By the time I leave my apartment, I don't look anything like the girl who left the office hours earlier.
I slip into a black satin slip dress that skims my body instead of clinging to it, the fabric catching the light every time I move. The neckline dips just enough to draw the eye without begging for it, the thin straps resting lightly against my shoulders. The hem hits mid-thigh — high enough to make me aware of my legs when I walk, low enough that I don't feel exposed.
I pull on a cropped leather jacket, structured and sharp, the contrast grounding me. Soft against hard. Silk against edge. It makes me feel steady in my skin.
My heels aren't dramatic, just tall enough to change the way I carry myself, to shift my weight, to slow my steps. My hair falls loose, styled but effortless, framing my face in a way that feels more honest than polished. Makeup stays warm and deliberate — glowing skin, bronze shadows, lips glossy enough to catch the light.
When I check myself one last time before leaving, it isn't about approval.
It's about showing up as the version of myself I don't usually let out on a weeknight.
The bar is loud in the way only after-work places are—half celebration, half confession.
Low lighting. Sticky tables. The kind of music that's meant to fade into the background but never quite does. Kathy sits across from me in a fitted black top and a grin that says she's been waiting all day to talk.
"Please tell me you got here early so I don't feel like the unreliable one," she says.
"Barely," I answer, smiling. "I was about to order without you."
We settle in, as we scan the menu. The bartender drifts over, patient, expectant.
"Wine?" Kathy asks, already halfway convinced.
"I was thinking something stronger," I say, then pause.
She laughs. "So… a cocktail that looks harmless and isn't."
We order — something citrusy for her, something dark and slow for me — and only once the glasses land between us do we finally relax back into our seats. The night feels open now, like it's just beginning to lean toward us.
Kathy takes a sip first, then turns to me, eyes lighting up.
"Okay," she says, lifting her glass. "First day survived. That deserves a drink."
I clink mine against hers. "I don't think my nervous system agrees."
She laughs. "Give it time. Northbridge eats people alive for the first few weeks. Then you either adapt or disappear."
"Comforting."
"Oh, I'm just getting started," she says, eyes sparkling. "You want the tea?"
I hesitate for half a second. Then nod.
She leans in conspiratorially. "Rule number one: don't trust anyone who smiles too much. Rule number two: don't trust anyone who never smiles. Rule number three—avoid the litigation assistants on floor nineteen unless you like drama."
I laugh, warmth spreading through my chest.
"And Vivienne?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
Kathy groans. "Jesus. Yeah. She's… territorial. Brilliant attorney. Nightmare human. She's convinced every man within a five-mile radius is either hers or a threat."
My stomach tightens. "So, she and Julian—?"
Kathy snorts. "No. God, no. That's just her thing. She likes control. Julian doesn't give it to her, which makes her feral."
Relief flickers through me before I can stop it.
"Who is dating who?" I ask, changing the subject too quickly.
Kathy launches into it happily. Names. Affairs. Quiet divorces. Loud ones. Who to avoid alone. Who flirts harmlessly. Who flirts dangerously. I sip my drink slower than she does, but the alcohol still warms me, loosening something I didn't realize had been clenched all day.
By the time Kathy's boyfriend shows up—easy smile, familiar arm around her waist—I'm laughing more freely than I have in weeks.
Sooner than I realize it the night of laughter and drinks comes to an end.
"I'll walk your home," she offers, concerned. As her boyfriend is pulling at her arm insisting its time they go, I know why of course I'm not dumb liquor makes men horny I don't think I ever understood why.
"I'm fine," I insist. "Promise." I say with a smile as her boyfriend looked at me from behind her and mouthed the words "thank you"
I nodded my head in his direction as if to say, "your welcome." I may not be getting any tonight but why shouldn't she I thought with a smile.
She studies me, then nods. "Text me when you're in."
I decide to walk.
The city feels different now softened by streetlights and buzz and the quiet confidence of night. My heels click unevenly against the sidewalk, my balance just a little off. I think I might be a little tipsy. warm. Untethered.
I'm smiling to myself when a car slows beside me.
"Elena."
My heart jumps.
Julian leans out of the driver's seat, eyes scanning me in one slow sweep that makes heat bloom low in my stomach. His gaze flickers over the dress, my breasts pushed heavy against the thin silk of the dress, a mere blessing of what a pushup bra can do, and the more I filled my lungs with air the more obvious the movement of my exposed chest was to him.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
"I'm fine," I say too quickly. "Just walking."
He doesn't look convinced.
"Get in," he says gently. "I'll take you home."
I should refuse.
Instead, I reach over slowly trying not to stumble and I open the door.
The car smells like him—clean, warm, something that settles in my lungs and stays there. I give him my address and lean back, watching the city blur past the window, my thoughts slow and hazy.
When we arrive at my building, I struggle to catch myself as i get out of his car " Damn Heels" I say out loud. "Maybe i should help you" he says with a concerned look on his face. no one has ever looked at me like that before it was kind of sweet " just let me park the car" he says as I stand outside my building eagerly waiting for his return.
when he returns, he wraps his arm around my waist and my arm around his neck for support as he helps me inside.
Inside my building, the stairwell feels narrower than usual.
"I swear I'm not always this clumsy," I murmur, gripping the railing.
"I believe you," he says softly.
Halfway up the stairs, my foot slips.
He catches me instantly.
My body tipping into his. The satin slides against his shirt, the contact startling and intimate. I feel the heat of him through the thin fabric. I don't let go right away.
"Sorry," I whisper.
"It's okay," he says, but his voice is lower now. Rougher.
He gets me inside, helps me kick off my shoes. I take two steps toward the bed and wobble again, my balance gone completely.
We fall together as I accidentally pull him down with me.
The mattress dips beneath us, his body braced over mine, hands planted on either side of my shoulders as he freezes. The room goes quiet except for our breathing.
His eyes find mine.
Gold in the low light.
My fingers drift up to his jaw without permission. "You're really beautiful," I murmur.
His eyes drift down to my chest as my dress is now disheveled from having fallen over, he now has a clear view of a black lace push-up bra sitting to perfection, supporting every ounce of me, and his eyes move slowly back to mine.
"Elena," he says, warning threaded through my name.
I reach up and touch my lips to his.
In shock for half a second, he doesn't move.
His mouth is warm. Still. Shocked.
Then something in him breaks.
His hand slides to my waist, firm and instinctive, pulling me closer like gravity suddenly remembered us—the satin bunches under his fingers. I feel the tremor in his breath against my lips before I feel the kiss deepen.
It isn't gentle.
It's hungry in the way restraint always is when it finally snaps.
His mouth moves against mine, slow at first, like he's trying to convince himself he can stop. Like he's testing the shape of the mistake. My fingers curl into the fabric at his shoulders, dragging him closer, and the sound he makes is quiet but wrecked.
The kiss shifts.
Heat replaces hesitation.
I feel it everywhere — the weight of him braced above me, the rough edge of his breath, the way his hand tightens at my waist like he forgot he was supposed to be careful. My body arches without permission, chasing the warmth, and the world narrows to lips and pressure and the dizzy pull of wanting more than I should. As I part my lips, he casually slides his tongue in like he knows the territory almost as if he's mapped my mouth out before. pure ecstasy, his hands slowly slide from my waist and press my breasts as if he's been wanting to do that ever since he saw them wrapped and in a bow in that blue dress. The movement of his hands drives me insane with a rather indiscreet moan.
He kisses me like he's starving.
And then suddenly he stops.
Not gradually. Not gently.
He tears himself back like the air between us caught fire.
The warmth disappears so fast it leaves a cold space in its wake. He looks at me — and whatever was in his eyes a second ago is gone, locked behind something hard and controlled.
"I can't do this," he says.
The words land heavily. Final.
"I have to go."
Before I can respond, before my brain can even catch up to what just happened, he's on his feet. The room shifts with the sudden absence of him. The air feels thinner.
The door opens.
Closes.
Silence.
I stay exactly where I am, staring at the ceiling, my lips still tingling like the kiss is happening somewhere without me. My heart is racing, my body warm and confused and buzzing in a way I don't know how to turn off.
What just happened?
My mind scrambles for answers.
Did I do something wrong?
Did I push too far?
Oh my God — the sound I made.
Heat floods my face.
And then it hits me, sharp and humiliating.
Fuck.
He's, my boss.
What the hell was I thinking?
The realization crashes through me like cold water. My stomach twists. I pulled him closer like I forgot who he was, where we were, what tomorrow would look like.
Maybe the moan was too much. But I couldn't help it he's the one who grabbed me there, my body only responded. Maybe I grabbed him too hard. Maybe I looked desperate. My thoughts trip over each other, replaying the moment in broken fragments. His mouth. His hands. The way he pulled back like I'd crossed a line I didn't even see.
I press my palms to my eyes, trying to slow the spin of it.
Think.
Think.
But the room tilts slightly, the alcohol catching up to me in a heavy wave. My thoughts refuse to stay in a straight line. Every memory blurs at the edges, slipping away when I try to hold it still.
I'm too drunk for this.
I roll onto my side, the satin dress twisted around my legs, the smell of him still clinging to the sheets. My head is buzzing too loudly to untangle anything tonight. Whatever this was — a mistake, a moment, a catastrophe — it can wait until morning.
I curl in on myself without bothering to change, shoes kicked somewhere near the door, jacket half hanging off the edge of the bed. The ceiling spins once, slow and lazy.
My last thought before sleep takes me is simple, terrified, and small:
How the fuck am I supposed to face him tomorrow?
Darkness swallows the question before it can be answered.