Rainbows

Divided Attention

The air inside Angels was always kept at a precise, crisp temperature, but on this Tuesday morning, the atmosphere on the executive penthouse floor was on the verge of sub-zero.

Alessia Carter leaned back in her high-backed, designer-leather chair, her piercing blue eyes narrowed into a look of pure, unfiltered annoyance. Sitting directly on the edge of her expansive desk was Roxie.

Roxie wore a sleek, body-con dress that cut entirely too low for an office environment, and she was trying to seduce her way out of a massive corporate blunder. With a soft, practiced pout, Roxie leaned forward, extending a manicured hand to delicately touch Alessia’s cheek. She smiled sweetly, letting her long, straight brown hair fall over her shoulder. "Why are you still mad at me, babe?" She cooed, her voice dripping with syrupy innocence. "I swear I just forgot."

With sharp, dismissive movement, Alessia swatted Roxie’s hand off her face. "How could you possibly just forget, Roxie?" Alessia demanded, her voice low, cold, and vibrating with suppressed fury. "You sent those massive international distribution documents out to our European partners without getting my signature on them first. Without my signature. And you sit there and say you forgot? Why then are you my personal assistant if you can’t get a fundamental task like this right?"

Instead of trembling under the wrath of the CEO, Roxie simply sat up straighter on the desk. She shifted her weight, deliberately ignoring the gravity of the situation, and began looking down at her freshly polished, French-tipped nails with an expression of complete lack of interest. "Because I’m your girlfriend, Alessia. Not your slave," she stated matter-of-factly, her tone completely detached from the professional crisis at hand.

The statement, wrapped in absolute truth, only made the muscle in Alessia's jaw twitch violently. It was true. Roxie had been her girlfriend for two tumultuous years. Because Alessia was a workaholic billionaire whose life belonged entirely to building the Angels empire, Roxie had spent months complaining bitterly that they never had enough quality time to see each other. In a desperate, ill-advised attempt to compromise, Alessia had resolved to hire Roxie as her personal assistant. The logic had been simple: if they worked in the same room, they could be together all the time.

But now, Alessia was getting profoundly sick and tired of it.

Roxie wasn't just utterly incompetent when it came to managing tasks; she was also deeply annoying. She lacked any sense of professional boundaries, constantly trying to use s*x and physical seduction to slide out of trouble every single time she made a devastating mess.

"Roxie, let's get one thing straight," Alessia said, her blue eyes flashing dangerously as she gripped the edge of her desk. "I pay you a top-tier executive salary for your services. You do not work for free here. If you cannot do your job properly, step aside and let someone actually capable handle the desk. Every single time you make a catastrophic mess like this, you don't just delay production, you make me look entirely ridiculous to my clients, all the way down to the low-level workers on the boutique floor."

Roxie merely flipped her straight brown hair over her shoulder, completely unfazed by the lecture. She slid closer across the mahogany wood, her knees practically brushing against Alessia’s expensive tailored suit. Reaching out with practiced confidence, Roxie cupped Alessia’s breast right through her clothes, squeezing lightly in a slow, possessive rhythm.

"I already said I’m sorry," she murmured, her voice lowering into a seductive purr as she held Alessia's gaze. "But then... I can easily prove to you just how sorry I really am."

She smiled wickedly, her fingers shifting across the fabric, running them intentionally over Alessia’s n****e, applying a light, teasing pressure in an attempt to harden it and short-circuit the woman's anger.

To Roxie’s absolute shock, Alessia didn't melt. Instead, Alessia’s hand clamped around Roxie’s wrist like a vice. With a cold, unyielding strength, Alessia forcefully pulled Roxie’s hand away from her chest and dropped it firmly back onto Roxie’s lap.

"I do not mix business with pleasure, Roxie. You know that," Alessia growled, her voice cutting through the space like a blade. "I pay you to work as my PA during office hours, and I expect you to do the actual job."

Roxie stared at her, her lower lip trembling. She scrambled off to the edge of the desk, her eyes widening. "Wait... are you serious right now? Are you cheating on me?"

Alessia could only lift her hands in the air, letting out a heavy, deeply frustrated sigh as she stared at the ceiling. "What do you mean by cheating? I am literally just telling you to do your job right! How does a demand for professional competence translate to infidelity in your head?"

But Roxie was already on the warpath. She came down from the desk entirely, stepping directly into Alessia's personal space. She bent over slowly, lowering herself toward the seated CEO so that her cleavage was thrust prominently into view, practically spilling out of the intricate black Angels push-up bra she wore beneath her plunging neckline. "I am your girlfriend, Alessia," Roxie hissed, her eyes wild with dramatic offense. "Not your slave."

Turning sharply, Roxie grabbed her designer handbag from the side table and marched toward the heavy glass doors. Her high heels clicked loudly and aggressively against the polished floor, the sound echoing through the quiet, tense atmosphere of the office before the doors slammed shut behind her.

Alessia remained seated in the silence, staring at the empty doorway, her chest heaving in a mixture of rage and sheer exhaustion. She rubbed her temples, the throbbing headache behind her eyes growing worse. This, she thought bitterly to herself, is exactly why nobody with half a brain ever employs their spouse or partner to work for them. It was a nightmare, and her patience had officially hit its absolute limit.

…

"Excuse me, girl," a sharp, nasal voice cut through the air, interrupting Maya as she was neatly folding a display of silk robes.

Maya immediately turned around, forcing her facial muscles to cooperate as she plastered on her best, most compliant customer service smile. The woman standing before her looked like the walking definition of old money, draped in a heavy designer trench coat with oversized black sunglasses perched precariously on top of her perfectly coiffed, sprayed hair. "Yes, ma'am? How can I assist you today?" Maya asked, keeping her tone smooth and professional.

The woman gestured vaguely toward a wall of premium lace bralettes. "I saw the new Sovereign collection online, but the texture looks entirely different in person. I need you to walk with me and explain the difference between the French lace and the Italian embroidery. And please, don't just read the tags to me."

"Of course, right this way," Maya replied, her internal voice sighing heavily.

For the next forty-five minutes, Maya became a literal shadow to the woman. She paraded from aisle to aisle, explaining the subtle nuances of textile engineering, fabric weights, and structural support as if she were lecturing a child. The woman didn't just want to look; she wanted an interactive performance. She would point at a garment, demand a detailed breakdown of its design inspiration, and then move on to the next piece without a word of appreciation.

Why can't these women just make up their minds from the comfort of their mansions? Maya thought bitterly, her calf muscles tightening as she stood perfectly upright. It’s underwear. Beautiful, ridiculously expensive underwear, but you wear it the same way.

By the time the clock struck noon, Maya’s feet felt like they were on fire. She managed to secure a brief fifteen-minute respite in the staff locker room to catch her breath. Pushing the heavy door open, she was relieved to find Zoe sitting on one of the benches, scrolling lazily through her phone, her long legs stretched out.

"Oh, thank god," Maya muttered, letting her shoulders drop as she slumped onto the opposite bench, instantly kicking off her heels to massage her aching arches. "I think my feet are about to detach from my ankles."

Zoe looked up from her screen, a sympathetic but amused smirk playing on her lips. "First week jitters, Palmer? Trust me, your body gets used to the standing. You just have to learn how to lock your knees without cutting off your circulation."

Maya groaned, leaning her head back against the cold metal lockers. "It's not just the standing. It's the clients. I just spent an hour explaining the work of a push-up bra to a woman who looked at me like I was her personal servant."

Zoe let out a melodious laugh, sliding her phone into her pocket. "Welcome to high-end retail, babe. These women aren't just buying lace; they're buying the illusion that they are queens and we are their court. You just have to smile, let the insults roll off your back, and think about the paycheck. Angels pays double what any other boutique downtown offers. That's the only reason any of us put up with the drama."

Maya looked at Zoe, her mind suddenly flashing back to the locker room scene from the previous morning… Zoe’s effortless confidence, her firm, flawless physique, and the casual way she and Ginger had discussed body maintenance. She hesitated, her cheeks warming slightly with a familiar hint of shyness, but her curiosity won.