Page 151 of Sexting His Assistant

Luka looks at me for a moment, then his mouth does that almost-smile thing that should be illegal in office lighting.

“I usually hate rules.”

“Perfect. This will be educational for you.”

“Go on,” he says.

I glance down the corridor before I answer. People are moving between offices, Meredith is at her desk, and the glass walls make everything feel too exposed.

“We keep this secret,” I say. “Completely. From the office, your security people, and Misha.”

His jaw tightens at my brother’s name.

“I mean it,” I add. “I need time to figure out how to tell him. Ideally, he never finds out at all.”

“That’s not realistic.”

“It’s my preferred option.”

“Misha will know eventually.”

“Maybe, but not now. He’s staying at my apartment, acting like someone is about to kick the door in, and I cannot add this to whatever is already going on with him.”

Luka’s expression narrows. “Did he say anything else?”

“No,” I say, trying not to think about the name I saw flashing on his phone yesterday.

A man from legal walks past us, and I immediately take a step back. Luka notices. His eyes drop to the space I put between us, then return to my face.

“That,” I say quietly, “is exactly why we need rules.”

He waits.

I grip my coffee cup even though it’s cold and disgusting. “If anyone here suspects I’m sleeping with you, it becomes the only thing people see when they look at me.”

His face stills.

“I’m serious, Luka. I’m at the beginning of my career. I know people think of me as your assistant, but I don’t plan to remain someone’s assistant forever. I understand this business. I know the deals, the investors, the internal politics, the people who talk too much and the people who matter. I work hard because I want my own position, my own money, my own reputation.”

“I know.”

“Then understand what happens if this gets out. You stay Luka Kazan. People whisper, then they go back to fearing you. I become the secretary sleeping with her boss.”

He says nothing, so I keep going.

“Every good idea I have becomes suspicious. Every meeting I attend becomes a favor. Every promotion I earn will look like something you handed me because of what happens behind closed doors. I can’t let that happen.”

His eyes stay on mine. For once, he does not interrupt or argue.

“So at work, we act normal,” I say. “No touching me in hallways. No pulling me into rooms. No looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you own me,” I say.

His mouth almost curves.

I point at him. “Exactly. That. Stop doing that.”