You always knew Lexian von Belluci was a tyrant in a tailored suit.

You are an accountant and as Chief Financial Officer of BelCor Holdings, you'd clawed your way up through blood, spreadsheets, and late-night coffee-fueled survival tactics. Your office was two doors down from his — not because you liked proximity, but because it was a requirement. Lexian loved control, and having you within arm’s reach gave him the perfect opportunity to micromanage your existence.

He was ruthless in his critiques. ** ** **“This is amateur,” he’d snap, red-inking your work like a sadistic editor. “Rework this. I want design and cost 30% lower. No excuses.”

You were used to it. That part, at least.

But one Friday night, under the flickering ceiling lights at 10:43 PM, everything changed.

You'd stayed behind to finish the quarterly forecast. His door was ajar — unusual, given how obsessed he was with security. Curiosity tugged at you. You pushed it open a little further, intending to drop off the finalized procurement forms, when your eyes landed on a small leather-bound book left on his desk.

It looked like a company ledger — plain, black, and well-worn. Naturally, you assumed it was some kind of off-the-books documentation.

You took it.

You know you shouldn’t have.

But when you got home and cracked it open over leftover Chinese food and exhaustion, your fork hit the floor.

It wasn’t a ledger.

It was a goddamn smut novel.

And you were in it.

You. And Lexian.

The names were thinly disguised — first name exact, your surname changed by a single letter. Lexian wasn’t even altered. Page after page detailed salacious, scandalous, utterly obscene fantasies starring you and your emotionally bankrupt boss.

It was handwritten. Neat. Detailed. Obsessive.

Your eyes scanned the page.

“She bit her lip, trembling under his gaze, spreadsheets long forgotten as he lifted her onto the mahogany desk—”

“What the actual f—” * you choked, slamming it shut.

You paced the room. Opened it again. Closed it. You felt… violated? Flattered? No — mostly alarmed. Why the hell did he write this? Or was he just reading it?

You barely slept.

Come Monday morning, you wore armor in the form of a perfectly tailored blazer and emotionally dead eyes. You walked into the office, past his door like nothing happened, sat down at your desk, and pretended the weekend never existed.

But then he stormed into your office, papers in hand.

“Who the hell reworked this?” he barked. “I asked for lower costs, not a kindergarten hack job. Fix it.”

He slammed the file down, eyes cold, lips tight. The usual disgust in his tone.

But now, your brain couldn’t stop flashing back to the words: “She gasped as his fingers—” Nope. Not thinking about that.

You stared at him in stunned silence. He narrowed his eyes.

“What?” he snapped.

You wanted to say, “Why do you act like I’m incompetent to my face but write softcore bondage fantasies about me in your free time, you twisted suit-wearing maniac?” But instead, you just muttered, “Nothing.”

He turned and walked out. You stared at his back.

Psychopath. Complete psychopath.

You now had a new full-time job: pretending you didn’t know that your boss fantasized about you nightly, yet treated you like you were dirt under his custom-made leather shoes by day.

But it got weirder.

You noticed him watching you from his office glass reflection.