The Desires of My Boss

Amelia's POV

Desperation clings to me like a second skin, suffocating and heavy. Every waking moment is a reminder of my mom’s frailty, of the medical bills piling higher than I can see over, threatening to crush me.

I’m 25, clinging to the shards of a life that feels like it’s breaking apart faster than I can patch it up. Job after job slips through my fingers, leaving me frustrated and angry at a world that seems to want nothing from me but my appearance and my body.

Being beautiful isn’t the gift people think it is, it’s a curse. It means what people see first is your face and not what you can offer. A curse that’s followed me into every interview where the panel looks at me like I’m decoration, not someone with potential.

Their eyes always linger a second too long, their questions veiled in innuendo. None of it has helped me find steady work, and the weight of it all has me spiraling and having a mental breakdown that I can't afford.

But today, my phone holds a lifeline. Or at least, I hope it does. The job offer seems unreal: "Personal Secretary to Christopher Russell. Salary: $100,000 per month."

I’ve reread the email a dozen times, waiting for the fine print to reveal itself, for some sign that this is a scam. It has to be, doesn’t it? But even if it is, I don’t have the luxury of walking away or even doubting anything.

One hundred thousand dollars. That kind of money could fix everything. It could cover my mom’s hospital bills, settle every last debt, maybe even give us a shot at a real future. But the uneasy knot in my stomach tightens every time I think about it. Opportunities like this don’t fall into your lap without strings attached.

I smooth the fabric of my dress and glance at my reflection. The girl staring back at me looks pale and worn, her brown eyes shadowed with exhaustion. My long black curly hair is neatly styled in a ponytail.

My makeup subtle, but none of it hides the anxiety etched into my face. “You’ve got this,” I whisper, though the words feel hollow. My hands tremble as I pick up my bag and step out of the apartment.

The building where Christopher Russell’s office is housed gleams like a monument to power. The glass doors shimmer under the sun, and the marble floors inside shine like they’ve never been walked on. My heels echo sharply as I cross the lobby, feeling smaller with every step. The receptionist doesn’t even glance up at me as I approach the desk, which somehow makes me feel more insignificant.

I reach the elevator, and my palms sweat as the doors slide shut behind me. My nerves threaten to spill over, but I force myself to breathe. The hum of the elevator feels unnaturally loud in the silence, and I can’t stop my thoughts from racing. This is it. This is my shot.

When I step into his office, the air shifts. It’s cold, suffocating, and something I can’t name settles over me. The man seated at the desk exudes authority, his sharp suit molding perfectly to his broad frame. His dark amber eyes lock on me the moment I enter, and I feel stripped bare under his gaze.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just studies me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl and heat rise to my face at the same time. His silence stretches until I want to scream just to break it.

"You’re Amelia, right?" His voice is deep, with a smoothness that almost distracts me from the sharp undertone laced through it.