The city was a constellation below us, and I was the only star she could see.
I’d designed the office myself. Floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides, glass desk positioned to catch the sunset, minimalist furniture that cost more than most people’s cars. It was a throne room disguised as a workspace. A cage disguised as a corner office.
I’d been watching Lily Chen for three months. Since her first day, when she’d walked into the orientation with a resume that was too good for her position and a skirt that was exactly the right length to make me notice. Since the first staff meeting, where she’d challenged my projections with data that was impeccable and eyes that were terrified and completely captivating.
Since the night I found her working at 10 PM, alone, her blouse unbuttoned one button too many because the building’s AC was broken and she didn’t know I was still there.
“You’ve been working late, Miss Chen,” I said tonight, leaning against my desk with my arms crossed. The city sprawled behind me—47 floors down, millions of lights, millions of people who would never know what happened in this room. “Three nights this week.”
She nodded. Clutched the quarterly report to her chest like a shield, like armor, like something that could protect her from what we both knew was coming. Her white blouse was crisp. Her black skirt was appropriate, hitting exactly at the knee. But her cheeks were flushed, and I’d noticed—I’d been noticing for weeks—that she wasn’t wearing tights anymore. Hadn’t been for two weeks. Not since the night I’d “accidentally” brushed her thigh in the elevator and she’d made a sound that she tried to cover with a cough.
I walked around the desk. Slow. Deliberate. My heels clicking against the marble—a sound that made her shoulders tense, made her breath hitch, made her grip the report tighter.
I stopped close. Took the folder from her hands. Set it on the glass surface behind me, where it would be forgotten, where nothing mattered except the space between us that was shrinking with every second.
“Or are you waiting for something?” I whispered. My mouth was near her ear. I could smell her shampoo—something cheap, something from the drugstore, something that made my mouth water because it reminded me of before, of when I was hungry and desperate and completely at someone’s mercy. “Someone?”
Her eyes widened. Her knees buckled slightly—just a tremor, just a moment of weakness that she tried to hide by catching herself on the edge of my desk. Her hand brushed my thigh. She didn’t pull away.
“The glass,” she breathed. Her voice was barely audible. “People can see. From other buildings. From the street. If they look up—”
“Let them watch,” I said.
And I pushed her back against the window.
The glass was cold against her spine, a shocking contrast to the heat that was radiating from both of us. The city was below—taxis and buses and people who would never look up, never see, never know that 47 floors above them, something was happening that would destroy careers and build empires.
My hand found her blouse. Undid the buttons with a speed that spoke of weeks of imagining this moment. Her bra was white. Simple. The kind that said she hadn’t expected this, hadn’t prepared for it, had simply hoped.
I pushed the fabric aside. My mouth found her collarbone, her throat, the exact spot where her pulse was hammering. She made a sound—soft, desperate, completely unprofessional—and her hands flew to my hair, pulling me closer, begging me silently to continue.
The door opened.
We both froze. The cleaning crew—two women in gray uniforms, pushing a cart with supplies. They stopped. Stared. Took in the scene—me, fully dressed, my hand inside Lily’s blouse, her back against the glass, her skirt riding up, the city watching from below.
I didn’t pull away. I just turned my head. Looked at them. And smiled.
“Night shift,” I said, my voice steady, commanding, completely unashamed. “She’s working overtime. Please continue to the next office.”
They left. The door clicked shut. Lily was trembling, her eyes wide, her face flushed with a mixture of terror and arousal that was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
“Call me by my title,” I whispered, my hand sliding down her stomach, finding the edge of her skirt. “Right now. While they’re still in the hallway. Let them hear.”
“Ms.—Ms. Sterling,” she gasped, her voice breaking as my fingers found her.
“Louder,” I commanded.
“Ms. Sterling!” she cried out, her head falling back against the glass, her body arching into my touch.
The cleaning cart rattled past the door. They heard. They knew. And tomorrow, the entire building would know—whispered in elevators, hinted at in break rooms, the story of the CEO and the analyst who worked late on the 47th floor.
I made her come against the glass. Made her scream my title until her voice was hoarse. Made her promise to work overtime every night for the rest of her career.
She’s in my office now. Permanently. Her desk is outside my door, but she spends most of her day inside. On the couch. On the floor. Against the glass.
The quarterly reports are always late now. But the company’s never been more profitable.
Some investments pay off in ways that don’t show up on spreadsheets.
