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.

"Yes," I manage to whisper.

His lips curve into a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "You're here for the secretary job. What makes you think you're qualified?"

The question catches me off guard, and I stumble over my words as I explain my experience. My voice feels small in the vastness of the room, and I can't tell if he's even listening. He leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving me.

"A hundred thousand dollars a month is a lot of money, Miss James," he says, his tone light but with an edge that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. "Are you sure you can handle it?"

The way he says it makes my stomach twist. There's something unspoken in his words, something darker.

"I-I'm willing to do whatever it takes," I say, though the tremor in my voice betrays my fear.

His smile widens, and the air in the room grows heavier. "I believe you," he says, rising from his seat with a calculated grace. He rounds the desk slowly, each step deliberate, until he's standing so close I can feel the warmth of his presence.

"And I'll make sure your mom's medical bills are taken care of," he adds " it will be different from your salary, as well." his voice was softer but no less commanding as he said this.

My breath catches. How does he know about my mom? I didn't mention her to anyone, not even in the application. My heart races as his hand lifts, hovering near my face without touching me. The proximity is suffocating, and I fight the urge to step back.

"I take care of what's mine, Amelia," he murmurs, his tone low and dangerous. It doesn't feel like an offer. It feels like a claim.

I want to say something, to push back, but the words won't come. I can only stare at him, frozen under the weight of his electrifying gaze and presence.

"Let's start tomorrow," he says, stepping back as if the moment never happened. "I'll send a car for you."

Before I can respond, he's gone, leaving me alone in the oppressive silence of his office.

Outside, the crisp air does little to calm my nerves. My hands won't stop shaking as I clutch my bag, replaying his words in my mind. 'I take care of what's mine.'

The thought sends a shiver through me as I quicken my pace, desperate to put distance between myself and that office. This job could save my mom's life, but I know it comes at a price. And Christopher Russell doesn't seem like the kind of man who gives anything for free.