YOURS AFTER MIDNIGHT, MR GRANT.

~~~SOPHIA.

“I am done, Sarah. I swear to God, after the holidays, I am out, resigning and walking away from that hellhole and never looking back." My voice cracked with fury that has been building for months.

“Alexander is a walking nightmare. The way he nitpicks every damn report, like I am his personal punching bag. Yesterday, he made me redo the quarterly projections three times because the margins weren't 'crisp' enough. Crisp! Who even says that?"

Sarah's laughter burst through the speaker, light and mocking, and it was the kind that always made me want to both hug her and throttle her. "Oh, honey, I love the fire, but let's get real for a second. You're broke as a joke. Drowning in loans and that credit card debt from your 'empowering' solo trip last year. One more paycheck short, and you'd be eating ramen for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You sure you want to torch that bridge before you've got another one to cross?"

I paced my cramped living room with my phone pressed to my ear while I glared at the unopened box on the coffee table like it was personally responsible for my misery.

The label screamed 'Delicate Contents' in a teasing font, and in it was a lingerie delivery I had splurged on during a weak moment of retail therapy as if lace and silk could fix the dumpster fire that was my life.

“Broke? Try drowning in debt. My credit cards are maxed, my rent is due in ten days, and if I miss one more paycheck…” I trailed off.

The words stuck in my throat like bitter pills.

Eviction notices had become recurring nightmares. Collectors called at all hours and every time my phone rang, I expected another reminder that I was one bad month away from disaster.

And the worst part?

I couldn’t even afford to quit the job that was driving me insane.

“And don't get me started on him,” I spat, resuming my circuit around the table. “Mr. Hot Suit, Alexander Grant, striding in like he owns the air we breathe, barking orders, and micromanaging every damn report. Yesterday, he tore into my presentation and called it 'amateur hour' in front of the whole team. I wanted to throw my laptop at his smug face,”

My cheeks burned just thinking about it, the way his dark eyes had flicked over me, dismissive, like I was nothing. Infuriating didn't even cover it, he was like a storm cloud in human form, all sharp edges and unrelenting demands.

Sarah chuckled again, softer this time. “Sounds rough, but Soph, you need this job. What is the plan B? Waitressing? With your luck, you'd spill soup on a celebrity. I think you’re overreacting because you find him hot. Have you not gotten over him yet?”

She wasn't wrong.

God, Alexander was hot, and every day, I think of multiple ways to get in his bed.

How would it feel with his lips on mine, and his hands on my breasts?

I glanced at the box again, frustration bubbling into something reckless. “Yeah, yeah. Look, I don’t have any interest in fucking Alexander again. I have a new crush, Sarah. The new head of design, God, he’s equally hot. I’ll talk to you later,’' I hung up before she could protest, tossing the phone onto the counter with more force than necessary.

The silence settled heavy, amplifying the knot in my stomach.

Why did everything feel so trapped?

Impulsively, I grabbed the scissors from the drawer and sliced open the box. The tissue paper rustled as I pulled out the lingerie. It was a deep crimson set, and sheer lace that promised to hug curves I rarely acknowledged. Black trim edged the bra cups, the panties a delicate thong that would leave little to the imagination. I'd bought it on a whim, telling myself it was for some future date that never came. But tonight?

Whatever, I just needed to feel damn confident.

I stripped off my ratty sweatshirt and leggings, the cool air raising goosebumps on my skin. Stepping into the panties, I felt the lace slide smooth against my hips, the fabric whispering promises of sensuality I hadn't indulged in months. The bra clasped easily, lifting my breasts into a perfect swell, and the sheer panels teasing at what lay beneath. I turned to the full-length mirror against the wall, the one with the crack from my last month's clumsy move.

There I was, Sophia Reyes, not the frumpy office drone, but a woman with fire in her eyes, and hips swaying as I posed.

It was stupid, but empowering. No one to see, no one to judge, just me, feeling desired for once. I grabbed my phone, angling it just right. The flash caught the curve of my waist, and the way the lace dipped low between my thighs.

My thumb hovered over the screen and a reckless impulse stirred.

Maybe I should send it to Sarah.

She’d probably tell me to stop pitying myself and go on a date.

Rolling my eyes, I opened my messages and scrolled through my contacts.

Done.

Wait, no, wait, no!

I stared at the screen, my heart slamming against my ribs. The recipient, Alexander Grant.

It was not a random chat, or Sarah, but my boss. The photo, with its explicit glimpse of lace clinging to my most intimate places, had just gone straight to his phone.

Horror flooded me, hot and nauseating. “Oh God, no, no, no.” My fingers flew across the screen, tapping frantically for the unsend option. But it was too late, the message showed as delivered, and read.

A little checkmark that might as well have been a guillotine. I tried everything by restarting the app, checking settings, and even calling his number from work contacts just to... what? Beg? It rang once, twice, voicemail. I hung up, sinking to the floor, knees to my chest.

Panic clawed up my throat. What had I done? Images flashed of him opening it in a meeting, smirking that infuriating smirk, or worse, informing HR, and boom my career is in flames before I could even quit. Tears pricked my eyes, but I blinked them back.

The New Year's party was tonight and it was a mandatory, festive hell in the company ballroom. I had to go, act normal, and pretend this nightmare hadn't just happened.

Hours went by in a hurry, and the makeup and the little black dress that would have made me excited now felt like a joke. My hands shook as I applied lipstick, the red matching the lingerie I'd shoved back into the box like it was evidence of a crime.

I stepped out of the cab after I paid the driver with my heels clicking on the pavement, forcing air into my lungs. Smile, Sophia. Fake it. The elevator ride up was torture, and the mirrors were reflecting a woman who looked composed with her hair in loose waves, earrings sparkling, but inside, anxiety twisted me like a knife.

He saw it. Deep in my bones, I knew. That photo, my impulsive bid for power was now a vulnerability dangling over the edge.

The doors slid open to the party with balloons, streamers, and a DJ spinning upbeat tracks. Co-workers mingled, champagne flutes clinked and I plastered on a smile, nodding at familiar faces, but my eyes scanned the room.

There, across the crowd, Alexander Grant, stood tall and impeccable in a tailored suit, chatting with the executives. His gaze lifted, locked on mine for a beat too long, and then, his lips curved into the slightest smirk.

My stomach dropped.

God, he really saw.

And as I wove through the crowd with my heart pounding, all I could think of was… what the fuck was coming next?