Page 136 of Sexting the Boss

He got me a laptop.

Not just any laptop, mind you. A matte black, top-of-the-line, so-sleek-it-looks-illegal kind of laptop. It came in a velvet-lined box like it was holding the crown jewels, not Microsoft Excel.

It’s been a week. A full week of wandering around Damien’s mansion like some exiled royal, trying not to go insane while pretending this isn’t the weirdest, most off-the-rails chapter of my life.

At first, I resisted. Hard. No laptop, no working, no acknowledging this new hostage-luxury-hotel reality. I read books. I stared at ceiling tiles. I alphabetized the tea collection in the kitchen.

But after the fifth day of my soul slowly dissolving into rich-people wallpaper, I cracked.

I logged in to my work email.

To my surprise, the VPN still works. My work ID hasn’t been revoked. Even my Slack is oddly quiet, except for a message from my supervisor:

Hey, Sasha! Hope you’re feeling better! Totally fine to work remote for a bit. Just jump in when you’re ready :)

…What.

What??

I mean,Ididn’t tell him I was sick. Unless sick is a new code word for being abducted by a suspiciously hot boss and relocated to his high-security castle with minimal explanation.

When I messaged ger back, she replied, “No worries! Mr. Zaitsev let us know. Take your time!”

Mr. Zaitsev let us know.

Of course he did.

Because why wouldn’t Damien pull CEO strings behind my back while pretending to stay out of it?

I glare at the camera as I settle in for my first team meeting. The screen loads, and I’m greeted by a Brady Bunch grid of tired faces in too-close lighting.

“Hey, Sasha!” chirps one of the finance girls, waving like we’re on a sitcom. “You look…um, different. Is that a chandelier behind you?”

I angle my laptop discreetly away from the gilded monstrosity above my head. “Nope,” I say. “That’s just…a very aggressive ceiling fan.”

Ryan isn’t on the call—thank God—but Brittany is. She raises one brow like she can smell something suspicious through the screen.

“Nice place you’re in,” she says slowly. “You house-sitting for someone rich?”

I smile sweetly. “Yep. Exactly that.”

I try not to glance at the door, half expecting Damien to stroll in shirtless holding a grapefruit and ruin my entire lie with one well-timed smirk.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, I plaster on a smile and pretend everything’s fine.

The worst part? A small, traitorous part of me feels…warm about it.

The man may drive me completely insane, but he keeps showing up in ways I don’t expect. He protects me. He listens—well, kind of.Bossylistening.

And okay, yes, he bulldozes my requests and makes decisions like I’m a fragile Victorian orphan—but it’s starting to feel less like control and more like…care.Dangerous thought.

Backspace that mental note.

Once the meeting is over and I’ve delegated my tasks for the day, I sigh and sit up, brushing crumbs off my lap. This is my life now.

I need air.

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