Chapter 9 It Hurts
June
I turn away from the sight of him before my ovaries file a formal complaint.
Adjusting the coffee in my grip, I start to move toward his desk, determined to keep it together.
Do not look at him again. Don’t. I tell myself, chin up, eyes low.
But of course, I do.
And there they are. His forearms. Those veins muscles, his sleeves rolled up just enough to make me remember.
And just like that, my brain betrays me.
I remember those same hands — the way they pushed me back against the hotel wall, firm and hurried. How they gripped my waist like they’d done it a hundred times before, tugging me close until our hips aligned until I could feel the thick, straining length of him pressed hard against my stomach.
My fingers twitch, which made the cup shifts, and I nearly spill it.
Shit.
Before I can recover, his hand snaps out and grabs my wrist firmly, controlled, and steady. His touch burns through me like an electric shock.
Our eyes meet, and he drops my hand like I infected him.
"Try not to tremble," he mutters, his tone cold and sharp. "It’s pathetic."
I don’t flinch, because I deserve that. I was trembling, like a fool.
"Set the folders down. Then wait outside."
"Yes, sir." I whisper, setting the folders down quietly like a girl who's just been told off in church.
But, I don’t feel scolded. I feel... dizzy. I turn to leave, and that’s when I feel it.
Low and Heat.
No fucking way.
I feel it — the tiniest shift, the uncomfortable slickness in my underwear.
What?
My eyes widen as panic starts to rise.
How does one accidental touch do that to me?
One brush of his hand, one look, and my body decides to just go full traitor?
Nope. Absolutely not. I need a reset, immediately.
I change direction the second I step into the hallway and make a beeline for the restroom with the urgency of a woman trying to escape her own hormones.
Now, I’m standing in a restroom trying not to scream into my modest thrift-store dress?
This is beyond humiliating. This is feral.
I stare down at the floor tiles and whisper, "Is this because of the dream?"
That stupid, vivid, disgusting, ridiculously hot dream I had last night?
Maybe it rewired my brain. Flipped some kind of pervert switch.
It has to be.
If not, then I’m not just in trouble, I’m professionally done for.
After washing up and trying to convince myself I’m still a functioning human, I walk back to my desk, only to see him standing right in front of it.
My heart skips.
Was he… looking for me?
Oh shit.
The presentation meeting. The one with the Strategy and Innovation department.
I glance at my watch. It's in five minutes.
Crap.
"Where were you?" he asks, voice clipped, sharp with impatience.
I swallow hard and force myself to look up.
He’s staring straight at me. Eyes to eyes.
It’s the first time since the hotel.
And he’s not just looking, he’s searching, like he’s trying to read me, to peel me open.
Why does it feel like my lungs just forgot how to work? Why does this feel like touching all over again?
Dizzy. I feel dizzy.
Shit, June. You’re done for.
"Uhm... I went to—"
"We’re late," he cuts in, turning sharply.
Of course.
He strides toward the elevator, leaving me behind, as usual, while I scramble for my folder, nearly knock over my chair, and rush after him.
The elevator doors begin to close on him, and I’ve already resigned myself to waiting for the next one. Honestly, I need the space.
But just before they shut completely, he moves.
His hand darts out, and his finger presses the button to hold it, for me.
I blink, stunned.
He doesn’t look at me or say anything, but the doors stay open.
Okay. That was… unexpected.
I step in, careful, like it’s a trap.
He’s standing in the middle of the elevator, so I move to the far side, like we’re magnets trying not to touch. But even from here, I feel him.
His large, tense and radiating cool authority. His presence is a wall, with wide shoulders, and straight spine. His arms relaxes at his sides, but coiled, like he could move in any direction at any moment.
I must look half his size next to him.
The silence stretches and I feel my stomach flutter.
Please be cruel, I beg him in my head. Please just be cold and awful again, so I can get over this ridiculous—
The elevator dings.
Phew
We step out, and suddenly I remember, I was supposed to brief him on the department’s proposal. Shit.
I quicken my pace beside him.
"Sir, I forgot to mention—the department’s focusing on overseas product licensing, and they’ll be presenting two new frameworks for—"
"I read the file," he cuts in, cool and final, because he’s perfect and competent and terrifying.
We walk in silence down the hallway. I'm trying to keep up with his long, lengthy strides while holding my folder like it’s a shield.
We reach the conference floor and I open the door on the right.
Only— This is the wrong room.
A whole team of unfamiliar faces turn and stare, clearly mid - someone's else - team meeting.
I freeze, already backing out, but I feel his hand, cool and steady, land on my shoulder.
He steers me gently, firmly to the next door.
And just as I think I’ve maybe escaped the embarrassment—
"I'm your boss, not your GPS," he mutters coolly beside me. "Try to learn the building."
His tone is sharp but low, meant only for me.
My head nod, my brain, however, goes offline.
The second his hand leaves me, I feel like I’ve just been unplugged. My body’s still humming from the contact. My thoughts are like scrambled eggs.
God. I need help or holy water, or both. I try to shake off the electricity crawling over my skin.
Get it together.
We enter the conference room, and instantly I recognize a few faces. I scan the table and spot David— my almost-team leader — the one who offered me up to play “temporary secretary” like I was some extra chair in the breakroom.
He meets my eyes. I give him a polite nod, even though internally, I’m crashing.
If he hadn’t volunteered me that day… maybe I’d still be with the Strategy and Innovation team. Maybe I’d be sitting beside colleagues, contributing quietly, not sweating in a maxi dress while trying not to stare at the back of my boss’s neck.
Hermes takes the head of the table.
I stay a few seats down — not directly beside him, not far either, but definitely not in the orbit of importance.
Is that strange? Probably. But no one says anything.
A young man with slicked hair and a poorly fitted suit begins the presentation.
"Today we’re discussing potential global licensing strategies for our higher-tier consumer products — particularly wearable tech in emerging markets. Two models have been proposed: Direct licensing and Joint Venture partnerships…"
I focus hard, because despite everything: the coffee, the bathroom meltdown, his hands, the shame — I actually understand this.
It’s the kind of model we studied during international business competition prep, and I remember the frameworks. The pitfalls. The way margins shift based on territorial IP laws.
I nod a little as he speaks, mentally correcting his phrasing here and there, but otherwise following along.
The room claps lightly as he wraps up.
Then—
Hermes leans forward, lacing his fingers with his voice precise.
"What protections do you have in place to avoid cannibalization between existing regional product lines and any newly licensed counterparts?"
Silence. The presenter blinks. The room shifts uncomfortably, and no one answers.
I feel it, that tug again. That space no one’s stepping into.
I hesitate. Just for a second.
Then I speak.
"You’d implement a staggered licensing rollout based on demand zones and market saturation rates. Maintain your premium line exclusivity in saturated zones and offer only the base or outdated versions in new regions."
I say it clearly, and professionally.
I know I’m right.
And for half a second, I think maybe—
"Interns," Hermes says, sharp and cold, without even looking at me, "aren’t made to speak in executive rooms."
The words slap me. They sting in a way nothing else he's said has. Not the trembling insult, or the inappropriate dress talk or the GPS jab.
This cuts deeper.
Because this time, I tried. I offered something real and valuable.
And he didn’t just shut it down, he made sure everyone saw it.
I feel my throat tighten, and I quickly lower my eyes to the table, fighting the prick of something behind them.
You shouldn’t have spoken, June.
You knew better.
God, why does this one hurt so much?