Page 75 of Letting Go

Mostly it’s just paperwork. Boring, wrist-cramping, soul-sucking paperwork. ID photos with the kind of lighting that makes me look like I haven’t slept since the Obama administration. Signing my name so many times I start to wonder if I’ve spelled it wrong my whole life.

But then, HR.

Which, fine. I knew it was coming. Theconsent form.The one where I officially disclose mypre-existing relationshipwith Caden Marx. Aka: the boss. Aka: the man who makes spreadsheets hot and accidentally left a few clothes in my house.

So, I’m sitting there across from this HR guy, who has the social energy of a filing cabinet. And he’s looking at me like I’m a delusional intern who thinks she can seduce her way into a corner office. Like I’m some deranged groupie who Photoshopped herself into his vacation pictures.

And I get it; I do, but also: screw you, Glen.

Then it gets weird. He calls in his secretary to “sit in,” like I’m about to climb across the table and shank him with my glitter pen. Which I might have done if I hadn’t caught the flicker of movement outside the glass door.

Caden.

Lurking. Loitering.Brooding.

Because I told him to go to his office after he walked me in this morning like I was a stray kitten who might bolt into traffic. We didn’t evendrivetogether. We came in separate cars like we were in a spy movie, just to keep it "professional."

And now he strolls in, all clean lines and cufflinks, and signs the damn form without blinking. Like hehasn’tbeen standing out there the whole time waiting for his moment. Like he’s not low-key eavesdropping in case someone makes me uncomfortable.

And okay, Ishouldbe annoyed. It’s overbearing. It’s ridiculous. It’s infuriatingly sweet.

But here’s the kicker: I was hired to bring afeminist lensinto management. Which is, you know… ironic. Because nothing screams “feminist credibility” like sleeping with the CEO.

Except, maybe it does? Maybe feminism is about choice. Maybe it’s about claiming the space I want, the love I want, the support I want. Maybe my rights include the right to keep theamazing, confusing, off-limits, infuriatingly wonderful relationship I’ve somehow stumbled into… with my boss.

So yeah. I'm sleeping with the man in charge. And maybe that makes me messy. But I’m also smart, competent, and entirely in control of my own life.

Am I a good feminist?

Hell yes.

Even if my mascara is already smudging and I forgot how to breathe the second he walked in the room.

“Hey Glen,” Caden says, smooth as sin and twice as smug.

The HR guy, sweaty, doughy, and clearly wishing for the sweet release of early retirement, jerks to his feet so fast he nearly knocks over the entire table. Papers go flying. My consent form does a sad little belly flop to the floor.

“Hel-hello, Mr. Marx, sir,” Glen stammers, straightening his tie like it might protect him from embarrassment. “I-I would’ve brought this to you, sir.”

And Caden, in all his infuriating, unfair,impossibly hotglory, just waves a hand. Casual. Like a god among mortals. “It’s alright. I wanted to show Ms. Scott around the office.”

His voice is calm, low, barely a flicker of a smile on his lips.

Then he turns to Glen and just, ends it. “Are we done here?”

Glen wilts. “Y-yes, sir.”

Caden guides me out with a hand that hovers,hovers, like a gentleman, like he’srespectfulnow, even though that hand was definitely gripping my hip this morning while I moaned his name into the pillow.

We make it halfway down the hallway before he leans in, voice barely audible over the sound of my entire nervous system going into cardiac arrest.

“Just wait,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Glenda is probably sending a mass text in the company group chat about us right now.”

I blink. “Who’s Glenda?”

“The secretary.”

I frown. “I thought the guy’s name was Glen?”

---