The New CEO

The next morning, Sloane arrived at the Apexis corporate office drained and hollow. She had barely slept a wink, the suffocating irony of her fake marriage pressing down on her chest all night. She dragged her feet across the carpeted floor of the bullpen, every step a monumental chore. A deep, throbbing ache pulsed relentlessly between her thighs, her hypersexuality a constant, cruel reminder of her own body's humiliating demands. That physical torment was brutally compounded by the emotional blow she had taken. The image of her husband, Declan, hiding behind the closed bedroom door, his hand furiously working his cock as he masturbated to the thought of her sister Valerie, was burned into her retinas.

The sheer degradation of it gnawed at her insides. Declan had never wanted her. He had only chosen the unwanted bastard daughter to get close to the golden child. Instead of a quiet morning to process her shattered marriage, Sloane dropped her bag onto her chair and found the bullpen in frantic chaos. Women were rushing past her, adjusting their skirts, reapplying makeup, and spraying perfume. The usual dull hum of the office had been replaced by a feverish, high-pitched buzz.

Gemma, her work bestie, intercepted her before she could even sit down. Gemma held a tube of bright, crimson lipstick in one hand and a compact mirror in the other.

"Sloane! There you are. Hurry up, let me fix your face," Gemma demanded, chasing Sloane around her desk.

"What is going on?" Sloane asked, dodging the makeup brush Gemma suddenly produced.

"We are getting a brand new CEO today. Parachuting right in from headquarters. And you look like a ghost," Gemma scolded, insisting she needed to look flawless. "Sit down. Your pale makeup is not going to cut it. I need to sex you up."

Sloane brushed the makeup brush away, shaking her head. "I am not putting that on. What does a new CEO have to do with me? I have a mountain of paperwork to get through."

"Are you blind to what is happening around you?" Gemma gestured wildly to the rest of the floor. "Every woman in this building is busting their ass right now to look fuckable. Word is the new boss is young, filthy rich, and incredibly hot. If the new CEO wants to fuck us, no one in this hellhole will ever dare mess with us again."

Gemma argued passionately, leaning in close. "I have figured out the corporate ladder, Sloane. Hard work and talent are bullshit. Securing a powerful, wealthy man's backing and slipping into his bed is the only real survival tactic in this cutthroat environment. You cannot just let yourself go."

Sloane sighed, rubbing her temples to fend off an impending headache. "Then you make yourself look pretty. I seriously don't need this, Gemma."

Sloane had zero interest in playing office politics, chasing wealth, or spreading her legs for the new hotshot executive just to get ahead. Ever since college graduation, she had been banished to this dead-end, low-performing subsidiary by her vicious stepmother, Eleanor. The move was a calculated strike, specifically designed to keep her far away from the core Prescott Group family legacy. As the illegitimate daughter, the unwanted bastard, Sloane had spent years surviving by keeping her head down and doing her job quietly. Eleanor hated when she stood out, and Sloane had no intention of drawing unnecessary attention to herself.

Before Sloane could even power on her computer, Gemma grabbed her wrist. "We are going downstairs. Now."

"Gemma, no—"

"Yes. Everyone is waiting." Gemma dragged a reluctant Sloane out of the bullpen and toward the elevators.

Down in the ground floor lobby, the space was packed shoulder to shoulder. The air buzzed with nervous anticipation. Every employee stood at attention, craning their necks toward the glass entrance. Gemma ruthlessly elbowed her way through the frozen, awe-struck crowd, pulling Sloane right to the front row.

"We are way too close," Sloane muttered, trying to tug her arm free. She wanted to step back into the safety of the anonymous crowd, but the heavy glass doors slid open, and a hush fell over the lobby.

A fleet of black SUVs flanked a sleek, ultra-luxurious black Rolls-Royce, rolling to a smooth stop right outside the building. The dark tinted windows hid the occupants, building the suspense in the crowded room. Four burly bodyguards stepped out of the SUVs first, forming a tight perimeter on the pavement. Only then did the heavy car door of the Rolls-Royce swing open.

A man stepped out onto the pavement.

He was dressed in a razor-sharp, custom-tailored suit that hugged his broad, imposing shoulders perfectly. Even from a distance, the man radiated a dominant, primal alpha energy that instantly commanded submission from everyone in the room. He walked with the predatory grace of a king claiming his territory, surrounded by a dozen intimidating bodyguards.

Instinctively, Sloane lifted her gaze to see what the fuss was about.

The moment she saw his face, her breath caught in her throat. Her core clenched, a sharp, wet throb pulsing deep in her vagina.

Her eyes widened in shock. The flawlessly chiseled jaw. The intense, predatory features that had haunted her every waking moment since she left that clinic.

It was him.

The exact same doctor who had examined her naked, wet body at the hospital yesterday. The man whose broad hands had pushed her knees apart, whose gloved fingers had slid deep inside her slick cunt, feeling the frantic, shameful contractions of her hyperaroused flesh. He was the undeniable star of her filthy, sleepless masturbation fantasies just hours ago. After witnessing Declan's betrayal, she had retreated to her own bed, spending the entire night touching her clitoris, imagining Vaughn's deep voice commanding her to behave as he spread her thighs wide.

And now, that same man was standing ten feet away from her in a tailored suit.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. 'How the hell is this possible? Isn't he a doctor?'

As he walked past the line of frozen employees, the man slowly turned his head.

His dark, piercing gaze locked directly onto hers.

For a few agonizing, electrically charged seconds, the rest of the crowded room vanished. The buzzing whispers, the glaring lights, the dozens of people pressing in on her—it all faded into nothing. There was only him, and the burning memory of his fingers inside her vagina. A heavy, undeniable wave of inappropriate sexual tension crashed over her, leaving her breathless and trembling.

Then, he coldly and smoothly looked away.

He broke the stare without a single flicker of recognition, turning his attention forward. He acted as if she were nothing more than a nameless stranger. The sheer indifference in his posture was like a bucket of ice water to her heated skin.

The employees around her snapped out of their collective trance, a chorus of voices echoing through the lobby. "Good morning, Mr. Kincaid."

Watching his broad, muscular back disappear into the private executive elevator, Sloane felt her stomach drop.

She broke away from Gemma's grip and bolted for the nearest women's bathroom.

Bursting through the heavy wooden door, Sloane rushed to the sinks. She cranked the faucet, turning it to the coldest setting, and splashed the freezing tap water on her flushed face. The cold shock helped ground her, but her hands were still shaking as she gripped the wet edges of the porcelain sink.

She stared at her pale reflection in the mirror, watching a bead of cold water drip from her chin down to her collarbone. Her chest heaved with shallow, erratic breaths.

She leaned heavily against the sink, closing her eyes. "It wasn't him," she whispered to herself, her voice trembling in the empty tiled room. "It couldn't be him. It's just a hyperaroused hallucination. I didn't sleep at all last night. I'm just projecting my fantasies onto the new boss."

She prayed to God that she was just losing her mind. Maybe this billionaire CEO just happened to be a dead ringer for the insanely hot doctor. They had to be two totally different guys.

Taking a deep, ragged breath, Sloane dried her face with a paper towel and forced herself to walk back out to the bullpen.

But the moment she returned to her desk, the frantic office gossip shattered her naive hopes.

The floor was alive with the buzzing voices of her coworkers. They huddled around cubicles like a pack of starving wolves, excitedly whispering the latest details about the man who had just walked through the doors.

"Did you hear?" a woman from accounting leaned over the partition, her voice dripping with awe. "His name is Vaughn Kincaid. The guy is a literal genius. He holds prestigious dual master's degrees in Medicine and Finance."

"Medicine?" Gemma asked, her eyes widening.

"Yeah," the coworker confirmed. "And get this—his mother is the respected Chief of Staff at St. Michael's Hospital. Word is he was originally supposed to take over the medical side of his family's empire. God knows why he suddenly decided to drop in and run our corporate office instead."

Sloane froze in her chair. Her blood turned to ice.

St. Michael's Hospital.

That was the precise, upscale clinic where she had undergone her humiliating, arousing vaginal exam yesterday. The cold stirrups. The glaring overhead lights. The firm pressure of his fingers exploring her wetness.

Her fingers gripped the edge of her desk so hard her knuckles turned stark white. It really was him. The man who had touched her bare skin, who knew the most intimate, embarrassing medical secrets of her hyperactive libido, was now her ultimate boss. Dr. Vaughn Kincaid. The same man who had stared down at her spread legs with clinical precision, noting the excessive wetness leaking from her vagina.

A wave of paralyzing panic washed over her, mixing with that undeniable, forbidden sexual tension that she couldn't suppress. He knew exactly what she looked like naked. He knew exactly how her body reacted to a man's touch.

'Okay, calm down,' Sloane frantically assured herself, desperate to rationalize the living nightmare she had just stumbled into. She took another deep breath, trying to steady her racing pulse.

'He is the CEO. The top of the food chain in this massive building. I am just a lowly, bottom-tier clerk stuck in the corner of a dead-end subsidiary. Our paths will literally never cross.'

She nodded to herself, finding a tiny sliver of comfort in her own logic. She could just hide in the background. She would bury herself in paperwork, eat lunch at her desk, and avoid the executive floors like the plague. There was no reason for a billionaire CEO to ever interact with a low-level employee like her. She would remain invisible, just as Eleanor had always wanted.

Barely a single second after she completed that comforting thought, a heavy thud echoed through the quiet space around her desk.

Her slimy manager, Gavin Thorne, marched over to her cubicle and slapped a thick manila file against the partition. The sharp, aggressive sound silenced the entire floor. Every conversation abruptly stopped, and dozens of heads snapped in her direction.

Gavin stood towering over her, his lips curled into a tight, vicious sneer. His eyes were wide, a mix of disbelief and malicious joy dancing in his gaze. He had spent two years trying to find an excuse to fire her on Eleanor's orders, and now he looked like he had just struck gold.

"Sloane," Gavin barked loudly, ensuring everyone on the floor could hear him. "The boss wants you in his private penthouse office. Right now."

Sloane felt her breath leave her lungs in a single, painful rush. Her vision blurred at the edges.

The entire bullpen stared at her in pure shock. A low-level clerk being summoned directly by the new CEO on his very first day? It was unheard of. It defied every unwritten rule of corporate hierarchy. It meant she had either done something catastrophically wrong, or something much more complicated and terrifying was happening.

Trembling from head to toe as her heart plummeted into her stomach, Sloane sucked in a ragged, panicked breath.

She looked at the manila file Gavin had slammed down, tracing the sharp edges of the paper, then looked up at his expectant, hostile face.

There was no mistake. Vaughn Kincaid had specifically asked for her.

Accepting her terrifying fate, she slowly stood up from her rolling chair. Her legs felt like lead, her knees threatening to buckle under the weight of her paralyzing panic. The throbbing ache between her thighs flared up again, a sharp, inappropriate spike of wet arousal betraying her fear. She squeezed her thighs together, praying no one could see how visibly shaken she was.

She truly could not escape him.