In Love With My Boss

IN LOVE WITH MY BOSS -: The Coffee Spill Tera needed $10,000 in seven days or her mother would die. The hospital bill in her bag felt like a stone. ₦15,000,000. Fifteen million naira. The nurse had said it so casually this morning — "Pay in seven days or we discharge her." Discharge meant death. Her mother couldn't breathe without the machine. And Tera had exactly ₦2,300 in her account. So when the email came — "Knight Group, Final Interview, 9AM, 45th Floor" — she ran. She didn't have transport. She ran in her only good black skirt, white shirt she ironed at 5AM, hair in a low ponytail, CV shaking in her hands. Knight Group Tower. Glass and steel that touched the clouds. Abuja's most feared company. And its CEO, Xavier Knight, was the most feared man inside it. They said he fired three assistants last month. One cried. One threw a file at him. One — rumor — tried to kiss him and he had security carry her out. Tera didn't want to kiss him. She wanted to not die of hunger. "Name?" The receptionist didn't look up. "Tera. Tera — interview for Executive Assistant to Mr. Knight." The receptionist finally looked. Then smirked. "45th floor. Good luck. You'll need it." The elevator was glass. Tera watched Abuja get smaller. Her hands shook. The coffee — she had bought one coffee with her last ₦1,500, because the email said "Don't be late, bring coffee, black, no sugar, exactly 90 degrees" — who drinks coffee at 90 degrees? A madman. A billionaire madman. The elevator dinged. 45th floor. Silent. Black marble floor, black walls, one desk, one door. And a man standing at the door. Xavier Knight. Tera's breath stopped. He was not a man. He was a storm in a suit. 6'4, black suit tailored to his body, white shirt open at the throat, black tie loose, sleeves rolled up to his forearms — forearms that were corded, veined, strong. Hair black, slightly messy, as if he had run his hands through it. Face — sharp jaw, straight nose, mouth that was beautiful and cruel at once. And eyes — grey, storm grey, that looked at her like she was already a mistake. He was holding a phone. "No. I said no. Fire them. All of them." He ended the call without goodbye. Then his storm eyes landed on her. "You are late. By four minutes." His voice was low, deep, the kind that made your stomach drop. Tera swallowed. "I — traffic — I'm Tera, I'm here for —" "I know who you are." He stepped closer. He smelled like expensive cologne and rain and something darker — power. "You are the girl with first class degree who has applied to 47 jobs in 3 months and got zero. Your mother is in National Hospital, ICU, bill due in seven days. You have ₦2,300 left. And you bought coffee with your last money." Tera froze. How — how did he know? "I know everything about people who want to work for me, Miss Tera." He was right in front of her now. She had to tilt her head up to look at him. He was so close she could see the tiny scar on his lower lip. "And you brought me coffee." He looked at the coffee in her shaking hand. "It's — black, no sugar, 90 degrees —" she stammered. He took it. His fingers brushed hers. Electric. Hot. Stormy. He sipped. One sip. Then his face twisted. "This is 85 degrees." Tera's heart stopped. "What?" "It's 85 degrees. Not 90. Do you know what happens to people who can't follow a simple instruction in my company, Miss Tera?" She couldn't speak. Her mother's face flashed — pale, machine beeping. "I — I can — I can get another —" "No." He put the coffee down on the black desk. Then he did something she did not expect. He stepped closer. One step. The space between them disappeared. Her back hit the black wall. Cold marble against her hot skin. "You want this job, Miss Tera?" His voice dropped, low, right against her ear. His hand — large, hot — came up and rested on the wall beside her head, caging her. Not touching her, but she was trapped. "Say it." "I — I need —" "Say 'I want this job, Mr. Knight.'" Her lips shook. "I want this job, Mr. Knight." "Louder." "I want this job, Mr. Knight!" His storm grey eyes searched hers. Then — down to her mouth. Her lips were chapped. She had bitten them all morning. He stared at her mouth for a second too long. The air turned thick, stormy. Tera's chest rose and fell fast. Her white shirt — too tight, old — rose with it. Xavier's jaw clenched. A muscle ticked. "You have seven days to pay your mother's bill, Miss Tera." His voice was rough now. "I can pay it today. Right now. Fifteen million. Plus fifty thousand dollars for you." Tera's eyes widened. "What — why —" "Because I need a fake fiancée. For 90 days. My father died and left a clause — I must be engaged to inherit Knight Group. The board meets in 7 days. I need a woman who is not a gold digger, not from my circle, not in love with me. You are perfect. You are desperate." Desperate. The word burned. But it was true. "Be my fake fiancée. Live in my penthouse. Attend dinners with me. Let me kiss you when people are watching." His eyes dropped to her mouth again. "And... other times when I need to make it believable." Tera's breath hitched. "Kiss —" "Real kissing, Miss Tera." He leaned in, his mouth now inches from hers. She could feel his breath — coffee, mint, storm. "Do you know how to kiss for real? Or do I need to teach you?" She should slap him. She should say no. She should run. But her mother was dying in 7 days. And his mouth was so close. So close she could see how soft his lower lip was, despite his cruel face. So close that if she breathed, they would touch. "I — I know how to —" she whispered. "Show me." It was a command. Not a question. Tera's hands fisted her skirt. Her heart was a drum. She had kissed — once, twice, school — but never like this. Never caged by a billionaire storm who could buy her life with one check. Xavier's other hand came up — slow, giving her time to say no — and cupped her jaw. His palm was hot, rough. He tilted her face up. "Last chance to say no, Tera. Because if you say yes, you are mine for 90 days. My contract says so." She looked into his storm grey eyes. And she saw — not cold. Something else. Something hot, desperate, like hers. "Yes," she whispered. He kissed her. Not soft. Not sweet. Stormy. Real. Possessive. His mouth crashed onto hers, hot, demanding, his hand tightening on her jaw, his body pressing her into the cold black wall. He tasted like black coffee and sin. He kissed like a man who had been waiting — like he had seen her CV weeks ago and waited for this moment. Tera gasped. He took the gasp into his mouth, tongue brushing hers, deep, real kissing, the kind that makes your knees weak. She had never been kissed like this — like she was being claimed, consumed, owned. Her hands — without permission — came up and grabbed his black suit, fisting it, pulling him closer. A tiny moan escaped her throat. Stormy stuff. Real stuff. Xavier growled — low, in his throat — and deepened the kiss, one hand sliding down to her waist, pulling her soft body into his hard one. She felt everything — his chest, his stomach, his — He broke the kiss, breathing hard, forehead against hers. Both shaking. "That," he whispered, voice wrecked, storm grey eyes black now, "was 90 degrees, Miss Tera. Perfect." He let her go, stepped back, straightened his suit like nothing happened, but his hands were shaking. "Contract is on my desk. Clause 9 — you will share my bed, my penthouse, and bear my heir if needed. Read it. Sign it. You start now." Tera stood against the wall, lips swollen, knees weak, mother's hospital bill in her bag, and a billionaire boss who just kissed her like a storm and offered to buy her life. She picked up the pen. ---