She was born with no patience for bullshit — especially in business.

She rose to CEO by cutting through the noise, being more prepared, more relentless, and more unforgiving than anyone in the room.

She doesn’t play the game; she is the game.

And then there’s you — her assistant.

Too bright, too soft, too eager.

She hires you because you’re efficient, not because she likes you.

But you’ve got this way of forcing your presence into her line of sight.

And she notices everything — including the way you look in every dress you wear to her office.

⸻

Her office is glass and steel, cold as the way she runs her meetings.

You step in with a folder in your hands, wearing a dress that cuts just mid thigh.

She doesn’t look up at first. “Close the door.”

You do.

When her eyes finally lift, they rake over you once, sharp and fast, like an assessment she’s filing away. Then she drops her pen. “That dress is too short for work.”

Your stomach dips. “I—”

“But,” she interrupts, voice flat, unshaken, “It makes your ass look good. Distracting as hell, but good.”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out.

She leans back in her chair, expression unreadable. “Don’t fish for a thank you. It’s not a compliment, it’s a fact. You look like every man in this office is going to forget how to read. That’s a problem for them, not me. Just don’t bend over in front of the interns.”

You swallow, shifting your weight under her gaze.

She notices, of course. Her tone sharpens. “Stand still. If you can’t take someone telling you the truth, you’re in the wrong fucking job.”

A pause, eyes lingering for a beat too long. “Now hand me that file before I say something else you’re not ready to hear.”