[BL] Transmigrated as the Villain CEO's Mermaid Secretary

The anti-grav lift hummed, a low thrum that vibrated right through the worn soles of his shoes as it carried him to the forty-fourth floor of Maxwell Corporation’s employee dormitory.

Neville shifted his grip on the two duffle bags and single cardboard box that held everything he owned. It was a pathetic amount of stuff, really, but his heart was pounding against his ribs vigorously.

Mine.

The word echoed in his mind, sharp and possessive.

All mine.

No more shared rooms, no more creaking beds, no more whispers after lights-out.

The lift doors opened onto a hallway that looked like it was from a 5-star luxury hotel back on Earth. Gleaming metal panels, soft ambient lighting that bloomed brighter as he passed. He followed the holographic numbers floating elegantly beside each door until he reached 4410.

As he approached, a scanner displayed a friendly green light.

"Welcome, Mr. Neville Hope," a pleasant AI voice chimed. "Initializing home care system."

The door slid open with a sigh of compressed air, and Neville’s jaw went slack. The breath hitched in his throat.

"Holy mother—"

The curse died on his lips, a phantom sting of soap on his tongue from a recent memory. ’Language, child. A clean mouth is the mark of a clean mind.’

Director Miller’s voice, a ghost from the orphanage, had still made its way here despite the distance. He swallowed, but he still couldn’t stop his crass personality.

But it didn’t dampen the atmosphere.

The apartment—because calling it a mere room felt like a sin—before him was a display of casual interstellar wealth, so casual it was offensive.

A wall of crystal-clear glass dominated the far side. The view beyond it was breathtaking. Planet Xylos’s cityscape glittered under the silver and gold light of its twin moons.

Flying vehicles zipped between towering structures, their lights creating rivers of color against the darkening sky, like schools of metallic fish.

"This... is employee housing?" Neville whispered the question to the cavernous, empty room.

He set his meager belongings down on the polished floor. They looked like artifacts from another, poorer world.

Back on Earth, a security deposit for a place like this would have cost more than most people’s yearly salaries.

Here, it was just home.

The main area was outfitted with a plush sofa that looked too clean to sit on, a low glass coffee table, and a dining set so minimalist it seemed to float.

The kitchen was a mix of stainless steel and marble surfaces, a silent testament to advanced technology.

Neville ran a hand over a countertop, half-expecting an alarm to go off. His eyes landed on a massive complex appliance built into the counter.

Is that... a molecular gastronomy unit?

He had only ever seen one of those on a cooking show at the orphanage.

He found what looked like a refrigerator and pulled the door open. His mind was braced for the familiar sight of foil-sealed nutrient packs. Instead, he found rows of sleek, metallic canisters.

He picked one up.

The label read Micronutrient Base: Protein.

Another was Flavor Profile: Savory Roast.

Powders? he thought, a sinking feeling in his gut.

He shook the canister, and it was full of fine dust inside. What am I supposed to do with this? Mix it with water?

The absurdity of it all crashed down on him. All this luxury, this breathtaking view, this massive space.

But—he was expected to live on flavored dust? Where were the burners? The pans? The satisfying sizzle of real food hitting a hot surface?

His internal voice, usually a murmur, screamed in frustration.

GIVE ME A REAL STOVE!

But no matter how he complained, the only answer was the soft hum of the apartment’s systems.

He was all alone. Well, almost.

[Quite the setup, isn’t it?]

Neville jumped as Shelly floated into the kitchen, inspecting the appliances.

"A setup for what? A science experiment?" Neville grumbled, gesturing at the canisters of powder with contempt. "Where’s the actual food?"

[Host, I already saw your face when the door opened,] Shelly countered with amusement. [You looked like you’d seen a ghost. Your jaw was practically on the floor.]

"Well, yeah," Neville admitted, leaning against the counter and looking out over the room. "This sparkling, uncomfortably luxurious vibe is a lot to take in. I honestly thought they had made a mistake and given me one of Grayson’s private suites."

Shelly drifted into the living room, doing a slow loop in the air. [The interstellar era really doesn’t skimp on employee benefits. Probably because happy workers are productive workers, and productive workers don’t accidentally crash starships into planets.]

Neville paced out into the main living area, his arms spread wide as if trying to measure the sheer volume of the space.

"I could fit the entire boys’ dormitory from the orphanage in here," he said, the statement a mix of wonder and bitterness. "With room to spare."

Off to one side, a short hallway led to the bedroom. The door slid open to reveal a space larger than Director Miller’s entire office. It had a queen-sized bed so plush it looked like a cloud, and a desk for his quantum computer. There was even a walk-in storage room, a luxury for someone whose possessions barely filled two duffel bags.

[Host! You have to see this!] Shelly’s voice echoed excitedly.

He followed the sound and pushed open the bathroom door. The air left his lungs in an audible gasp. Realizing that he was stepping into the future. A sleek fusion of matte black tiles and frosted glass, it was a traditional Japanese bathhouse that had been given a sci-fi upgrade.

The bathing area was a separate wet room with a shower that had more settings than a starship’s cockpit. But the crown jewel, sitting like an altar in the center of the room, was the bathtub. It was deep, spacious, and carved from a single piece of what looked like polished obsidian.

His mermaid instincts practically purred at the sight of all that water.

[Host, maybe you did end up in a Grayson suite after all,] Shelly said, her animated eyes already scanning the tub’s features. [That thing looks like it’s big enough for two!]

Neville’s cheeks flared with heat. "Shelly! Keep your circuits out of the gutter."

But it was too late. The thought had been planted.

Two people.

His mind was flooded with the image of a shadow next to his own in the water. An Alpha, probably. As an omega, that was the expected path. Everyone already assumed he would be the bottom.

And maybe he was okay with that—he had zero experience to say otherwise. But a stubborn, contrary part of him wondered what it would be like to be the one in charge, just for one night.

To not just receive, but to take.

A wistful sigh escaped him before he could stop it.

He trailed his fingers along the tub’s edge. The material was bizarre, warming instantly to his touch as if it were alive.

"I could actually transform in that," he whispered, the thought both thrilling and terrifying.

[Just a heads-up, Host] Shelly said, her eyes were reading the manual of the home-care system. [That tub has automatic biometric sensors. They’ll alert Med-Bay if something goes wrong. Like, say, a sudden drop in temperature.]

Neville flinched.

[You might want to figure out how to disable those before you go full Ariel,] she added helpfully.

Right. A sharp, familiar pang of disappointment. There was always a catch, always a reminder that he was a mermaid in hiding.

Where’s my rights? My freedom!

Neville straightened, forcing down the primal urge to fill that glorious tub and sink into the bliss of his true form.

He had work tomorrow. He needed to stay focused.

Returning to the living area, he started to unpack. His few belongings looked almost pathetic, laid out in the massive space.

A few changes of clothes, basic toiletries, his work datapad, and—his one small treasure—a box of special sea salt bombs he managed to buy using his meager good points he earned from the orphanage.

The silence was the biggest luxury of all, but it was also—incredibly lonely. It left too much room for his mind to wander.

In a world filled with countless genders and dynamics, surely he wouldn’t have to be single or even a virgin forever.

He pictured a hazy, faceless partner. Maybe someone kind, a little adventurous. Then he would ask them, maybe after, when they were both breathless and comfortable, ’Can we... switch? Just once?’

The thought made a pleasant warmth spread through him.

He let himself imagine a strong, handsome Alpha—and immediately, Grayson’s cold, piercing gaze cut through the fantasy like a shard of ice.

Neville nearly dropped the shirt he was holding.

"Nope, nope, nope," he muttered, shaking his head hard as if to physically delete the image. "Not going there. Absolutely not."

Needing a distraction, he finished putting his clothes away with frantic efficiency and sat at the kitchen counter, pulling up a list on his datapad.

"Okay. Essentials." He began tapping, his voice a low murmur. "More clothes. Suits for work. God, how many? Basic cookware—if this kitchen even supports it. Cleaning supplies..."

[Don’t forget inhibitors and pheromone patch.] Shelly chimed in. [Your pheromone levels are spiking. Stress, probably.]

"I have some," Neville mumbled defensively. "Director Miller gave me a pack before I left."

[Ah, Host.] Shelly gently informed him. [That stuff is like putting a bandage on a stab wound. It won’t last long in your state. You need proper inhibitors unless you want to be a walking aphrodisiac for every Alpha in a five-block radius. The good stuff is on the System mall, but your good points won’t be able to afford that yet.]

Neville winced.

[Remember, you’re a ’fake recessive’ omega.] Shelly added. [It has to be convincing.]

Great. Another secret, another expense.

Neville added TOP-GRADE INHIBITORS and PHEROMONE PATCHES to the top of his list in bold letters.

He pulled up his account balance. The post-orphanage subsidy was generous enough for basics, but it wouldn’t last forever.

He had to be smart. Frugal.

He sighed, deleting the file he bookmarked for ’Better Nutrient Solution Flavor Profiles.’

Survival came first. Fancy dust would have to wait.

He was just about to head out when a flicker of movement in the hallway caught his eye. He saw a familiar figure waiting for the anti-grav lift.

It was Ethan.

But his bright, helpful smile was gone, replaced by a grim set to his mouth. His usually perfect hair was disheveled, and... was that a fresh bruise darkening his jaw?

A prickle of unease ran down Neville’s spine.

Suddenly, the strange file transfers he had received to his quantum computer didn’t feel like a random glitch anymore.

At first, he dismissed them as errors—sensitive data from other departments ending up with him by mistake. But seeing Ethan looking like he had lost a fight, a suspicion arose from his gut.

Coincidences like this didn’t happen at a place like Maxwell Corp.

"Shelly," he said, his voice low, "those file mix-ups from earlier. Can you trace them?"

Shelly materialized, and her usual cheerful light dimmed. [Inquiring... Access Denied. Insufficient Good Points.]

A moment passed before she spoke in her voice. [Sorry, Host. Poking around the Maxwell Corp’s mainframe costs a premium. A ’big’ premium. I can’t touch it.]

Neville let his head fall back against the wall with a soft thud.

Of course. As usual, nothing could ever be easy.

"So I’m on my own," he murmured.

He would have to handle this himself, carefully.

His plan had been simple: keep his head down, do the work, and become invisible.

But at a place like Maxwell Corporation, an orphan was anything but invisible.

While his direct colleagues in the secretarial department were welcoming, whispers followed him through the hallways like a persistent shadow.

’Did you hear? He’s from an orphanage.’

’There’s no way he earned that position fairly. Must be a diversity hire.’

’I heard he seduced someone high up. You know how those types are—they’ll do anything to get ahead.’

It was a laughable accusation, given his nonexistent experience in that department. Still, the insinuation stung, a constant, low-grade humiliation.

Neville did his best to ignore it, burying himself in his work with a single-minded focus that bordered on obsession.

He had a mission, damn it.

Securing a permanent position here was the only way he could get closer to Grayson, and a little workplace discrimination wasn’t going to stop him.

And then there was Grayson himself.

The man was a mystery.

Throughout the day, Neville would feel a prickle on the back of his neck and look up to find Grayson watching him. Those piercing silver eyes would track his movements across the office, intense and unblinking.

But the moment Neville’s gaze met his, Grayson would look away, his handsome face becoming an unreadable mask. An aura so cold it felt like it could frost glass would practically radiate from his desk.

It was maddening.

’What is his problem?’ Neville complained silently to Shelly. ’Why does he keep staring if he doesn’t want to be approached?’

A small, holographic notification pinged in the corner of his vision, a projection only he could see.

[The target’s motives are currently irrelevant, Host. The primary objective is to increase favorability. Favorability: 3.5%]

Neville had to admit, seeing the number—however small—was a victory.

It meant the staring wasn’t just his imagination.

It meant he was having some kind of effect.

"Mr. Hope."

Neville looked up to see Iris placing a stack of files on his desk.

She leaned in slightly, her voice low. "Don’t let the whispers get to you. It’s standard hazing for anyone new who stands out."

"It’s that obvious?" Neville asked, a flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck.

"I hear everything around here," Iris said as she waved him goodbye.

Then, from the corner of his eyes, he felt the familiar gaze. This time, instead of looking away, Neville turned and offered him a small smile.

The response was immediate. A privacy screen on the glass partition separating their sections instantly frosted over, obscuring Grayson from view completely.

Neville’s smile fell. He clenched his jaw, glaring at the now-opaque glass.

’If he looks at me one more time,’ he thought, his frustration so sharp it felt like a weapon, ’I swear I’m going to gouge those silver eyes right out.’