Page 137 of Sexting the Boss

I grab my hoodie—well, Damien’s hoodie, which I’ve completely claimed at this point—and make my way outside. No one stops me.

When my phone buzzes in my pocket, I take it out, expecting a text from my supervisor. It’s not uncommon for her to reach out even after I log out. But it’s not her, it’s my roommate.

Melanie: hey. haven’t seen you in a while. are you okay?

I blink at the screen.

Melanie, who has spent the past month treating me like I was a stray cat she didn’t remember agreeing to adopt. The same Melanie who once used my oat milk and never made eye contact again.

She’s…worried?

I stare at the message, rereading it twice before typing back.

Me: I’m okay. Just…stuff. Sorry I didn’t say anything.

Her reply comes almost immediately.

Melanie: was starting to think you got kidnapped or joined a cult. just let me know if you need anything. seriously.

I smile—actually smile—as something warm and weird settles in my chest.

Maybe she’s not so aloof after all.

Maybe we’ve just both been bad at reaching out.

Me: thanks. that means a lot. really.

I put the phone back in my pocket, feeling a little less alone.

There’s a gravel path that winds around the side of the estate, past some ridiculous hedges trimmed into shapes I don’t understand. Seriously, is that a lion? Or a suspiciously angry squirrel? The air smells like pine and money. Birds chirp in a charming, Disney-princess way.

And for a moment, I breathe.

I take my time circling the grounds, trailing my fingers along the stone wall and pretending—for a second—that this place is mine. That I chose to be here. That I’m not just a complication in a suit’s very dramatic life.

But peace has a short lifespan around here.

As I round the bend back toward the side of the house, I hear voices. Low, clipped. One of them immediately recognizable.

Damien.

Curious, I slow down, careful not to let the gravel crunch too loudly beneath my shoes.

He’s standing just beyond a row of rose bushes, one hand gesturing slightly as he speaks to someone—his voice unreadable, like it always is when he’s trying to sound calm. Controlled.

Then he shifts slightly.

And I see her.

Nina.

My stomach drops.

She’s dressed to the nines, of course—tailored jacket, perfect makeup, long hair twisted into something effortlessly intimidating. She stands too close to him, one hand resting on her hip like she’s done it a hundred times before.

What the hell isshedoing here?

The conversation pauses. Damien says something I can’t hear, but it’s short. Clipped.

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