Sleeping With the Boss

The clock read 11:30 PM when I heard the familiar ding of the private elevator. I looked up from Sophie's French homework, silk robe whispering against leather as I shifted on the sofa, watching the elevator doors slide open.

Adam stepped into the study, tie loosened, jacket over one arm. Even exhausted, he had this way of moving that made my pulse quicken—like he owned every room he entered.

His shirt was wrinkled, dark hair messed up from running his hands through it, but it only made him more attractive. Real. Human.

Those pale blue eyes found mine, and my stomach did that stupid flip it always did. Eighteen months, and I still wasn't immune to him.

"Sophie asleep?" he asked, dropping his jacket with the casual assumption that I'd deal with it later.

"Out like a light. She wants me to teach her churros tomorrow." I watched his gaze drift from my face to my collarbone where the robe had shifted.

"You're so good with her." His voice went low as he stepped closer. "What about being good to me?"

Our usual game. His fingers found the silk tie of my robe, and I let him pull it loose because this was what we did.

His hands were confident, hungry—mapping every curve like he was memorizing me all over again.

We fell onto the leather sofa in a tangle of silk and expensive cotton. The force of his kiss left me dizzy and desperate.

God, I was addicted to this man. To the way he touched me like he couldn't get enough.

Somewhere in the haze of passion, he carried me to the bedroom before laying me on the bed. His mouth was hot on my neck, my breast, a claiming that left my skin humming.

There was no hesitation when his fingers found my core, testing, finding me already wet for him. A low groan vibrated against my skin.

"Always ready," he muttered, a dark compliment that twisted something deep inside me.

He entered me in one smooth, devastating thrust that stole my breath. My back arched off the bed, a silent plea for more. He gave it. His rhythm was relentless, a piston-like drive that left no space for thought, only sensation.

Each snap of his hips was a demand, each grunt a raw sound that echoed in the dark room.

My nails dug into the muscles of his back, holding on as he pushed us both higher, faster. The air thickened with the scent of sex and his cologne.

He shifted, hooking an arm under my knee, opening me wider, going deeper. A broken cry escaped my lips.

He swallowed it with a kiss that was more possession than affection. The tension coiled, tight and unbearable, until it shattered, wave after wave of blinding pleasure pulling me under.

He followed with a final, shuddering thrust, his own release a sound against my neck.

In the heavy silence afterward, his body still heavy on mine, the bitter thought surfaced, sharp and cold amidst the fading heat: Is this just another transaction to him?

Adam's phone buzzed at 7:00 AM, jolting us both awake. I felt him tense beside me, his arm sliding away from my waist as he reached for the device.

"Markets open in an hour," he muttered, already scrolling through emails.

I stretched, hoping to catch his attention. "Stay a little longer?"

"Can't. Big day." He was already up, heading for the bathroom without looking back. "See you tonight."

The dismissal hit like a slap, but I'd learned not to show it. Instead, I slipped from the bed and began the familiar ritual—smoothing sheets, fluffing pillows, erasing any trace of what we'd done. Making it look like I'd never been here at all.

"Maya!" Sophie's voice called from the hallway.

Shit. I grabbed a robe from Adam's closet, taking a deep breath to force the lover away and let the tutor emerge. It was a switch I was getting tired of making.

"Come in, sweetie."

Sophie bounced through the door, blonde hair messy from sleep. "Did you sleep well? Your hair looks funny."

Heat flooded my cheeks. "Good morning to you too, sunshine. Go brush your teeth—we have French lessons today."

"Can we do the churros recipe in French?" She practically vibrated with excitement.

"Absolutely. Now go."

As she skipped away, I caught my reflection in Adam's mirror. Messy hair, swollen lips, guilty eyes. I looked like exactly what I was—the help who'd spent the night in her boss's bed.

The study room was bright with morning light, Sophie's artwork covering the walls. She sat at her desk, pencil hovering over her French workbook, completely focused.

"Très bien, Sophie. What does 'famille' mean?"

"Family!" She grinned, then her face grew serious. "Maya, will you always be with us? Like a real mommy?"

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I set down my coffee, scrambling for the right response. "I'll be here as long as you need me, sweetheart."

"But that's not the same thing." Those blue eyes—Adam's eyes—stared at me with uncomfortable intensity.

The study door opened before I could answer. Mrs. Patterson, the household manager, glided in with her usual efficiency, carrying a silver tea service.

"Miss Rodriguez," she said, my surname sharp as a blade, "Mr. Sterling needs you to review tonight's guest list. He expects everything to be... appropriate."

Translation: remember your place.

"Of course. Thank you, Mrs. Patterson."

Sophie looked between us, sensing tension she couldn't understand. "What's a dinner party?"

"Grown-up stuff. Let's get back to French."

But the moment had been poisoned. As Mrs. Patterson's heels clicked away, I felt those invisible chains tighten around my wrists again.

By 8:00 PM, the penthouse had transformed into a showcase of Manhattan elite. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over Wall Street's finest, mingling over catered cuisine and vintage wine.

I moved through the crowd like a ghost, refilling glasses, invisible in my role as "Sophie's tutor."

Adam commanded the room effortlessly, but it was his interaction with Victoria that made my chest tighten. She was everything I wasn't—tall, blonde, elegant with old money grace. The art dealer had Adam's complete attention as she leaned in close, whispering something that made him smile.

"Adam, your daughter is absolutely brilliant," Victoria was saying when I approached to refill her wine. "She must have an incredible mother figure guiding her."

I froze, bottle hovering over her glass.

Adam's eyes flicked to me briefly. "Sophie's tutor is very professional. Maya, could you help with the appetizers?"

"Of course, Mr. Sterling." The words turned to dust in my mouth.

Victoria didn't even glance my way. To her, I was furniture—functional but forgettable.

As I retreated to the kitchen, their conversation continued about exclusive boarding schools and Hamptons summers—rich people problems I'd never have to worry about.

"Just the help," I reminded myself bitterly. "Nothing more."

By the time the last guest left, I found myself in Adam's walk-in closet, hanging up the charcoal Armani suit he'd carelessly draped over a chair.

It was a habit I'd developed without thinking—tidying up after him like we were a real couple. As I reached for a hanger, I automatically checked the pockets.

My fingers closed around a boarding pass.

LAX to JFK. Last Tuesday.

My heart stopped. Los Angeles. Where Caroline lived.

The paper shook in my hands. While I'd been here teaching Sophie French and making churros, he'd been three thousand miles away with his ex-wife.

"Maya?"

I spun around. Adam stood in the doorway, towel around his waist, water still beading on his chest. His eyes found the boarding pass immediately.

"You went to Los Angeles last week?" My voice barely worked.

His expression shifted from surprise to something guarded. "Maya..."

"You went to see her. Caroline."

We stared at each other across his closet—him half-naked and caught, me fully clothed but feeling raw.

"This has nothing to do with our arrangement," he said coldly. "I don't need to report my whereabouts to anyone."

Arrangement. That goddamn word again.

"You're right." I shoved the boarding pass back into his suit pocket. "You don't need to report to anyone. Because I'm just another service you pay for, aren't I? Like your driver, your chef, your—"

"Maya—"

"Does she know I exist?" The words exploded from me. "When you were in LA with Caroline, did you tell her whose bed you'd be in when you got home?"

His face turned glacial. "Watch what you say."

"Or what? You'll fire me?" I laughed, and it sounded unhinged. "Maybe that would be better."

I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me: "Don't do something you'll regret."

I froze without turning around. "The only thing I regret is wasting eighteen months believing you saw me as a person."

I slammed the door, locking him out.

Back in my own room—the one I'd been foolish enough to think of as "ours"—I stared at myself in the mirror. Expensive silk nightgown, swollen lips, bloodshot eyes. A woman who looked like she belonged here.

But I didn't. I never had.

I pulled open the drawer and grabbed the old passport I'd hidden beneath folded sweaters.

It was time to remember who Maya Rodriguez was—the woman who existed before Adam Sterling.