Page 8 of Forbidden Boss

The words come out before I can stop them. I’ve never given a damn if my employees ate, slept, or collapsed at their desks. They’re tools. Replaceable.

She freezes at the unexpected softness, then nods once. “I will.”

Then she leaves, the door shutting softly behind her, and I sit there, furious with myself.

The next day, I overcorrect. I bark orders sharp enough to slice. I cut her off when she answers. I make her justify decisions that don’t need justification. I tell myself I’m breaking her down to test her resolve. The truth is uglier. I’m trying to drown out the heat pressing against my ribs every time she looks at me.

It doesn’t work.

In the middle of a briefing, I catch sight of her through the glass, sleeves rolled up, hair falling loose, lip caught between her teeth. A memory slams into me. Suddenly, we’re back in the hotel elevator, her pressed against the wall, my hand wrapped around her thigh. My chest tightens so hard I have to grip the edge of the desk until my knuckles turn white.

I snap at the director, who was speaking. He flinches and starts again, his eyes darting nervously. I let him flounder. Better his fear than my distraction exposed.

By Friday, the whole floor is walking on eggshells. They know I’m hunting for weakness. They don’t know why. None of them realize the storm has nothing to do with them and everything to do with the woman down the hall.

She stays late again that night. I stay too, telling myself it’s a coincidence. She works under the glow of her lamp, her face bent toward the ledger, and I can’t look away. The desire to call her in nearly breaks me. I want to pull her across my desk, silence the questions in her eyes with my mouth, remind myself that she is just another woman I can take and discard.

Instead, I sit in the dark and remind myself she is an employee.

The building is emptying, the air thinner without the hum of voices. She stands near her desk, laughing at something on her phone, and I feel a twist in my chest sharp enough to make me clench my jaw.

One of my junior analysts, barely out of school, still green around the edges, stops by her office. He leans a hand on her doorframe, too casual, too familiar. I watch the way she tilts her face up, smiles politely, tucks her hair behind her ear as she listens. There is absolutely nothing inappropriate about the interaction. Nothing obvious, anyway. And yet, heat surges through me so fast it shocks me.

A streak of hot, possessive jealousy shoots through me.

Before I know it, I’m out of my chair, crossing the floor. The kid sees me coming. He straightens, pulls his hand back from the doorframe, but it’s too late.

“Step away,” I say. My voice is quiet, but my employees know that I’m less dangerous when I’m shouting.

He freezes. His eyes widen, darting to Mari, then back to me. He knows who I am. Not just the CEO. Not just the boss. He knows the truth, the thing whispered in the corridors, the shadow that hangs over this building whether they acknowledge it or not.

“I—I was just—” he stammers.

“You were just putting your hand where it doesn’t belong,” I cut him off. I take one step closer, close enough that he has to tilt his head back to meet my eyes. “Do you enjoy working here?”

His throat bobs. “Y-yes, sir.”

“Then hear me once. If you value your position, your fingers, your life—you do not speak to her again unless it is strictly business.”

The color drains from his face. He nods so fast he looks like he might break his neck. “Understood.”

“Good. Now get out of my sight.”

He practically stumbles backward, muttering an apology as he retreats down the hall. His footsteps echo, quick and clumsy, until they fade into the elevator.

I turn back, expecting relief. Instead, I find her eyes blazing.

Mari stands behind her desk, arms crossed, fury in every line of her body. “What the hell was that?”

I meet her stare without flinching. “Discipline.”

“Discipline?” Her voice rises, sharp and incredulous. “He was asking me about a report. That’s it. You humiliated him for no reason.”

I step into her office, closing the distance, my presence filling the room the way it always does. “If a man stands in your doorway with his hand on the doorframe, laughing like you’re his entertainment, it’s not business. It’s a mistake. And I don’t tolerate mistakes.”

Her cheeks flush, but it’s not embarrassment. It’s anger. She leans forward, palms flat on the desk. “You don’t get to decide who I talk to and who I don’t.”

I let the silence stretch, heavy and suffocating. I can feel the heat between us, sharp as it had been in that hotel room, but this timeit’s tangled with defiance. She isn’t scared of me. She’s furious with me.