Seducing My Boss

Chapter 2

The corporate world does not accommodate the weak. If you stumble, the stampede of tailored suits and designer heels will trample you without a second thought. I learned that by my third week at Leonardo Enterprises.

But more importantly, I learned that Raphael Amado Leonardo was a creature of absolute, unyielding routine.

Every morning at exactly 6:45 AM, his sleek, midnight-black Mercedes-Benz would pull up to the executive drop-off. By 6:50 AM, his leather oxfords would click against the polished marble of the 42nd floor. And by 6:52 AM, he expected a steaming cup of black coffee—two sugars, no cream—sitting perfectly in the center of his mahogany desk.

"You're staring again, Amara."

I snapped out of my daze, pulling my eyes away from the heavy double doors of his office.

Ms. Santos, the senior secretary, was looking at me over the rim of her reading glasses, an amused but warning smile on her lips.

"Sorry, Ms. Santos," I murmured, quickly lowering my gaze to the spreadsheets on my monitor. "I was just making sure I didn't miss his schedule for the afternoon board meeting."

"Mr. Leonardo is a magnificent man to look at, dear. I get it," she said, her tone softening as she stacked a pile of folders.

"But he is also a machine. He doesn't see people. He sees numbers, deadlines, and efficiency. Don't lose your head trying to catch a glance."

"I don't want to just catch a glance" I thought bitterly, my fingers tightening against the edge of my keyboard. I want him to look at me until he can't see anything else.

But Ms. Santos was right about one thing, to Raphael, I was currently nothing more than a ghost who brewed his coffee. For three weeks, I had dressed in my neatest, most flattering thrifted clothes. I had made sure my hair was flawless, my posture perfect, and my voice soft and subservient whenever he spoke to me.

The result? Nothing.

He barely even looked at my face when he handed me documents. I was just a cog in his massive, multi-billion-peso machine.

And time was running out.

---

That night, the rain poured in torrential sheets over Manila, turning the streets into a chaotic, flooded mess. By the time the clock struck 8:30 PM, the executive floor was completely dark, save for the bright, warm light spilling from Raphael’s open office door.

He was working late. And so was I.

My phone buzzed on the desk. I picked it up, my heart sinking when I saw my mother’s name on the screen. I stepped into the quiet hallway near the restrooms to answer it.

"Ma?"

"Where are you?!" her voice boomed, laced with panic and irritation.

"The collectors from the neighborhood association are here, Amara! They said if we don't pay the interest by tomorrow morning, they’re going to cut our electricity and water. Did you get the salary advance?!"

"I applied for it, Ma, but HR said it takes two weeks to process for new hires," I whispered desperately, pressing my back against the cold wall. "Please, just tell them to give me a few more days—"

"A few more days? We don't have a few more days! You promised you would handle this! You're working in a fancy building in Makati, Amara, but you can't even protect your own family!"

The line went dead.

I slowly lowered the phone, my breath catching in my throat as a heavy, suffocating wave of helplessness washed over me. I squeezed my eyes shut, refusing to let the tears fall. Crying wouldn't clear the debt. Crying wouldn't save us.

Desperate times. I reminded myself, my jaw tightening as I opened my eyes. Desperate, calculated measures.

I walked back to my desk, my mind spinning. I looked toward his office. The door was slightly ajar. I could see him through the gap—his suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair, his white button-down shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing the lean, veins-streaked muscles of his wrists. He was rubbing his temples, looking thoroughly exhausted.

This was it. The storm outside, the empty office, the vulnerability. It was the perfect stage.

I picked up the empty ceramic mug from my desk and walked over to the executive pantry. I brewed a fresh pot of coffee, making sure it was exactly how he liked it. Then, I took a deep breath, smoothing down my damp skirt, and unbuttoned the very top button of my white blouse—just enough to expose the hollow of my throat, but not enough to look deliberate.

I walked to his door and knocked softly.

"Come in," his deep baritone resonated through the quiet room.

I pushed the door open, keeping my eyes downcast, simulating a shy, hesitant modesty.

"I noticed you were still working late, Mr. Leonardo. I thought you might want some fresh coffee."

Raphael didn't look up immediately. He finished typing a sentence on his laptop before finally closing it. He leaned back in his leather chair, exhaling a long, tired breath. Then, his dark, piercing eyes settled on me.

"You're still here, Soriano," he noted, his voice carrying a gravelly, late-night edge that made a strange shiver run down my spine.

"I didn't want to leave while you still had so much on your plate, sir," I said softly.

I walked over to his massive glass desk, carefully placing the steaming mug right beside his laptop. As I did, I purposely leaned in a fraction closer than necessary, letting the faint scent of my cheap, vanilla-scented lotion drift toward him.

Our eyes met. Up close, the intensity of his gaze was almost dizzying. His features were devastatingly sharp in the dim lighting of the office. For a second, I forgot to breathe.

"You're very dedicated," he murmured, his eyes dropping briefly to the mug, then tracing the line of my neck before coming back to my eyes. There was a flicker of something unreadable in his expression—a brief, microscopic pause in his usual cold armor.

"I want to be useful to you, sir," I whispered, holding his gaze, letting a hint of vulnerability show in my eyes.

The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy with an unspoken, sudden tension. The sound of the rain battering against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows seemed to fade into the background. My heart was pounding so loudly against my ribs I was terrified he could hear it.

Then, the corner of his lips ticked upward into a faint, devastatingly handsome, yet cynical smile.

"A good assistant is useful, Amara," he said, using my first name for the very first time. The sound of it rolling off his tongue sent a jolt straight to my core. "But a smart assistant knows when to go home. Go home. The storm is getting worse."

It wasn't a rejection, but it was a dismissal.

"Yes, Mr. Leonardo," I said, forcing a polite, compliant smile. I bowed slightly and turned to leave.

---

Ten minutes later, I was standing outside the grand lobby of the building. The rain was unforgiving, flooding the streets of Makati and making it impossible to catch a cab or a jeepney. The wind howled, violently whipping my umbrella.

I took a step forward onto the slick pavement, desperate to find any ride, when my cheap flat shoe caught on an uneven tile.

With a sharp gasp, my ankle twisted painfully. My umbrella flew out of my hand, instantly swept away by the wind, and I crashed violently onto the wet, asphalt ground.

"Ah!" I cried out, a sharp, white-hot pain shooting up my leg.

Within seconds, the freezing rain drenched me completely. My hair plastered to my face, my cheap blouse clung to my skin, and the knees of my stockings were torn, scraping against the rough pavement. I tried to push myself up, but the pain in my ankle was blinding.

I sat there on the cold, flooded sidewalk, completely soaked, shivering violently. The bright lights of the luxury cars passing by blurred through my tears. I felt small. Insignificant. Like the mud from the slums had finally caught up to me, dragging me back down to where I belonged.

Suddenly, a pair of bright, blinding headlights illuminated the dark street, pulling up right to the curb beside me.

Through the blur of rain, I saw the door of a luxury Mercedes-Benz swing open. A large, black umbrella blossomed into the night.

A pair of pristine, expensive leather oxfords stepped directly into the puddles, completely disregarding the mud.

I looked up, squinting through the downpour, my breath hitching in my throat.

Raphael Amado Leonardo stood over me, holding the umbrella, his face a mask of dark, thunderous fury as the rain beat down around us.