensity usually reserved for bomb defusal squads.
As soon as Danica and Alfred stepped into view, the entire room sprang up like whack-a-moles, snapping into attention, bowing so deeply it was a miracle no one pulled a hamstring.
Meanwhile, inside Danica's office, Paul and Sean were already stewing, marinating in a potent broth of impatience and mild existential dread.
"What's taking them so long?" Paul grumbled, checking his watch like he was timing the world's slowest coffee run. His mood was already somewhere between storm cloud and volcanic eruption.
Sean, never one to improve a bad situation, responded, "Maybe they're still making out in the hallway. Tongues and everything."
Paul shot him a look so lethal it could have cracked concrete. "Shut. Up," he hissed, every syllable dripping venom.
Sean only shrugged, utterly immune. "Hey, don't blame me if the mental image keeps you up at night."
Meanwhile, outside, Danica knew exactly what awaited them behind that door. She could practically hear Sean's internal screaming from here. A slow smile curled her lips — the kind that suggested she was about to set something on fire just to watch it burn.
Come on, let's crank this performance up to an Emmy-winning level. Let's make Sean wish he'd never learned to talk, she thought, practically buzzing with wicked glee.
Just as her fingers grazed the office door, Danica pivoted hard, her heels slicing a clean arc on the floor like a villainess who'd just decided to change the ending. She stormed back toward Alfred with the kind of reckless grace that could start wars.
Before he could blink, her hand slipped into his—seamless, inevitable—as if their palms had been plotting this moment all along. Alfred felt it like a live wire to the chest, a spark that ignited everything he'd carefully kept buried.
Showtime, his brain barked, but his heart was already standing ovation.
He squeezed back, a shade harder than needed, staking his silent claim. If they were going to put on a show, then damn it, he was going to be convincing. And maybe, just maybe, he wasn't acting at all. Her hand was absurdly small, heartbreakingly warm—like someone had bottled August sunlight and handed it to him.
Danica felt the jolt too—sharp, unruly. Something inside her cracked open, spilling heat into her veins.
Why am I feeling like I've just won the lottery? What is WRONG with me? she screamed internally. Whatever. Time to go full method actor.
Hand in hand, they swept into the office like they'd just walked out of a B-list romance film—ridiculous, radiant, and, somehow, perfect. Paul flinched so hard he looked like he might dive under the desk for safety.
Oh, just stab me through the heart with a ballpoint pen already, Paul thought savagely, grinding his teeth like a cartoon character about to explode.
Sean watched too, the corners of his mouth drooping like a sad, deflating balloon.
I'm sorry, Danica. Sorry for every stupid thing I ever said. Every coffee I didn't fetch. Every time I forgot your birthday. Every minute I treated you like background noise instead of the main event, Sean mourned internally, staring at her like she was the last donut at a depressing office party.
Meanwhile, Alfred, ever the opportunist, was quietly connecting dots in the background.
So... she's trying to rub salt in someone's wounds. Sean's or Paul's? Maybe both? And WHY exactly? he wondered, giving her side-eye and adding it to his growing mental conspiracy board. Red strings and thumbtacks and everything.
He squeezed Danica's hand a little tighter, leaning in just slightly, whispering with a smirk, "You know, for fake dating, you're making it real hard not to fall in love for real."
The words hit harder than they had any right to.
Danica's stomach tumbled, a mess of summersaults and tangled nerves, and she could feel the heat blooming across her cheeks—loud and obvious, as if her entire body had decided to betray her at once.
This wasn't part of the plan. She wasn't supposed to feel... this.
Was he just that good at pretending?
Or—God help her—was there something real threading between the lines of his voice?
No. No.
Stick to the story, she ordered herself, forcing a long, slow exhale that barely did anything to untangle the wild hum beneath her skin.
Ignoring the riot her heart and veins and everything in between were currently staging, she turned back toward the two men still staring at them—one slack-jawed, the other with a glint of amusement—as if they were waiting for the next scene to unfold.
"What is it?" Danica asked, her tone the verbal equivalent of a raised eyebrow and a latte that had been made with soy milk instead of oat—aka, deeply disappointed and not afraid to show it.
Sean opened his mouth, clearly intending to say something mildly unhelpful, when Danica's voice sliced through the air like a knife through undercooked tofu.
"We—" he began.
"We? We?!" Danica cut in with the ferocity of a woman who had been on one too many Zoom calls with her camera on and soul off. "Do you people not come with basic software updates? Where are your manners? Did your parents raise you in a barn, or did they just give up halfway and hope for the best? Also, just in case you conveniently forgot in the two minutes you've been standing here: I'm your boss. Which means you address me as 'Boss' or 'Your Majesty,' either one works. And you—" she jabbed a finger in his direction like she was about to hex him, "are a certified pervert."
If looks could kill, Sean would've been six feet under, embalmed, and prepped for a Netflix true-crime docuseries by now. Danica's eyes had narrowed into twin beams of hellfire, and Sean looked like he was rapidly reconsidering his life choices, including his decision to show up to work without armor.
Meanwhile, Alfred—who had somehow been deemed emotionally brave enough to touch Danica—squeezed her hand a little tighter, as if his warm palm could soothe away the rage that was currently threatening to melt Sean into a puddle of regret and body odor. His touch was quiet, grounding. Sweet. Like chamomile tea if chamomile tea were six-foot-two and had forearms sculpted by divine intervention.
"Paul," Alfred said, pivoting away from the carnage with the calm of a man who had once negotiated a million-dollar contract while someone was being tasered outside his office. "Let's hear the product report."
Paul, who was already pale and sweating like a cheese plate at a summer picnic, gave a stiff nod. If terror had a smell, he was exuding it by the gallon.
"W-we've added new features to the product," he stammered, holding out a folder like it was a peace offering to a very stylish dragon. "The design's ready. Please… take a look."
Danica snatched the folder like it owed her rent money and flipped it open. Her eyes scanned the contents with the speed and precision of a data analyst hopped up on espresso and vengeance.
"Hmm." A pause. Then, surprisingly: "Well. This is actually… impressive. The features are unique, thoughtful. Someone must've had their Wheaties this morning."
Alfred leaned in, peeking at the design over her shoulder. "That's perfect," he said, his voice low and smooth and—okay, was that a hint of admiration or was she hallucinating? Hard to tell.
Danica handed the file back with the grace of a queen dismissing her court.
"You may leave now," she said, her tone so commanding it could've sent armies marching.
Sean bolted like a man tasting freedom for the first time in years—half sprint, half stumble, all drama. Paul trailed close behind, hand already on the doorknob like it might save his soul, when it swung open with theatrical timing that could only belong to one woman.
And there she was.
Nina.
Walking smile, living sparkler, and the unapologetic sovereign of surprise interventions. She didn't walk into rooms—she sashayed with a mission and lit fires in her wake.
Wait—Nina? Here? Did we suddenly start planning a gala without me? Paul blinked. Is there a party? Is there a PowerPoint? Am I hosting again? The internal panic was real.
Her eyes caught Alfred and Danica—fingers tangled, eyes suspiciously un-blinking—and her crimson lips curved upward like she knew everything. Of course she did. Nina always knew.
"Hey Nina!" Danica beamed like someone on stage with her favorite celebrity, already moving in for a hug... but her wrist? Still tethered to Alfred like she was his last lifeline. She paused mid-step and shot Alfred a look—the kind that could cut rope, glass, or the lingering grip of a stubborn ex.
Let. Go. The show's over, Romeo. she mouthed through gritted teeth, barely louder than a whisper.
Alfred got the message. He didn't want to, his fingers resisted like traitors, but eventually, reluctantly, he released her—as if letting go of something precious he'd never quite earned.
Danica launched herself into Nina's arms like they were long-lost sisters on the season finale of a drama no one asked for but everyone watched.
And Alfred?
He just stood there, heart tripping over itself like an idiot in love. That smile on Danica's face—it wasn't meant for him, and that fact bit harder than he cared to admit.
God, she's lethal when she smiles. Like sunbeams and daggers wrapped in velvet. Keep smiling, sweetheart. You might just kill me with it. he thought, grinning despite the ache.
Meanwhile, Paul—dear, sweet, avoidant man—slipped out like a man dodging jury duty. His goal? Escape Nina and her high-voltage charm before she reeled him into her latest episode of "Surprise! You're Involved."
Nina caught the movement, mid-laugh with Danica, her eyes narrowed with foxlike intent.
"Be right back," she said to Danica, then added with a wink, "Don't start kissing until I return."
Danica looked like she might choke on air. Why does she have to add such comments? We are not real couples.
Nina spun on her heel and followed Paul with the determination of a woman about to demand someone sign up for a wellness retreat. He flinched.
And then—just like that—the office door clicked shut.
Danica and Alfred were alone again.
Which was great.
Fantastic.
If your idea of "fantastic" was being stuck in a room with someone who looked at you like you held the moon in your back pocket and he'd give up gravity just to keep orbiting you.
ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE OFFICE
Paul strode briskly down the corridor, eyes fixed on the office door ahead. Every step was purposeful, every second accounted for—until a delicate but firm hand gripped his wrist, yanking him sideways.
"Nina?" he gasped, startled, but she didn't answer.
She pulled him through a hidden door he hadn't even noticed—an old archive room buried behind layers of dust and years of forgotten records. A room no one visited unless they were sent to unearth files from the last decade. The hinges groaned in protest as she shut the door behind them.
The air inside was thick with stillness.
"Nina, what the hell are you—"
Her finger pressed against his lips, halting the rush of questions trying to escape.
"Shh..." she whispered, her breath feathering against his skin, soft and dangerous. "Don't speak so loudly."
Paul's heart slammed against his chest. The sudden proximity, the quiet dominance in her voice—it unnerved him. He swallowed hard, his body frozen between panic and something far darker, far needier.
"I overheard Danica talking today," Nina said, her voice deceptively sweet. She tilted her head, watching him the way a cat might toy with its prey. "She's curious about you. Suspicious, even. She asked me to look into your background."
Paul stiffened. "What do you mean suspicious?"
A teasing smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "She's my best friend. I can't lie to her."
His blood turned to ice. "You can't tell her. You promised."
"I could. But I won't. That is... if you give me something in return."
His breath hitched. "What... what do you want?"
She stepped into him slowly, until her body pressed against his, the heat between them nearly unbearable. Her hands slid up his chest with excruciating leisure before unfastening his tie. She leaned in close, her lips brushing the shell of his ear as she whispered something that made his stomach drop and his pulse erupt.
His mouth parted, but no words came. She pulled back, watching him absorb her demand, the stunned look in his eyes only fueling the dark pleasure twisting in her chest.
"Now," Nina demanded, her voice a velvet whip across the crackling tension between them.
Paul's body tensed, jaw locking, but there was no escaping her now. No escaping the wildfire she'd lit in his veins the moment she looked at him like that—defiant, challenging, irresistible.
Fine. If she wanted to play with fire, he would make damn sure she got burned.
A growl rumbled low in his throat as she yanked at his tie, dragging him down to her mouth. Their lips collided, furious and desperate, a crash of two storms that had no business meeting. He met her kiss with punishing roughness, his fingers diving into her hair to anchor her to him, making sure she couldn't escape what she'd started.
She whimpered against his mouth—soft, wounded—and he felt it like a shot of adrenaline straight to his blood.
Good.
In a frenzy, Nina's small hands fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, each pop of fabric another tether snapping between restraint and ruin. He tore at her clothes with a raw urgency, the whisper of silk and the rip of lace filling the electrified silence until there was nothing left between them but bare, feverish skin.
Their bodies clashed against the battered wall, a tangled mess of heat and fury. He spun her around, his palms rough and possessive as they found her breasts, kneading them as if punishing them for ever being touched by anyone else.
Nina gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder when he dragged his mouth over the vulnerable curve of her neck, the sharp line of her jaw. His thumb brushed her peaked nipples with a precision that was devastating, sending a violent shudder down her spine.
"You think you can play with me and walk away?" he rasped, his voice dark and broken against her skin. His teeth caught her earlobe in a brutal bite that made her cry out—a sound he devoured with a savage satisfaction.
Paul slid a hand down her stomach, not bothering with teasing strokes, not this time. His fingers plunged between her thighs with a roughness that bordered on cruelty, feeling her slick and ready for him.
Nina sobbed out a moan, her hips bucking helplessly into his hand.
"I like that," he hissed against her neck, a feral grin curling his lips. "I like it when you hurt for me."
He worked her with brutal precision, fingers plunging deep, retreating only to slam back harder, rougher, dragging gasps and helpless whimpers from her throat with every devastating thrust. His other hand was merciless, pinching and rolling her swollen nipples between his calloused fingers until her body writhed against him, an offering he had no intention of refusing.
Her hands clutched at his arms, nails biting into his skin, but Paul didn't relent. He only watched her—drinking in the desperate flush on her cheeks, the way her lips parted around broken moans she couldn't cage.
"Say it," he growled against her ear, his voice a low, threatening rumble that sent another shiver through her. His fingers slowed deliberately, cruelly, stroking her so slowly she could feel every maddening second of it, her body clenching and aching for more.
"Say you don't love me."
Nina bit her lip, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. She could have screamed his name. She could have begged for release. But she couldn't lie. Not about this.
Nina bit her lip until she tasted blood, her chest heaving, tears burning at the corners of her eyes. She could have screamed his name, begged for more, begged for mercy—but she couldn't force that lie from her tongue.
Paul's eyes darkened further when she stayed silent, defiant even when she was trembling on the edge of oblivion.
"Still so stubborn," he hissed, dragging his teeth down the side of her neck, leaving angry red marks in his wake. His free hand tangled roughly in her hair, yanking her head back to expose her throat, his breath scorching against her skin. "You think you can deny me?"
Her only answer was a broken sob as her hips bucked helplessly into his hand.
The last thread of his control snapped.
With a snarl, he swept her up into his arms, slamming his mouth down on hers in a kiss so brutal it stole the very air from her lungs. He devoured her—sucking, biting, owning—until she whimpered into his mouth, her fists clutching at his shoulders.
Without ceremony, he kicked aside the battered old table, the crash echoing through the room. He laid her down atop it like a feast, spreading her thighs wide with a rough shove.
Nina's eyes fluttered open, hazy and desperate, locking with his. A storm raged between them—love, hate, need, and the furious, unbearable pull of everything they could never admit.
Paul leaned over her, their bodies so close she could feel the pounding of his heart against hers.
"You don't want to say it?" he rasped, voice shaking with fury and a desire that clawed at him from the inside. His hand slid down her inner thigh, fingers grazing the slick heat between her legs but refusing to give her what she needed.
"Fine." His mouth twisted into a wicked grin. "I'll make you forget how to even fucking think."
Without another second of warning, he grabbed himself, thick and hard and pulsing with a need that bordered on violent, and pressed the blunt head of his cock against her slick, aching entrance.
Nina gasped, her entire body arching, trembling under him.
His eyes locked on hers—dark, wild, desperate.
"Look at me," he ordered hoarsely, voice rough as sandpaper. "Feel every fucking inch of what you do to me."
And then he thrust into her with a single, savage stroke.
Nina cried out, her nails clawing at his back as he seated himself deep inside her, stretching her so wide, so completely, it felt like he was branding himself onto her very soul.
He didn't give her time to adjust.
With a ragged growl, he pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, hard enough to make the table shudder beneath them. She screamed his name, her legs wrapping desperately around his waist as he set a ruthless rhythm, each brutal thrust designed to break her apart and rebuild her as his.
"Say it," he demanded again, his voice a feral whisper against her ear. His hips pistoned into her, deep, rough, relentless. "Say you don't love me."
Nina sobbed, shaking her head, unable to form words, only the broken gasps and helpless cries that tore from her throat each time he filled her so completely it felt like he was claiming parts of her she'd tried so hard to hide.
"You can never be mine," he growled, teeth scraping over the sensitive skin of her shoulder, leaving a mark he didn't care to hide. "Every stubborn, infuriating inch of you."
Her walls clenched around him, and Paul cursed, his control slipping further with every shudder of her body against his, every sweet, strangled sound that spilled from her lips.
Driven half-mad, he lifted one of her legs higher, angling himself deeper, hitting that devastating spot inside her that made Nina cry out in pure, wild pleasure.
"You feel that?" he snarled against her mouth, thrusting harder, deeper. "That's me. Only me. The fire you wanted to play with."
Nina sobbed his name, her body arching, breaking under the violent ecstasy he forced from her, but still—still—she didn't say the words he demanded.
And that drove him insane.
He gripped her hips with bruising fingers, slamming into her harder, faster, until the world around them dissolved into pure sensation—raw, frantic, unstoppable.
The room echoed with the brutal sound of their bodies colliding, her cries, his ragged groans, the frantic slap of skin on skin. His hand slid up, cupping her breast, fingers tweaking the tight peak until she bucked wildly beneath him, begging without words for more, for everything.
Then he saw it.
The shimmer of tears trailing down her flushed cheeks.
Something inside him cracked wide open.
The anger that had fueled him bled out, leaving only a hollow ache and a surge of guilt so intense he could barely breathe.
Without thinking, he pulled her against him, pressing his forehead to hers, kissing the tears from the corners of her eyes with trembling lips.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words broken, raw.
He cradled her closer, as if she was something tender and fragile. Blowing one soft kiss on her chapped lips, he started all over again. This time tenderly, patiently and reverently.
IN DANICA'S DEN
Danica slumped into her chair with the tragic melodrama of a Victorian maiden who'd just fainted into a chaise lounge. With a martyred sigh, she cracked open her laptop and pretended to work, fingers hovering uselessly above the keys like she was about to summon a demon instead of write an email.
Her cheeks still burned with humiliation, a slow, delicious heat she could neither fully embrace nor extinguish. She had kissed someone — correction: someone had kissed her — and the worst part? She had absolutely no idea what she was doing. None. Zero.
God. The kiss.
and then made his grand exit — a swirl of expensive cologne and silent judgment.
The second the door clicked shut, Danica exhaled so hard it might have qualified as a small weather event. She leaned back in her chair, arms flopping uselessly over the sides, and inhaled the lingering scent of him like some tragic Victorian maiden.
He smells illegal, she thought dreamily, scowling at herself immediately after.
And then, like a glitter bomb of shame exploding inside her brain, the memory sucker-punched her: He kissed me.
Holy mother of unsolicited intimacy, he actually kissed me.
No one — and she meant no one — had ever had the audacity to breach her Personal Space Fortress. Most people barely looked her in the eye without a notarized permission slip. And yet, there he was, assaulting her mouth with alarming competence.
And worse?
I kissed him first.
Because apparently, when pretending to be interested, Danica's brain had decided to go method actor without her consent. The logical part of her brain — the part that wore cardigans and paid taxes — kept trying to remind her it was just pretend. A ruse. A ploy. Harmless acting for a greater cause.
But the other part? The part currently doing cartwheels down the corridors of her mind?
It was delightful, she admitted, grinning like a fool and slumping lower in her seat.
Of course, the second she realized her face had betrayed her, she jerked upright, composure snapping back into place like a rubber band against skin.
This wasn't real. She reminded herself (again). It was part of the show. A calculated, strategic, not-at-all-pleasure-driven act. Absolutely nothing to smile about.
ON THE OTHER SIDE
After what felt like hours, Nina finally emerged from behind the heavy door, her body flushed, her hair deliciously mussed. A soft, languid smile curved her lips — a smile that spoke of satisfaction, of being utterly, thoroughly undone. Every muscle in her body trembled with exhaustion, a sweet ache thrumming through her bones. He had been relentless at first, rough in a way that had stolen the air from her lungs — all heat, teeth, and demand. But then, he'd shifted, his touch turning reverent, worshipful, coaxing pleasure from her in slow, devastating waves. It was a perfect, dizzying storm she never wanted to escape from.
Her legs buckled slightly as she stepped forward, the aftermath of him still humming through her. Before she could collapse, strong arms caught her — Paul's arms — solid, sure, possessive in a way that made her heart trip over itself.
Without hesitation, he lifted her effortlessly, cradling her against his chest. His scent wrapped around her — a heady mix of soap, leather, and something distinctly him — and she couldn't help but smile against his throat, feeling his heart pound beneath her lips.
Paul met her gaze, his expression softening, a rare vulnerability flickering across his features. He was devastatingly handsome like this — a man torn between control and the chaos she unleashed in him.
"I'll take you home," he murmured, his voice low and rough, vibrating against her skin.
But just as he pivoted toward the door, a sharp awareness snapped into his eyes. Reality crashed over him — this was still his office. If anyone caught sight of them like this — flushed, disheveled, and very obviously tangled in something far from professional — it would be a disaster.
"I can't take you out like this," he muttered, regret thick in his voice as he reluctantly set her down, though he kept one arm around her waist, steadying her trembling body.
"Come on," he said, softer now. "You'll walk. I'll hold you up."
Nina nodded, too drained to argue, leaning heavily into his strength as they made their way to the parking lot under the cool, midnight sky. Every step was an intimate struggle, her body aching in the best possible ways, but Paul's touch kept her grounded.
When they reached her car, he turned to her, his hand outstretched. "Keys."
Without a word, she fished them out of her purse and dropped them into his palm, her fingers brushing his — a spark leaping between them.
Paul opened the passenger door and guided her into the seat, buckling her in with surprising tenderness. For a moment, he just stood there, looking at her as if he couldn't quite believe she was real.
"You okay?" he asked, voice low and husky, laced with something he wasn't ready to name.
Nina gave him a tired but genuine smile. "I'll be fine. Just need a little rest."
His jaw tensed, emotions warring behind those dark eyes. "Take care," he said, softer this time, almost like a promise.
Sliding behind the wheel, Paul gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, stealing glances at her as she dozed off beside him. He shouldn't care this much. He shouldn't want to reach over and brush the stray hair from her face, shouldn't want to pull over and kiss her until the world fell away.
What's wrong with me? he thought bitterly, the question clawing at his chest. Why can't I be tough with her? Why do I feel like this?
No. No way. He shook his head, teeth grinding. This is just what she wanted. I gave it to her. That's it. Nothing more.
But the lie tasted bitter on his tongue, and deep down, he knew — no matter how hard he tried to deny it — he was already falling, helplessly and irrevocably, for the one woman he should have stayed away from.