The Wardrobe Malfunction

POV: NORA

"Auntie Nor! Auntie Nor, wake up."

The voice rips me out of a dead sleep. Sunlight slices through the cheap plastic blinds, stabbing my retinas. For a disorienting second, I do not know what planet I am on. A sharp, indented line of pain bites into my cheek. I blink against the harsh morning glare, reaching up to peel a rogue shoelace off my skin with a wince. Jace’s battered sneakers—the ones I cried over last night—are sitting right next to my face.

I look up. Jace stands over me, shifting his weight.

"Auntie Nor, it’s 7:45. We’re late for school."

"Shit!"

I scramble up from the hard floor, but my legs are dead. Numb from sleeping curled up in a tight, awkward ball at the foot of Jace’s desk, my knees buckle. I hit the carpet hard, swearing under my breath, and force blood back into my limbs.

The next fifteen minutes are a frantic blur of sheer panic. I drag the girls out of bed, wrestling them into the most mismatched, chaotic outfits ever assembled. Plaids with polka dots. Winter sweaters with summer leggings. I throw whatever processed garbage I can find in the pantry into their lunchboxes, ignoring every rule of decent parenting. We are practically flying toward the front door.

Derek, of course, does not lift a single finger. He lies spread-eagle on the living room sofa, snoring loud enough to rattle the windows, a half-empty beer can resting on the floor by his drooping hand. I bite my tongue hard enough to taste copper, shoving the kids out into the hallway.

At the school drop-off, the front desk receptionist shoots me a withering, judgmental glare as I herd the kids inside way past the first bell. I ignore the tight pinch of her mouth. I press a rushed kiss to each of their foreheads, apologize quickly, and spin around to sprint toward Vanguard Industries.

My chest heaves by the time I hit the Vanguard lobby. The security guard gives me a weird look, but my brain is too scattered to process it. I rush past the turnstiles and slam my hand against the elevator button. I step inside the empty cab and punch the button for the thirtieth floor. As the doors glide shut, I finally turn around and catch my reflection in the polished bronze walls.

My breath hitches. I look like a walking disaster.

My hair sticks up in a frizzy, tangled nest. Worse, my blouse is on backward. The stylish one-shoulder cutout meant to display a tasteful slice of collarbone is currently plastered over my shoulder blade, glaringly exposing the frayed, graying strap of my cheap bra instead of bare skin. I am wearing the same wrinkled pencil skirt from yesterday. Wet street dogs possess more dignity than I do right now.

Panic tightens my throat. It is too late to fix this. The floor numbers tick upward with merciless speed. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. I brace myself for Viktor’s frigid wrath. I picture his sharp jaw, his merciless amber eyes, and hear his deep, cruel voice ringing in my ears.

*You have got to be kidding me.*

Except the voice isn't in my head.

The elevator doors slide open. My nightmare takes physical form. Viktor Volkov stands waiting in the hallway.

He wears a custom-tailored charcoal suit that screams money and power, not a single thread out of place. But his face is a mask of pure, lethal fury. His jaw is locked so tight the muscle ticks visibly under his skin. His brow sits low and dangerous.

My mouth opens on instinct to defend myself, but my exhausted brain misfires. "I'm sorry," I stammer out, my voice thin and pathetic. "I fell asleep after—It was a long night and—I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

He does not blink. He does not soften. His amber eyes rake over my disheveled hair, my backward blouse, the exposed bra strap, and the wrinkled skirt.

"I expect you to dress appropriately for your job, Ms. Mercer," he growls, the sound vibrating with cold disgust. "Not do the walk of shame through my building."

I blink, stunned by the accusation. "The walk of—? Hold on. No, that’s not what this is. I didn’t—"

"You are wearing yesterday's skirt and flaunting your undergarments like you think you can seduce your way out of being—" He lifts his wrist, checking his expensive watch with a sharp flick of his wrist. "—two and a half hours late. I am not sure if you think I am stupid or easy. I am also not sure which of those two would offend me more."

One word snags in my sleep-deprived, short-circuiting brain.

*Seduce?*

The word echoes. I stare at his arrogant, cruel mouth. A sudden, raw, vivid fantasy crashes into my mind, obliterating my panic.

I imagine reaching out and wrapping my fist in his silk tie. I imagine yanking him forward, dragging his smirking, judgmental face down to my level. I picture shoving him backward until his thighs hit his massive mahogany desk, hiking my wrinkled pencil skirt up around my waist. In my mind, Viktor's hands are no longer cold; they are rough and desperate. He rips my cheap cotton panties right down the middle, tossing the torn fabric onto the carpet. He grabs the back of my thighs, pulling my bare pussy flush to the edge of the desk. He buries his face between my legs, his hot tongue sliding deep into my wet slit, licking right over my clit as I moan into his immaculate office. I can feel the heavy, rigid length of his hard cock straining tight against his tailored trousers, pressing into my hip as he devours me like a starving man.

"Ms. Mercer."

His sharp, impatient bark slices right through my filthy daydream.

I flinch, my cheeks burning with intense, sudden heat. Viktor stares at me with zero tolerance, unaware of the graphic images that just played behind my eyes.

"I am not interested in your excuses," he states flatly. "Go do your job. Before I find someone else to do it for you."

He brushes past my shoulder, his broad chest grazing my arm, and steps into the elevator. I turn like an idiot, watching the bronze doors slowly close on his face. The very last thing I see is the arrogant, disdainful slant of his mouth.

Then he is gone.

My face stays flushed a furious red for the rest of the grueling day. I dig an oversized, ugly cardigan out of my bottom drawer, burying my wardrobe malfunction under the thick wool. I keep my head down, typing furiously, trying to outrun my own humiliation.

But Viktor does not let me breathe. My phone pings relentlessly.

*Send the quarterly files.*

*Fax this.*

*Email the London office.*

He fires off demands like a dictator. He complains about the expiration date on his specific brand of coffee creamer. He demands a status update on the exact ergonomic conference room chairs he obsessed over last week. Every single text carries a scathing, impatient undertone. My eyes burn. I am running on fumes, my body aching from sleeping on the floor, my mind fraying at the edges.

My only lifeline is the knowledge that he has a charity gala tonight. He is scheduled to leave the office at 5:00 P.M. sharp. I sit at my desk, staring at the digital clock on my monitor, counting down the last ten seconds like I am waiting for the ball to drop on New Year's Eve.

Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

The clock shifts to 5:00.

*Ping.*

I groan, dropping my forehead against my desk. I pick up the phone.

VIKTOR: *My office. Now.*

I swallow a curse, push my chair back, and slink toward his door.

"Shut the door," his voice commands from the gloom.

The heavy curtains are drawn tight, blocking out the fading city light. The temperature in his office is freezing, a sharp contrast to the heat flushing my skin. Viktor is a massive silhouette behind his desk, surrounded by shadows and smelling of expensive cologne and cold power. The dim light catches the ruthless amber of his eyes.

"Sit." He points a shadowy finger toward the chair across from him.

I perch on the very edge of the leather seat. My nerves are frayed raw. My muscles shake with pure exhaustion. But I refuse to let my shoulders slump. I will not give this smug bastard the satisfaction of seeing me break.

"I asked you yesterday if I had your full attention," Viktor begins, his voice low and dangerous. "I am not so sure I do. So let me say this: if your priorities lie anywhere other than this company, then I will find a new assistant. I am not a nice man, Ms. Mercer. So believe me when I tell you that this is not the kind of place where you get three strikes before something bad happens. You mess up once—you are gone. Am I making myself clear?"

The air leaves my lungs. My job. My only lifeline. He is dangling it over a cliff.

I swallow hard. "Yes, sir."

He nods, a short, sharp tilt of his chin. "Good. Be here on time tomorrow. Dress like you intend to keep your job. Now, if you will excuse me... there is the door."

He drops his gaze back to his phone. Just like that, I cease to exist.

A sudden, boiling rage erupts in my chest.

He knows nothing. He does not know about Derek snoring on my couch while my bank account bleeds dry. He does not know about the three little kids waiting for me at an underfunded after-school care program. He does not know the agonizing pain of burying my sister and trying to fill her shoes. He sits in his custom suits and million-dollar office and acts like he owns the world.

"No."

I blurt the word before I can stop myself.

"No. No. I am not some little worm under your shoe, Mr. Volkov!" I shoot up from the chair, my hands slamming flat on his desk. "I am a person! Fuck you, I am a real person! I have a life and I have people who depend on me just to survive. I am drowning out here! So I would appreciate it very much if you would pull your smug head out of your smug asshole and treat me with some damn respect for once in your miserable life!"

Silence rings in the dark office.

Viktor looks up from his phone.

He blinks.

Blinks again.

"Is there something else, Ms. Mercer?" he asks, his tone bored and flat.

The icy bucket of reality crashes over my head. My hands are tightly clasped in my lap. I am still sitting in the chair.

My righteous, screaming tirade never left my mouth. The entire outburst happened strictly inside my exhausted, cracking mind. I did not stand up. I did not scream. I just sat there, staring at him in dead silence.

The bitter, nasty taste of defeat coats the back of my throat. I swallow it down, forcing my legs to support my weight as I stand up.

"No, sir," I say quietly, my voice hollow. "Nothing at all."

I turn my back on his shadows and walk out the door.