I Slept With a Wrong Boss by itsvlada
I Slept With a Wrong Boss
Description
One blackout night. One stranger I never saw clearly. One pair of underwear I'll probably never see again. I dragged myself out of a stranger's bed, across the city, and into the job interview that was supposed to fix my disaster of a life. I got hired. I thought the worst was over. Then I pulled a pen from my bag-expensive, heavy, not mine-and watched my new boss's expression go very still. Now I'm working for a man who might know exactly what I look like with my clothes off, and I can't ask, can't quit, and can't stop the memories from bleeding through at the worst possible moments. Reidfield Global was supposed to be my fresh start. It's starting to feel more like the scene of a crime.
Chapter 1
May 21, 2026
[Hailee’s POV]
Who did I do last night?
This ceiling isn't mine—white plaster, a crack toward a window I've never seen, a room that smells like bergamot and someone else's cologne.
Not Ryan's apartment—I know every water stain on Ryan's ceiling because I spent three years waking up to them. This is a stranger's bedroom, and I'm naked in it.
My head is a construction site but the rest of me is worse. Bruise on my inner thigh, a tenderness that tells a story my brain won't give up yet, and the sheets reek of sweat and a night I can't reconstruct.
The pillow next to mine is still warm. A glass of water within reach like a parting gift. Whoever left those marks on my skin is already gone.
No face. No name. Just heat and skin and a gap in memory wide enough to drive every bad decision through.
My dress is crumpled by the door. Bra draped over a chair like it was removed by someone who wasn't in a rush. My underwear has vanished—sheets, floor, both sides of the bed. Gone.
Either the mysterious he kept them, they achieved sentience, or they're in a dimension I don't have clearance to access.
My phone reads 8:47. Interview at 9:30, across town—the one that's supposed to prove I can still function after donating three years to a man who returned them via monologue.
I step into yesterday's dress, smooth my hair in a stranger's bathroom mirror, and walk out commando under a pencil skirt. Professionals occasionally misplace undergarments at crime scenes.
When I step on the train, it’s packed. My reflection stares back from the window—smudged mascara, last night's eyeliner—and the tunnel swallows the glass and I'm somewhere else.
Last Tuesday. Ryan in the kitchen doorway, hands in his pockets, wearing the face he makes when he's about to deliver something he's rehearsed.
"I think we've grown apart, Hailee." He couldn't even look at me. "I think we want different things now."
"Different things." I was still holding his coffee mug, in his kitchen, in his apartment. "You mean you want different things. I shelved a career for your residency, Ryan."
"That's not—"
"Three years standing still so you could keep moving. And now you've moved past me. Just say it."
He flinched. Good. Then he was merciful enough to let me keep sleeping in his apartment while I find a place. A fucking knight in shining armor.
That same night. Dani on the couch, pulling me up by both wrists, heels in one hand, zero patience.
"Get up." She threw my jacket at my face. "You're going out, you're getting wasted, and you're not spending another second breathing this man's throw-pillow air."
"I want to lie here and decompose quietly." I pulled the blanket over my head. She pulled it right back.
"Not asking." Marcy was already in the doorway, jangling keys, coat on, engine probably running. "Shoes on. Let's go."
The club was bass and bodies and too many vodka sodas that I stopped counting after four. Then him—across the floor, watching me with a stillness that dropped every other sound out of the room.
He didn't ask. Just stepped into my space, one hand on my hip, and pulled me back against his chest like he'd already decided.
"You looked like you were trying to disappear." His mouth against my ear, low enough to bypass my brain entirely. "Thought I'd give you a reason not to."
His hips slow against mine, his hand sliding to my stomach, pulling me tighter. Long fingers, a signet ring cold on my bare skin where my top had ridden up. I pressed back into him and his grip tightened.
"There she is." Half-groan, half-laugh against my neck, like I'd surprised him. I arched into it, grinding back, and his teeth grazed the spot below my ear.
"You're trouble." His voice was wrecked already and we were still vertical. I tipped my head back against his shoulder, giving him my throat, and his breath caught.
"So leave." I didn't recognize my own voice—lower, reckless, someone I hadn't been in three years.
"Not a chance." His mouth found the curve of my neck, open and hot. “I’d rather take you apart than leave,” and my knees gave out. His arm caught me—tighter, closer, his body a wall behind mine.
I turned around and looked up—tall, broad, a jaw I traced with my thumb. He caught my hand and pressed his mouth to my palm. His face won't come back no matter how hard I reach.
A car. His hand high on my thigh, sliding under my dress. "Tell me to stop." I pulled him closer. A doorway—his teeth on my throat, my legs around his waist. Then nothing.
The train lurches. My nails have carved crescents into my palms. Whoever he was, he's a problem for future-me. Present-me has nineteen minutes to impersonate someone employable.
Reidfield Global's lobby is glass and marble and the kind of hush that costs serious money. Elevator to fourteen. Dry lips. I've survived worse.
Creig Thompson meets me at the door with one of those faces—open, quick, built for the kind of grin that makes you feel already in on the joke.
"Hailee Cross." He flips a folder open, barely glances at it. "Finance background, three years at Whitmore and Breck, then a gap. Talk to me."
"I took time to reassess my direction." My voice comes out steadier than I have any right to claim right now.
"Reassess." His grin widens. "Beautiful word. Very corporate. What does it actually mean, Hailee?"
"It means I spent three years making someone else's life work and now I'd like to try mine."
Too raw for a job interview. My stomach folds and I brace for the polite redirect, the thanks-for-coming smile.
But Creig's face shifts—not sympathy, which I'd hate. Recognition. "I can work with that. Tell me what you're actually good at."
"Making order out of other people's chaos." I hold his gaze. "Quickly, quietly, and without needing applause for it."
"I don't do applause." He taps the desk twice. "The role is yours—executive support, C-suite, starts Monday."
"You're—" My hands go still in my lap because I need them to stop trembling. "Just like that?"
"You walked in here hungover—don't think I can't tell—and gave better answers than the last four combined." He shrugs. "I hire fast when I see it."
"When you see what, exactly?" I lean forward, interview instincts finally overriding the hangover.
"Someone who doesn't need to be managed." He slides paperwork across the desk. "NDA, benefits, the usual bureaucratic love letters. Got a pen?"
"Definitely had one." I reach into my bag and my fingers close around something wrong—too heavy, too cold, a deliberate weight that doesn't belong next to a crumpled cab receipt.
Matte black barrel. Gold band at the cap. The kind of pen that costs more than my monthly groceries. I have never owned a pen with this kind of self-regard.
Creig's eyes drop to it and every trace of warmth exits his face. He takes it from my hand, turns it between his fingers like he's reading something engraved I can't see.
"Where'd you get this?" Still casual, almost. But underneath it, something has teeth. "The pen, I mean."
My mouth opens. Nothing useful comes out. The math does itself—his pen, my bag, a night I can't remember, a bed I crawled out of an hour ago.
My fingers go white around the arm of the chair. Every fragment from last night rearranges itself around the man sitting three feet away, still holding that pen like evidence.
I think I just signed an employment contract with the man whose sheets I woke up in this morning.
I Slept With a Wrong Boss
30 Chapters
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