My Secret Office Affair

Bang, bang, bang. The pounding rattles through my door, dragging me out of the soft fog of sleep. My eyes snap open, heart racing. Who the hell bangs on someone’s door this early in the morning? I throw on a sweater, slide into yesterday’s pants, and stumble to the door. My keys jingle as I twist them in the lock. When I pull the door open, Mr. Bradley, my landlord, fills the frame. Usually, he wears a rehearsed smile, the kind that looks pasted on. Today his expression is tight, stern. He doesn’t even greet me before shoving a folded paper into my face. “Read it,” he says flatly. My stomach clenches as I unfold it. Eviction Notice. My throat dries. “Mr. Bradley, I… I’m sorry. I know I’m behind, but I promise I’ll pay before the end of the week. Please.” His lips press into a line. “It’s already your second month, Aria. I’ve been patient enough. There are plenty of tenants waiting who can afford this place.” He pulls out tape, sticks the notice right onto my door, and straightens his shirt like he’s done me a favor. “You’d better have the money before Friday. Otherwise, you’re out.” He doesn’t wait for me to respond. He just walks off, leaving me standing there with shame crawling up my neck. The moment he’s gone, I rip the paper off the door, crumpling it in my fist. Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back. Crying won’t fix rent. *** By the time I make it to the bus stop, I’m running on caffeine and nerves. My CV in one hand, tote bag in the other, and I keep tapping my foot like that’ll make the bus appear faster. I place my hand on the leg to calm it down. I glance at my watch for the umpteenth time. My stomach growls. The man sitting next to me stares at me. “Sorry. My stomach just loves embarrassing me like it hasn't been fed.” I say and let out an awkward laugh. He doesn’t say anything he just shifts away from me. “Whatever.” I roll my eyes. When the bus finally arrives, I squeeze in, muttering, “Please move faster, please move faster,” under my breath. A man sitting a few seats ahead of me is acting strange— his phone is angled low, camera flashing between seats. Then I see it. He’s taking pictures under a woman’s skirt. My pulse spikes. Before I can think, I grab his wrist and twist hard. “You disgusting creep!” He yelps, shoving me back, but I stand my ground. “You’re taking photos of women without consent, you pervert!” People turn. Some bring out their phones and start to record while some just stare. They all stare at me like I was the perpetrator here. “Check his phone,” I snap. The woman beside him hesitates, then nods. “Let’s see if she’s right.” He tries to pocket it, but I snatch it first. The phone is still unlocked, and bingo. A whole folder of photos. I hold the screen up. “Can you all see now?” The woman gasps. “I’m calling the cops.” The man bolts the moment the bus stops. I tackle him to the ground, pressing my knee into his back. Applause breaks out, some recording. Within minutes, the police arrive, cuff him, and start asking questions. The victim thanks me, trembling. Before I can reassure her, an officer turns to me. “Miss, we’ll need you to come to the station for questioning.” My eyes widen. “Now? I— I have an interview.” “I’m afraid it can’t wait.” I sigh. Goodbye, job. The station smells like paper and old coffee. I finish giving my statement when a tall man in a dark suit strides in, commanding attention without trying. He goes straight to the victim, concern softening his sharp features. “Were you hurt?” he asks, voice low and smooth enough to melt butter. His scent hits next— expensive cologne with a trace of cedar and sin. He speaks quietly to the officer, then turns toward me. My heart skips a beat when I see him walking towards me. “You’re the one who stopped him?” “Yes.” He studies me, lips curving faintly. “Thank you for what you did.” He pulls a small card from his pocket and offers it to me. “Call this number. You’ll be compensated.” I blink. “Compensated?” “I believe that’s what people say when they appreciate good deeds.” My eyebrows shoot up. “I didn’t do it for your silly money.” The words fly out before my brain catches up. He pauses, and something flickers in his gaze— amusement? “Alright then,” he says coolly, sliding the card back into his pocket. “Have a good day, Miss…” “Sinclair,” I mutter. My hands folded across my chest. He nods once and walks away. His stride screams money, power, and trouble. Rich people. Always throwing cash around like it’s confetti. I glance at my phone. 10:05 a.m. “Oh my God—the interview!” I dash out, and hail a taxi. *** The Vale & Ley building looms above me— glass and chrome and the scent of corporate success. I’m forty-seven minutes late. My heart’s doing backflips. At the security desk, I try a polite smile. “I’m here for the PR position interview.” He checks the list. “That was for ten o’clock.” I force a grin. “Well, it’s still ten, isn’t it?” After a long sigh, he waves me in. “Good luck.” The hallway feels endless. I ask around before finding the right door, where two nervous candidates sit outside. The receptionist gives me a look that could cut glass. “I’m here for the interview.” “You’re late,” she says. “There was an accident, please, just give me a chance.” She shakes her head. “They’ve already started.” But when the last candidate walks out, disappointment written all over her face, I grab the moment. “Just one chance. Please.” She opens her mouth to protest— “Let her in,” a male voice says from inside. She hesitates, sighs, then steps aside. There are four people behind the table— three men, one woman. The man who spoke has kind eyes and a confident smile that makes my nerves tighten instead of calm. I answer every question like my life depends on it— because it does. My heart pounds when the woman finally looks up. “Congratulations, Miss Sinclair. You’re hired.” For a moment, I can’t breathe. Then I beam, forcing myself not to squeal. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” As I gather my things, I feel one of the men watching me. He’s quiet, unreadable. Sharp suit, expensive watch, the kind of presence that fills a room. But I don’t think much of it. Not yet. Outside, I spot a familiar black G-Wagon pulling into the driveway— the same man from the police station. Perfume Man. He doesn’t see me, but my stomach does a weird flip. “Nope,” I mutter. “Not today. I’ve had enough drama.”