“Harper! Please. I finally landed this absolute unicorn of a job. Just cut your hair and go for me!” “We’re identical twins, Harp. Literally the exact same face!” My brother, Hudson, clutched his heavily casted leg on the hospital bed, blubbering like an oversized, pathetic golden retriever. I gave him a cold, flat stare. “Not happening. I just quit my toxic agency job, and I am actively entering my soft life era.” “I’ll give you the entire ten-grand-a-month salary! Plus my custom-built, liquid-cooled gaming rig!” I paused. My eyes drifted to the mirror, taking in the long, waist-length waves I’d spent two years growing out. Slowly, silently, I picked up the styling shears. Look, for that kind of cash, dignity is negotiable. How hard could it be to strap down my chest, throw on a Brooks Brothers suit, and pretend to be a guy for a few weeks? I, Harper Hayes, was nothing if not adaptable. As long as I kept my head down, did the work, and remained a perfectly invisible corporate drone, I could ride this out until his femur healed, take the money, and vanish into the sunset. It was a flawless plan. Until my very first morning, when I tripped in the middle of the executive lobby, tackled the notoriously ruthless billionaire CEO to the marble floor in front of the entire company, and planted a dead-center, high-impact kiss right on his mouth. 1 “Boss, if I told you that was just a very passionate, modern corporate greeting, would you believe me?” I scrambled off him, my limbs flailing as I tried to salvage whatever was left of my brother’s career. “What department are you in? You’re fired.” Roman Brooks stood up, his face a thundercloud of pure, unadulterated rage. He was already ripping a sanitizing wipe from a dispenser on the security desk, scrubbing at his lips so hard I thought he might draw blood. Fired? Absolutely not. My ten grand! My gaming rig! Without a second thought, I dropped to my knees and threw my arms around his tailored Tom Ford trousers, hugging his thigh for dear life. “Mr. Brooks! Please! I have an eighty-year-old mother who needs medication, and a starving dog at home! I cannot lose this job!” Roman’s face turned a shade of glacial blue. He tried to yank his leg away, but I locked my grip. I was a barnacle. He was the ship. “Let. Go.” “Not until you take it back! I’ll be your corporate pack mule! I’ll scrub the toilets! Anything!” A vein pulsed visibly at Roman’s temple. Through gritted teeth, he shot a lethal glare at his Chief of Staff standing nearby. “Elias. Who the hell is this?” Elias wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. “Sir, this is Hudson Hayes. Your new executive secretarial assistant. He started today.” Roman looked down at me. If looks could physically sever limbs, I would be in pieces. “Fine. Hudson, is it? Go scrub every single men’s restroom in this building, from the lobby to the thirtieth floor. Now.” My eyes went wide. Ten grand a month. An absolute unicorn of a job. And my first assignment was toilet duty. I marched toward the janitorial closet, teeth grinding so hard my jaw ached, mentally cursing Hudson to the deepest pits of hell. Three hours later, I was squatting in a stall on the thirtieth floor, clutching a toilet brush, deeply questioning my life choices. My lower back was screaming. Suddenly, the heavy oak door creaked open. Footsteps echoed against the tile. Roman walked in, followed by Elias. I immediately ducked my head, scrubbing the porcelain with the manic intensity of a seasoned convict. “Hayes. Are they clean?” Roman’s voice was like ice water down my spine. “Immaculate, Mr. Brooks. You could eat a five-course meal right off the bowl.” Roman ignored me, stepping up to the urinal and unzipping his slacks. I squeezed my eyes shut, mortified. “Why are your eyes closed?” The chill in his tone sharpened. Because I’m a woman, you psychopath! I don’t want to see your junk! “Just out of profound respect for your intimidating presence, sir. I feared looking might induce a deep sense of masculine inadequacy,” I babbled, saying the first insane thing that came to mind. Roman let out a low, derisive scoff. The sound of running water echoed in the quiet bathroom. I thought I’d survived, but after he washed his hands, he didn’t leave. Instead, he walked right up to me, his dark eyes narrowing as they locked onto my chest. “You’re completely lacking in height, yet your pectorals are bizarrely prominent. Your buttons are practically screaming for mercy.” My stomach dropped into my shoes. I was wearing a heavy-duty chest binder, but Hudson’s spare dress shirt was definitely pulling tight across my bust. “I, uh… I hit the bench press really hard this weekend, sir. Swollen pecs. Huge gains.” Roman’s eyes darkened with skepticism. Without warning, he reached out, a single finger extending to poke me directly in the chest. Panic seized my throat. I recoiled violently, my heel slipping on a puddle of soapy water. I threw my arms out as I tipped backward. Roman’s reflexes kicked in—he grabbed my wrist to steady me, but my momentum was too much. With a deafening crash, we both went down. He landed flush against me, pinning me to the wet tiles. My face was buried directly in his very real, very solid chest. “Hudson Hayes!” His roar bounced off the subway tile, rattling my eardrums. “Sir, you grabbed me! I am a victim of physics!” I yelled back, terrified and out of breath. “Half a month’s pay. Gone.” He spat the words out, scrambling off me as if I were radioactive, and stormed out of the bathroom. I lay on the cold, wet floor, staring at the fluorescent lights, wanting to cry. What kind of twisted nightmare was this? For the next month, Roman Brooks made it his personal mission to break me. 2 I hadn’t been at my desk for five minutes before the intercom buzzed. It sounded less like a phone and more like a death knell. “I want a pour-over. Single-origin Ethiopian beans. High altitude. Water temperature at precisely 186 degrees.” I rolled my eyes at the blinking red light. Why don’t you just drink morning dew collected by elves, you absolute tyrant. I marched into the executive pantry, armed myself with a digital thermometer, and brewed the damn coffee. I carried it into his cavernous, glass-walled office. Roman didn’t even glance up from his tablet. He took a sip. “Too hot. Scalds the tongue. Do it again.” I swallowed the urge to dump the ceramic mug over his impeccably styled hair. I took it back. Second cup. “The grind was uneven. I can taste the over-extraction. Again.” Third cup. “You let it bloom ten seconds too long. It’s bitter. Again.” For the entire morning, I was a hamster on a wheel, running between the pantry and his desk nine separate times. By the tenth time I stood in the kitchen, staring at the steaming mug, a dark, villainous laugh bubbled up in my throat. You want to play games, Brooks? Let’s play. I reached into my bag and pulled out a small glass vial of concentrated wheatgrass, spirulina, and cayenne pepper extract I used for detoxing. It looked like swamp water and tasted like battery acid. I unscrewed the cap and dumped half the vial into the dark roast. To mask the lethal smell, I stirred in three raw sugar cubes. Wearing my best customer-service smile, I carried the toxic sludge into his office. “Your perfect cup, Mr. Brooks. Please, enjoy.” Roman took the mug, brought it to his lips, and took a generous gulp. I watched in quiet fascination as his complexion shifted through a beautiful spectrum of colors—flushed pink, sickly green, and finally, a terrifying, mottled purple. He spat it out, choking, coughing, and scrambling out of his leather chair as he bolted for his private en-suite bathroom. The sound of violent dry-heaving echoed through the open door. I stood there, blinking innocently. When he finally emerged, leaning heavily against the doorframe, his eyes were bloodshot and murderous. “Hayes! What the hell did you put in that?” “Just a holistic wellness blend, sir,” I said, my voice practically dripping with concern. “You’ve seemed a bit stressed lately. It’s an organic, cold-pressed detoxifier. Great for the gut. Even better for male vitality.” “I am docking your entire performance bonus for the month!” he rasped, gripping the collar of his shirt. “You’re staying here tonight. You’re going to audit the last ten years of expense reports for the entire C-suite. And you are not leaving this building until it’s done.” I bowed my head submissively, internally calculating how I was going to extort this lost bonus money out of Hudson. By 11:00 PM, the executive floor was a graveyard. The only light was the glow of my monitor. Roman’s office door was cracked open. He was absolutely still in there, waiting for me to crack, relishing the sight of my suffering. The stack of expense reports was a mountain. Worse, the building’s HVAC system had switched to its overnight cycle. It was blowing stale, lukewarm air. No AC. Sweat prickled at my hairline. I was boiling in the stiff button-down and the suffocating chest binder beneath it. Figuring I was the only one out here, I unfastened the top two buttons of my shirt, letting the air hit my collarbones. I slipped a portable neck massager around my shoulders, popped in my AirPods, and blasted a true-crime podcast to keep myself awake. I was deep in the zone when a shadow suddenly fell across my desk. I pulled out an earbud and blinked up slowly. Roman was standing right in front of my desk. His eyes weren’t on my face. They were locked, with alarming intensity, on the open V of my collar. I glanced down. Oh, god. The thick, beige elastic edge of my chest binder was clearly visible. I slapped a hand over my chest, violently yanking the neck massager off, and shot out of my chair. “Mr. Brooks!” I gasped. “You—you can’t just stare at a male subordinate like that!” Roman’s gaze snapped up to my face. His expression was freezing cold, but there was a strange tension in his jaw. My fingers fumbled as I frantically tried to re-button my shirt. My brain went into overdrive. “Look, I know I’m on the slender side, and maybe I have a… delicate bone structure,” I babbled, holding a massive binder of expense reports over my chest like a shield. “But that is no excuse for you to be late-night lurking over my clavicles.” His left eyelid gave a microscopic twitch. I didn’t give him a second to speak. “And for the record, this isn’t what you think it is.” Roman finally broke his silence. His voice was incredibly low, a rough gravel sound. “And what exactly do I think it is?” I choked for a fraction of a second before doubling down. “It’s a men’s orthopedic posture-correction vest.” He stared at me in dead silence. I kept shoveling the dirt. “I have severe lumbar lordosis. My chiropractor says if I don’t wear the structural support garment, my spine will eventually curve until I resemble a cocktail shrimp.” Roman’s eyes drifted back down to my chest. My scalp prickled with nervous heat. I had to keep talking to fill the terrifying quiet. “Of course, if corporate policy explicitly forbids male employees from pursuing spinal alignment, I can strip it off right now. But if the board hears that the CEO is forcing his male assistants to undress in the dark after midnight… well, the optics aren’t great.” 3 Something shifted in Roman’s expression. He stared at me for three long, agonizing seconds, opening his mouth as if to say something, before his jaw snapped shut. Without a single word, he turned on his heel and walked back into his office, shutting the door. I collapsed into my ergonomic chair, letting out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since I took the job. Too close. Surprisingly, Roman didn’t make my life a living hell the next day. But the relief was short-lived. That afternoon, Elias dropped a bomb in the executive team’s Slack channel. Team, as a reward for Q2’s incredible margins, Mr. Brooks will be personally hosting a mandatory departmental retreat this Friday at the Aspen Springs Wellness Retreat. The chat exploded with party parrot emojis. I stared at the words Wellness Retreat and broke out in a cold sweat. Aspen Springs meant hot springs. Pools. Saunas. If I had to strip down to swim trunks, the gig was up instantly. Roman stepped out of his office. He slipped his hands into his tailored pockets, his eyes cutting straight through the bullpen to lock onto me. “Hayes. This retreat is mandatory for all executive staff. Anyone who no-shows is terminated on the spot.” Friday afternoon, Aspen Springs. The outdoor geothermal pools were steaming in the crisp mountain air. The rest of the staff were already in their swimsuits, lounging with drinks. Roman was sitting at the edge of the main pool, wearing nothing but a white towel slung low around his waist. He looked like an underwear model—lean, broad-shouldered, with eight-pack abs that looked carved out of marble. But his eyes were fixed on the locker room doors. I shuffled out. I was wearing a full-body, UV-protective, long-sleeved neoprene surfer’s rash guard. Over that, I had layered a massive, baggy vintage band tee. I looked like a deep-sea diver who got lost on the way to a grunge concert. Roman scoffed, pushing himself up and walking toward me. “Hayes, what the hell are you wearing? Are you planning to salvage the Titanic? Take the shirt off.” I took a deep breath, molding my face into an expression of profound, tragic grief. “Sir, to be completely transparent with you, I cannot remove my clothing. Nor can I enter the water.” Roman crossed his arms, his biceps flexing. He looked highly amused. “Why? Hiding a dark secret?” “I have a severe, medically diagnosed phobia of water. And my spiritual healer specifically warned me that my rising sign is currently in a severe hydro-conflict.” My coworkers floating nearby fell completely silent, staring at me. “She said if I submerge in unpurified natural water, I will absorb toxic frequencies, suffer a spontaneous psychic break, and die instantly.” Roman’s teeth ground together audibly. “Hayes. Do you think I’m an idiot? You’re getting in the water today if I have to throw you in myself.” Before I could react, his hand shot out, grabbing the hem of my baggy T-shirt. “Take it off. I won’t say it again.” “No!” I gripped the fabric desperately. We began pulling back and forth right at the edge of the wet flagstone. My foot slipped on a patch of slick algae. I lost my balance, my flailing arm catching his shoulder, and we both tumbled backward into the deep end. The water swallowed us. I aspirated a lungful of chlorinated hot spring water, thrashing wildly as I kicked toward the surface. Roman’s arm hooked securely around my waist, hauling me up into the air. My coughing fit was violent, but it was eclipsed by the sudden, burning heat of his palm against the side of my waist. Through the wet, clinging fabric of the rash guard, his hand felt like a brand. I panicked, shoving him hard in the chest, and scrambled up the pool ladder like a drenched rat. I stood on the deck, shivering. The oversized T-shirt was now plastered to my skin. Even with the heavy chest binder, the subtle curve of my waist and hips was suddenly, glaringly obvious. Roman stayed in the water. He didn’t yell. He didn’t threaten to dock my pay. He just floated there, staring up at my dripping silhouette, his dark eyes turning unreadable and dangerously deep. He didn’t force me back into the water that day. But after we returned to the city, everything changed. The torture stopped. The insane coffee demands stopped. Instead, he just started… watching me. All the time. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. During a Tuesday briefing, I was furiously typing up minutes. I glanced up and realized he wasn’t listening to the VP of Finance at all. His eyes were locked on my throat, staring exactly at the spot where my Adam’s apple should have been. I casually reached up and popped my collar, adjusting my tie to hide my neck. As soon as the meeting ended, Roman stood up and addressed the room. “Given the stress of the quarter, I’m implementing mandatory executive health screenings. I’ve brought in a concierge medical team today. Full biometrics, skeletal analysis, and precise bodily measurements for ergonomic seating.” Measurements? My blood ran cold. Roman slowly turned his head to look at me. “Hayes. You’re up first.” The temporary medical suite was set up in an empty boardroom. It was just me, Roman, and a mild-mannered male doctor wearing a stethoscope. The doctor held up a yellow tailor’s measuring tape and gave me a warm, professional smile. “Mr. Hayes, if you could just unbutton your shirt, I need to get an accurate chest circumference.” He stepped toward me. I backed up until my shoulder blades hit the drywall. I grabbed the lapels of my suit jacket and clutched them to my chest like a Victorian maiden. “Death before dishonor!” I shouted, channeling my inner patriot. “My body is a temple! Only my future wife gets VIP access to this! I am saving myself!” The doctor froze, completely bewildered. Roman let out a dark, frustrated sigh. He snatched the measuring tape out of the doctor’s hands and closed the distance between us with three long strides. “VIP access? In this company, I make the rules. I’ll measure you myself.” The doctor gasped softly, taking the hint, and quickly scurried out of the room, shutting the door tight behind him. We were completely alone. Roman stepped into my personal space. He leaned down slightly, his breathing shallow. The faint scent of bergamot and cedar washed over me. I could feel the heat radiating off his body, making the tips of my ears burn. He held an end of the tape in each hand and reached his arms around me, essentially pulling me into a phantom embrace as he looped the tape behind my back. “Chest out,” he murmured. I went completely rigid, holding my breath so tight my lungs burned. Thank God I double-wrapped the binder today. He pulled the tape taut across my chest. As he did, his knuckles brushed lightly, accidentally, against the center of my chest, right over my heart. I felt his hands stutter and freeze. “Hayes,” he whispered, his brow furrowing. “You have broad pecs, but… why are they so incredibly soft?” The confusion in his eyes was genuine. But we were so close—so dangerously close—that I could see a faint, creeping redness crawling up his neck. Before I could invent a lie about low muscle density, his hands slid lower, tracing the line of my ribs until the tape rested around my waist. I am incredibly, embarrassingly ticklish. The moment his thumbs pressed against my sides, my knees buckled. It was a pure reflex—I flinched, shrinking away from the sensation, which resulted in me stumbling directly forward, colliding flush against his chest. Our bodies pressed together, zero space between us. Roman inhaled sharply. I felt his Adam’s apple bob against my forehead. When he spoke, his voice was thick, edged with a raw, rough friction he didn’t even try to hide. “Why is your waist… so small?” His eyes were completely black now, heavy with an intensity that felt like he was trying to x-ray straight through my button-down. Slowly, deliberately, his gaze dropped lower. His hands, still holding the tape measure, began to slide down my hips, heading straight for my backside.
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