Undressed By His Arrogance

Ivy hurried up the steps, juggling a precarious mountain of things that felt designed to ruin her life. A stack of folders pressed into her ribs, a too-hot cup of coffee wobbled dangerously in her hand, her handbag kept sliding down her shoulder, and her sad excuse for lunch—a squashed sandwich wrapped in foil—threatened to fall out of the paper bag she’d stuffed it in.

And God help her, this was only her first day.

Apparently, the boss had fired his last secretary over the weekend—fired being the polite word HR used.

"Don’t speak unless he asks."

"Don’t look him in the eyes too long."

The list of rules had been barked at her. HR had shoved a stack of files into her arms and all but pushed her up the staircase.

"You just need to hang tight until we find someone permanent," the officer had said. "If he doesn’t eat you alive first."

Lovely.

The boss—Winn Kane would be arriving in five minutes. Five. Minutes. She had to drop the files on his desk, grab a pen and paper, and race back down to meet him at the entrance. Apparently, he liked dictating his schedule while walking.

Ivy muttered to herself under her breath as she climbed. "Thirty minutes in, and I already know I’m going to die here."

Halfway up the stairs, her heel snagged against the lip of a step. She pitched forward. The coffee sloshed. The folders slipped. Her handbag slid.

"No, no, no, no—" she hissed, somehow saving the coffee with an awkward jerk of her wrist, pinning the folders against her chest with her elbow.

The good news: everything she was holding survived.

The bad news: something in her back did not.

With one violent snap, her bra hook popped free.

Of all the places and time to have her underwear betray her, on her first day of work.

"Lord, no! Lord, please no." Ivy hissed under her breath, her heels clattering against the marble as she hurried up the staircase. Her pulse hammered in her throat. Four minutes till eight.

He is never late.

The HRO’s warning echoed in her head, sharp and merciless: "Mr. Kane arrives at exactly eight. Be ready. He hates incompetence."

"Fuck!" she wheezed, nearly tripping again as she reached the landing. Sweat trickled down her back, her shirt clinging uncomfortably to her skin. She needed privacy. She needed one minute—just one damn minute to fix this wardrobe disaster.

The top floor stretched out before her, eerily silent compared to the buzzing hive of activity below. Reserved for the boss and his secretary—though "secretary" was apparently a cursed position, judging by how fast they cycled through victims.

She spotted a door with a brass plate: Executive Lounge.

Ivy slipped inside, breath shallow, the air-conditioned chill raising goosebumps on her skin.

"Jesus Christ," she muttered, dumping everything she carried onto the table in a frantic heap.

Her trembling hands flew to her back, fumbling with the treacherous bra strap. If she could just snap it shut again—

The clasp dangled uselessly. One of the hooks was missing entirely.

"No, no, no—fuck!" she growled under her breath, tugging the two loose ends together until her breasts squashed painfully against her blouse.

Three minutes till eight.

Her eyes darted to the clock on the wall. Each tick made her heart skip.

"God, please," she whispered, yanking at the fabric. "Freeze time. Just five minutes. I’ll trade my soul."

Two minutes till eight.

With no other choice, Ivy started yanking at her shirt buttons. The crisp white cotton gaped open, exposing the lace edge of her bra and the swell of her breasts.

******

Meanwhile, Winn Kane arrived at exactly three minutes till eight.

The House of Kane lobby transformed the second his Italian leather shoes hit the floor. Conversations halted. Phones were lowered. The staff rose, their greetings a rehearsed chorus.

"Good morning, Mr. Kane."

"Morning, sir."

"Mr. Kane."

He didn’t smile. He never did.

Winn stood at the entrance for precisely three seconds, surveying his surroundings.

The staff knew the ritual: he was expecting his secretary to meet him on the dot. He would dictate his schedule while striding up the stairs, never breaking stride, never repeating himself.

Three minutes till eight, and the space beside him was empty.

"Late," he muttered under his breath.

Unacceptable.

He walked through the lobby and began taking the steps to the second floor.

On the second step, his shoes nudged against a folder. He bent, picked it up, and flipped it open. Employment contract. His mouth curled in disdain as he skimmed the bolded line: Temporary Secretary – Ivy Morales.

A temp. Fantastic. Temps were a joke in his book—warm bodies HR stuffed into chairs, placeholders who thought making it through a week without crying was an achievement.

He had no patience for them. He closed the folder with a flick of his wrist. Already unimpressed.

By the time he reached the landing, something else snagged his attention. The executive lounge door, ajar by a finger’s width. Joey was overseas on vacation, and no one else dared breach the space.

His gaze sharpened. If someone was trespassing, he’d make sure they regretted it.

He approached the door silently, the way a lion might stalk a gazelle. And then through the sliver of opening, he caught a sight that ripped a low curse from his throat.

A young woman stood in the middle of the room, stripping. Women threw themselves at him all the damn time. But here? At his office? That was a new low.

Still, the cynical part of his brain didn’t stop the primal part from appreciating the view. Her blouse slid down one shoulder, revealing skin too smooth to ignore. The bra strained against her chest before giving way, the strap snapping down her arm.

His mouth went dry. Shit. She had nice tits. Perfectly full, with the faintest tremor of nerves in the way her breathing hitched.

He should have shut the door. Should have walked away and let security handle it. Instead, he pressed his palm against the frame and stepped through just as she reached for the straps of her bra.

"Creative, I must say."