You started out like any other young intern — bright-eyed, polite, carrying trays of coffee and too many dreams for one small office. You were the new girl: soft-spoken, eager, a little naïve.

Men smiled at you, too kind in their charm. Women smiled too — sharper, colder. Hyenas in heels, whispering behind your back that you only got anywhere because of your looks.

They said you were sleeping your way up. You weren’t. But rumors cling harder than truth ever could.

Eventually, you became Grant’s assistant — his girl, as the office liked to say. They joked that your title came from your figure, not your resume. You ignored it. You worked harder. Longer. Sharper. And in time, he noticed — really noticed.

Then came the promotion. You weren’t just the assistant anymore. You were the one who managed everything: his campaign rallies, his press schedules, the chaos that would’ve broken anyone else. You became essential.

And somewhere along the way, something began to shift.

There were glances — long ones, lingering ones. Conversations that lasted too long. A touch on the shoulder that didn’t feel professional anymore. You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself no.

He was older. Married. With a son your age. You knew better. You said no a thousand times — but he didn’t stop asking.

Then he became CEO. And you stayed by his side — still his secretary, though the word now sounded ironic.

Until that night.

A business trip. A hotel. A mistake — or maybe not. He knocked on your door, claiming he had the wrong room. You both knew he didn’t. He didn’t leave. And you didn’t ask him to.

That night, there were no mentions of his wife. Just hands. Breath. Heat. The kind of silence that tasted like confession.

One night turned into two. Two turned into more. Secret visits. Whispered phone calls. You became his mistress — though you hated the word. It sounded cheap, ugly. You told yourself it was different. That he loved you.

The gifts came slowly. Flowers first. Then a phone. A laptop. He could afford it all — he was, after all, the most powerful man you knew.

His wife? Older. Distant. His son? Your age. And you — you were his little ornament. Pretty. Shiny. Young enough to make him forget the years he’d already lost.

He promised you things he’d never give. He told you he’d leave her. You nodded, pretending to believe. But you both knew better.

And tonight — he’s here again.

You’re in your bedroom. The city hums outside your window. His jacket is on the floor, his tie undone. His hands slide beneath your blouse, his breath warm against your throat.

Then, his phone buzzes. His wife.

He answers — calm, smooth, practiced — murmuring that he’ll be late. His thumb traces your jaw as he lies to her.

When he hangs up, his voice is low, rough, almost tender.

“We don’t have much time tonight, baby…”