In His Bed , In Her House

CHAPTER TWO - THE INTERVIEW THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING

I remember the first time I saw him.

It was late February — the kind of afternoon where the sun scorches every inch of your ambition before you even step into the building. My palms were sweating. My borrowed blouse clung to my back. The receptionist barely looked at me as she gestured toward the conference room.

I expected a woman. HR. Paperwork. Maybe a friendly smile to ease my nerves.

What I got instead was him.

Mike.

He stood as I entered, tall and tailored, with a gaze sharp enough to slice through pretence. A gold watch peeked from beneath his cuff, and his cologne hit before he spoke — bold, expensive, masculine.

“Neliswa,” he said, reading my name like it tasted good in his mouth. “Welcome.”

I swallowed. “Thank you for seeing me.”

I don’t remember most of the interview — only the way he looked at me like I was already his.

He asked about my experience, sure. But then he asked other things. Personal things. If I lived alone. If I cooked. If I had a boyfriend.

I laughed it off, too polite to call it out. Too intrigued to walk away.

By the end of that first meeting, I was flustered and foolishly flattered.

“You’ll hear from us soon,” he’d said, walking me to the door. His hand brushed the small of my back — light, intentional. “Very soon.”

I waited three days. Then a week. Nothing.

When I finally called HR, they said the position was still being finalized. That I’d been shortlisted. That they’d “be in touch.”

But he was already in touch.

On w******p.

At first, it was professional — check-ins, follow-ups. Then it shifted. He asked how my day was. If I was eating. If I was sleeping. If I was lonely.

“You didn’t hire me,” I messaged once, frustrated. “Was that whole interview just a game to you?”

He replied instantly.

Mike: “I didn’t forget you. I’m just… rethinking a few things.”

Me: “Like what?”

Mike: “Like whether you really need the job. Or if maybe you need something better.”

Me: “Like what?”

Mike: “Like me.”

That was the first time I should’ve blocked him.

But I didn’t.

Because part of me liked the attention. Liked the idea that someone like him — a man with status, power, a wife — saw me. Chose me.

He invited me to lunch the following week. I said no.

He asked again. I said no again.

But the third time, I didn’t answer.

He picked me up anyway.

I don’t know how he even knew where I lived.

The car pulled up outside my gate like it belonged there, like he belonged there.

He rolled down the window. “Just one hour. No strings.”

One hour turned into two.

Two turned into a bottle of wine and laughter that came too easily.

After that, he stopped pretending this was about work.

He stopped mentioning the job altogether.

“You don’t need a desk and a title to be valued,” he said once, while tucking my hair behind my ear. “Let me take care of you.”

I wanted to be angry. To remind him that I had pride. A plan. That I wasn’t some kept girl waiting to be rescued.

But then he’d smile at me, that dangerous smile, and all my convictions would melt at my feet.

He started sending gifts. Groceries delivered to my door. Airtime. A wristwatch — simple, elegant, but too expensive for someone who hadn’t even started the job she’d applied for.

“You’re not my employee,” he said. “You’re mine.”

I hated how much I liked that.

I started looking forward to his texts. The sound of his voice. The nights where we talked until I fell asleep with the phone pressed to my chest like a second heartbeat.

He was addictive.

And I was already hooked before I realized I’d swallowed the bait.

Then came the night everything changed.

He took me out for dinner. Some fancy hotel restaurant, the kind where the waiters wear gloves and the wine list has no prices.

He watched me all night like I was dessert.

But he didn’t touch me. Not once.

Not until we pulled up outside my house.

He parked but didn’t turn off the engine. The radio hummed low in the background. We sat in that warm silence, thick with everything unspoken.

“You’re too quiet,” he said finally, eyes on me.

“I’m thinking,” I replied.

“About?”

“Whether this is a mistake.”

He leaned closer. “It’s only a mistake if you think I’m going to walk away after this.”

I didn’t say anything. My body was already betraying me — heart racing, thighs clenched.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

But I didn’t.

He reached over slowly, fingertips grazing the hem of my skirt. My breath hitched as he slipped beneath the fabric, his knuckles brushing my skin like a question.

He found the answer between my thighs.

Soft. Wet. Willing.

I gasped — a sharp, involuntary sound — as his fingers moved with purpose. Stroking. Exploring. Claiming.

The windows fogged. My morals shattered.

I arched beneath his touch, my hands gripping the seat as he drove me higher, deeper, into something I couldn’t come back from.

“Look at me,” he murmured.

I did.

And I saw it — hunger, possession, and something that looked like love… or the closest thing to it he had left to give.

I shattered in his hand.

Body trembling. Eyes wide. Mouth open.

He didn’t kiss me.

He didn’t need to.

That touch was more intimate than any kiss could’ve been.

When he pulled away, he brought his fingers to his lips. Just for a second.

A silent vow. A filthy promise.

“Now,” he said quietly, “you’re mine.”

And that was how it began.

Not with a job.

Not with a contract.

But with a lie wrapped in lust. A finger traced across a fault line I didn’t know I had.

And I let it split me open.