Chapter 132 Call me Natalya
June.
Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic.
You’re so pathetic, June.
The words echo in my skull like a mantra as I pace the lobby floor. My pulse hasn’t slowed since they carried Hermes out on a stretcher.
He’ll be alright, right?
My palm flies to my cheek, slapping it lightly. "That’s what you’re thinking about? His well-being?" I whisper to myself, shaking my head.
God. His fiancée — aka my new boss — just announced they’re getting married in a week.
A week.
It’s over. I lost. I freaking lost him.
Every plan, every little spark of hope — all useless.
It’s time to give up, June. Hermes was never yours.
I bite my lower lip, my mind replaying that moment — my voice cutting through the chaos, calling his name. Hermes.
Did they hear me?
Shit. Of course they did. What excuse can I give? That it slipped out? That I forgot I was just an intern?
God. This is bad.
"Hey, June— you okay?"
Tobias’s voice jolts me. I spin around, heart racing. His expression is uneasy, uncertain.
"I—uh— I’m waiting for the CCO," I manage. "She went with the ambulance."
He nods, rubbing the back of his neck. That nervous tic again. His eyes dart to mine — like he wants to ask about what I said in the cafeteria. About why I called the CEO by his first name.
For a second, I almost tell him the truth.
Everything — including the real reason why I suggested we fake-date. Tobias looks kind enough. He looks like the kind of guy who wouldn’t judge.
But before I can speak, he beats me to it.
"I understand," he says softly. "Actually, I wanted to tell you something too—"
"Miss Alexander!"
I flinch, spinning toward the receptionist’s desk. Brenna’s voice cuts through the tension. "Miss Voss is looking for you."
My heart drops. When did she come back from the hospital?
I murmur a quick apology to Tobias and rush off, every step heavy with dread. My mind keeps replaying it — Hermes, are you okay? The sound of my voice cutting through the silence. What if Natalya heard? What if she knows?
I push the office door open.
Natalya’s sitting there, one leg crossed over the other, phone in hand, her tone casual — almost cheerful.
If she’s this calm, then Hermes must be fine.
She glances up and gestures for me to come closer.
I exhale shakily. Maybe it’s better to confess — tell her the truth before she finds out another way. Tell her that Hermes was sleeping with me before I even knew who he was.
Before she became part of the picture.
"The CEO is fine," Natalya says suddenly, dropping the phone on the desk. "Just a migraine. Nothing he couldn’t handle."
Her words sound harmless, but my stomach knots. Is that supposed to be a jab? A reminder that I knows I care too much about her fiancé.
"That’s… a relief, ma’am," I mumble, forcing a smile. My hands won’t stop fidgeting against my skirt.
"Let’s go," she says, standing.
I blink, confused. "Where, ma’am?"
"Grab the tab, intern." She points to the tablet on the desk.
I obey, my pulse loud in my ears.
"We’re going to pick dresses," Natalya says brightly, her smile too wide, too sweet. "For my gala… and my wedding."
The tablet nearly slips from my hands.
It’s like she’s mocking me. And somehow, that’s worse than an accusation.
We walk side by side down the long hallway, her heels echoing against the marble floor, sharp and steady, as though they belong here, while mine sounds hesitant.
"Tell me, what boutique would you recommend?" Natalya’s tone is light, but with her, even light sounds like a test.
I glance at her, unsure if the question is innocent or loaded. Everything about this woman feels like a test lately — every word coated in something I can’t name.
My grip tightens on the tablet. I force a polite smile that feels like it’s peeling my skin. "Are you referring to your gala dress, ma’am?"
"And the wedding dress," she says, not missing a beat.
My fingers curl around the tablet tighter. My pulse skip again. I can’t tell if Natalya knows or if this is just my own guilt speaking too loud inside her head.
If I admit anything — if I so much as slips — I might end up confessing to a crime that Natalya hasn’t even accused me of yet.
"Are you listening, Intern?"
The sharpness of her tone jolts me back to reality.
I blink, startled. "I— I’m sorry, ma’am."
Natalya’s frown deepens, her lips curving downward in faint disapproval.
I swallows hard and mentally scolds myself — Focus, June. Don’t fall apart now.
"I asked a question earlier," Natalya says "What exclusive store would you recommend for me to self-pick the dresses I need?"
The elevator doors open, and I follow her inside, the tablet clutched to my chest like it can protect me.
"Sin City Chic, ma’am," I answer, steadying mty voice. "Or— or if you’d prefer, I can check for the best options available—"
"Sin City Chic it is," she cuts me off, smooth and final. "Tell the driver to get the car ready."
I nod. "Yes, ma’am."
The elevator doors slide shut. My reflection in the mirrored wall looks tense, eyes too wide.
Natalya keeps talking — about fabrics, color tones, jewelry themes. She mentions Hermes once or twice, casually, like it’s nothing. How he prefers ivory on her skin. How his mother loved when she wore pearls.
I nod at the right places, smile when I should. But every word feels like a needle pushed under my skin.
This doesn’t feel like a simple errand. This feels like a silent war I didn’t sign up for.
The drive is quiet at first. The kind of quiet that hums under the air conditioner — expensive, heavy, uncomfortable.
I’m seated beside Natalya in the backseat, tablet on my lap, fingers twitching to tap something, anything. The driver glances at us in the rear mirror once, probably wondering why no one’s talking.
Then Natalya breaks the silence.
"You looked quite shaken earlier at the cafeteria," she says, eyes on the road, her voice calm but sharp. "Do you always care that much when a boss falls ill?"
I freeze slightly, my fingers tightening around the tablet.
I force a casual shrug. "I… I just worry, ma’am."
She hums, like she’s weighing something. "Interesting," she murmurs, and I feel it — that quiet, dangerous sort of attention she always has, like she’s cataloging every reaction.
Then, just like that, she pivots. "I heard you were Mr. Grande’s secretary before. It’s good you’re loyal to your superiors. Not every intern understands hierarchy this early. You handled the situation quite… loyally."
Loyally. That word tastes different on her tongue. I stare at the window, mind racing.
I smile — or try to. "Thank you, ma’am,"
"And you can call me Natalya when we’re alone," she adds, without looking at me.
I blink. "Ma’am?"
She turns her head slightly toward the window, her reflection smirking faintly against the glass. "I said, when it’s just us. No need for the formality. You’re assisting me now, after all."
My throat goes dry. "O-okay… Natalya."
The word feels awkward, foreign, forbidden.
She hums softly, satisfied, returning her gaze to her phone as though she hasn’t just twisted something sharp into my gut.
I stare out the other window, the city sliding by in blurred colors. The hum of the car feels louder now, almost mocking.
What is this? Some kind of kindness? Or pity?
Because if it’s kindness, she’s wasting it. She shouldn’t be kind to me.
Not when we’re both in love with the same man.
I press my lips together hard, fighting the lump in my throat.
If I could, I’d just tell her — don’t be nice to me, Natalya.
You’re marrying the man I can’t stop thinking about.
And no matter how much I want to root for you, I can’t.
Her phone suddenly buzz on the console. She glance at it, then pick it up, speaking in a calm tone.
"I’ll be right there in a sec."
She hangs up, and for a moment, the silence in the car is thick. I glance at her, hesitating.
"Are we… going somewhere?" I ask cautiously.
She doesn’t answer. Instead, her fingers starts tapping rhythmically on the phone, her eyes fix on the screen.
My mind wander, as it always does when there is silence: is this about Hermes?
I scold myself silently. No. Don’t care. Don’t care. It’s none of your business.
Minutes pass. Then Natalya speak, her voice clipped but polite.
"Driver, stop here."
The car slows, and my brows furrow. What’s going on now?
She turns to me, expression unreadable. "I won’t be joining you at the store. Something urgent came up."
I hesitate. My first instinct is to ask if it has anything to do with Hermes. My fingers itch, but I shut my mouth. Instead, I try a safer approach.
"Should we postpone the dress picking then?"
She shakes her head, decisively. "No. Go alone. I’ve sent my measurements to you. Pick out the dresses for me. I trust you’ll pick the right fit for me."
"And don't worry, I'll arrive later, in time to wear them." She adds with a light smile.
Her tone leaves no room for argument. She swing her bag over her shoulder and steps out of the car.
I watch her go, hands tightening in my lap.
The car started moving again, leaving her behind, but my thoughts stayed with her.
I'm about to pick the wedding dress of the woman marrying the man I love.
This must be the biggest joke of the year.