The Night Before I Knew Him

June

I storm into the apartment like a volcano erupting.

Thankfully, shorty after press conference, he dismissed everyone, and left the company. In. A. Foul. Mood.

The front door slams hard enough to shake the keys off the hook. My jacket gets flung onto the floor. My bag drops next. My rage, though, I don't think that one leaving soon.

Kayla sprawled across the couch with her phone in hand, legs swinging over the armrest like she’s auditioning for a toothpaste commercial. She barely blinks.

"You’re back early," she says, chewing gum like it’s my soul. "Didn't expect that from the newest intern in the city,"

I don’t answer. I start pacing, kicking off my heels, one, then the other, both clattering against the tile.

Kayla watches. “Sooo... something happen at the Apex Palace of Corporate Despair?”

I spin around, wide-eyed. "Something happened?" I laugh, and it sounded like a threat. "You want to know what happened to me hours ago? I just found out that the guy I slept with two nights ago, the one Leila dared me to flirt with, is my boss. Not just my boss. He is the CEO of Apex,"

Silence suddenly took over. Dead, pin-drop, murder-scene silence.

Kayla blinks, then sits up straighter, then blinks again. "Wait. What?"

I nod, arms crossed so tight they might snap. "Yep. Hermes freaking Grande. The new CEO of Apex Corporation. Also known as the man I slept with, without knowing his name."

Kayla’s mouth drops open like a broken Pez dispenser. "Wait, wait, wait. You’re saying the guy you hooked up with at the bar is your boss?"

"Correct."

Leila looks up from her laptop across the room, mouth parted, eyes wide. "June... are you serious?"

"I wish I wasn’t."

Kayla whistles. "Well, damn."

She pauses. Then adds, like a mosquito with lip filler, "You do realize this is kind of on you, right?"

I blink. "Excuse me?"

Kayla shrugs. "I mean, the dare was to flirt. Get the digits, maybe a drink. You didn’t have to go all the way. Especially not with someone you knew nothing about."

My jaw drops. "Are you seriously blaming me right now?"

She holds her hands up. "I’m just saying, maybe next time don’t throw your whole career into a one-night stand."

"What the hell Kayla, It wasn't exactly written on his forehead!"

"Exactly."

My hands curl into fists. "Your opinion? It doesn’t matter."

Kayla raises her brows. "Okay. Touchy."

I turn away before I do something illegal. My chest tightens, and suddenly the room feels too hot. My eyes flick to Leila, who is still quiet.

She hasn’t said a word.

"Leila?" I ask, softer this time. “Are you seriously not going to say anything?”

She looks at me slowly, like she’s been watching a train crash in slow motion.

"I’m thinking," she reply

"About what?"

About how to fix this," she replies calmly. "Instead of blaming you for it."

My throat stings. For a second, I forget how to respire.

Kayla’s phone rings. She picks it up and disappears into her room, still chewing smugly.

And then it’s just me and Leila and a silence that feels safer.

I sink into the couch, hands on my knees. "Kayla's right. I'm to blame, God, I feel like the biggest idiot alive."

"You’re not," she says immediately.

"I let him touch me. I let him... God, I let him ruin me. And now he looks at me like I’m dirt under his shoes."

Leila doesn’t say much, but she reaches over and grabs my hand and squeezes it. That’s enough.

Later that night, I'm on the rooftop.

It’s quiet up here, the quiet that lets you hear your own thoughts, which is dangerous, because mine haven’t been kind lately.

I’m lying on my back, watching the stars blink through city smog. Leila joins me, hoodie pulled tight, blanket around her legs. She says nothing for a while, she just sits, hugging her knee.

Then she asks, "How many stars?"

"Fourteen and a half," I reply, deadpan.

She snorts. "How do you count a half?"

"One was hiding behind a cloud. I gave it partial credit."

She chuckles softly. Then, "Do you want to quit?"

I sit up and look at her like she grew a second head. "The internship?"

She nods.

I laugh. For real this time. It’s wild and bitter and a little unhinged. "Quit? Leila, I’ve been clawing my way toward this internship for two years. I’ve eaten beans out of cans to afford this city. I’m not letting a man, especially that man — scare me off."

Her eyes study me in the dim light. "Even if he keeps treating you like... that?"

I square my shoulders. "Then I’ll treat him like he doesn’t matter. Professionally of course."

She doesn’t argue, she just gives me a slow nod, then leans back and counts stars beside me. And for a moment, I think maybe I can handle it. No, I can handle it.

****

I cannot handle it.

The next morning starts with hope and ends with humiliation.

I bring Mr. Grande a coffee, a peace offering, my "please don’t fire me, because I've seen you naked." bribe. I checked the order three times.

He takes one sip and scowls. "This isn’t what I asked for."

"It’s dark roast, almond milk, one sugar—"

"Then you weren’t listening,” he says flatly. "Try again. This time, use your ears."

I swallow the retort clawing up my throat.

I go downstairs, and order it again — different roast, extra shot. I double check. Triple check. I hold the cup like it’s a glass bomb.

I return, and he doesn’t touch it.

"No. This isn’t what I want. I guess I’ll be making my own coffee from now on, since my secretary can’t get it right."

I nearly throw it at him.

Please do. Make your own damn coffee. The machine is right there. Across from you. It’s not a decoration, Mr. Grande.

I should say this.

But instead, I smile through teeth made of knives and ask a coworker for help cracking the code. It takes two more tries, three more burns, and one shaky breath in the women’s bathroom.

By the time I finally get it right, he barely looks at me.

"Meeting. Come."

I blink. "But I thought—"

"You’re coming," he says, already walking.

And I follow like an idiot with no spine.

-----

The restaurant is stupidly fancy. White tablecloths, glittering chandeliers, and waiters who look like they charge by the syllable. I trail behind him, already feeling like a fraud.

He tells the hostess, "Private room. Grande."

Then I wait outside like I’m supposed to.

I make use of my eyes, soaking in the gold fixtures and marble floor, when I hear it—

"JUNE ALEXANDER?"

I turn.

It's Tyler. Kayla’s fifth ex-boyfriend. Tall, goofy, with too-loud jokes and energy that could crack a ceiling. He’s wearing a blue button-down and a grin big enough to eat the sun.

"Well, well, well," I laugh, already walking toward him.

We hug. We talk. My mouth runs, and I begin to feel lighter than I have in days.

We joke about Kayla. It’s easier because they didn’t break up on bad terms. Then we drift into stories about bad tequila and worse hangovers, he was my drinking partner the time he and Kayla were together.

"So, what’ve you been up to these days?" I ask, eyeing his upgraded fit.

"You know, stuff like—"

"Inside."

I freeze.

That voice, it's deep, gruff, and sharp as glass. It's Mr. Grande, and he is standing right behind me.

"What?" I ask, dumbly.

Thirty-two hours with him and I know one thing: he doesn’t repeat himself.

He points toward the private dining room.

"But... you said I should stay outside for meetings."

"I changed my mind." I watch his cold eyes flick to Tyler for a second. Just a second. But I see it; that weird twitch in his jaw.

I glance at Tyler, his face has shifted, it's guarded now.

I murmur, "Sorry. He’s my boss," and follow Hermes inside quickly.

And for the life of me, I can’t figure out what the hell is wrong with him now.