The Double Life Of My Hot Secretary

Two truths and one lie. I gave my hot boss a blowjob. I’m a stripper when I’m not working as a secretary. My boss is an irritating, self-centred narcissistic dickhead that no one wants to work with. Oh wait, I forgot to add the lie. My name is Hazel Montgomery, and I’ve worked with the insufferable billionaire heir Alan Wood for five years. “Is it because his c**k is small? I heard that’s why he has such a horrible attitude,” one of my coworkers whispered as I walked into the elevator. “I heard so too,” another replied quickly, their voices low. “Why else would he be such a d**k to everyone around him?” I almost laughed, that was the lie. Because my boss might be a complete asshole, a smug prick with the kind of arrogance that makes you want to punch him in the face, but he is far from having a small c**k. I know this because one time, I walked in on him jerking off in his office. The two women went pale when they noticed me standing there, frozen in the corner of the elevator. One of them covered her mouth while the other gripped her folder like it was a shield. “Wait… isn’t that his secretary?” one whispered, her eyes wide. “Oh no, we’re screwed,” the other muttered, already panicking. “She’s going to tell him, and we’ll be out of here by the end of the day.” I smirked and tilted my head. “Relax. You’ll be just fine, I’m quitting today anyway.” Their mouths dropped open, but I turned back to the elevator doors, refusing to explain myself. The truth was, the last five years had been absolute hell. Yes, the paycheck was good, but it wasn’t worth losing every piece of my soul. Alan Wood had drained me. He treated me like his personal slave, barking orders, calling at all hours, sending me on pointless errands just because he could. He was smug, arrogant, cold, and infuriatingly good at reminding me that I was disposable. He had fired people for looking at him the wrong way. He made grown men cry in board meetings. He was the devil in a custom Armani suit. The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open, spilling me straight into his world. Alan Wood’s office was sleek, cold, and intimidating, just like him. And there he was, standing behind his desk, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark hair perfectly styled, sharp jawline cut like it was designed to ruin lives. His eyes flicked up at me, a slow drag that felt like he was already picking apart my existence. “Miss Mango,” he said in that smooth, commanding voice that made everyone else in the building bow to him. He set a file on his desk and gestured lazily. “A list of things to handle before lunch.” Of course. The great Alan Wood. He didn’t even look at me while he shoved more work into my lap. No one ever stood up to him, they were too terrified of losing everything he dangled in front of them. He owned their futures with a single word. But not mine anymore. I tossed the folder onto his desk so hard the papers scattered. His head snapped up in surprise. “I quit,” I said, my voice sharp and final. For once, Alan Wood actually looked stunned. And so help me, even when he was shocked, he was still the hottest man alive. “Are you sick?” Alan’s voice cut through the silence, sharp as a blade. I met his eyes, and for the first time in five years, I didn’t look away. “No. I’m finally awake.” His brow furrowed, a rare crack in his perfect mask. I seized the moment before he could dismiss me like he always did. “You’ve made my life hell, Alan,” I spat, my hands trembling but steady enough to shove against his desk. “Five years of being at your beck and call. Five years of picking up your dry cleaning, arranging your petty little dinners, fielding your tantrums like some glorified babysitter. Do you know how many birthdays I’ve missed? How many friends I’ve lost? I haven’t had a single moment to breathe because you treat people like they’re disposable toys for your amusement. You don’t care about anyone but yourself.” His expression hardened, the cold billionaire mask slipping back in place. He stood, towering over me, his aura commanding the room. “You can’t quit, Hazel.” My stomach twisted, that was the first he'd call me by my first name. “Watch me.” I turned on my heel, my hand reaching for the door, only to feel his hand clamp tightly around my wrist. “You don’t get to walk away from me,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. He yanked me back, pinning me to the wall with one swift movement. His body caged mine in, the heat of him suffocating, his eyes boring into me like I was prey that had dared to bare its teeth. “Let me go,” I hissed, glaring up at him. “Not until you understand that people don’t just walk away from Alan Wood,” he said coldly, his grip firm enough to bruise. I laughed bitterly, though my chest was tight. “You’re a controlling, arrogant bastard who thinks the world revolves around him. And the sad part? It probably does but I'm not going to be part of that bullshit anymore.” Something flickered in his eyes, words had hit, even if he would never admit it. His jaw clenched, his hand tightened, but finally, he let go. I shoved past him, heart pounding, and didn’t look back. Outside, the city lights blurred as I raised my arm and flagged down a taxi. I climbed in, slammed the door shut, and gave the driver the address. Not to home, to the bar. The neon glow welcomed me like an old friend, humming with music and shadows. As I stepped inside, the familiar smell of smoke, perfume, and alcohol wrapped around me. “Well, someone’s moody today,” my bar boss, Maddox, smirked as I headed to the back room. I peeled off my blouse and skirt, trading them for glitter, leather, and lace. The mirror reflected not Hazel Montgomery, secretary. No. This was Hazel, the woman who could make men weak with a single glance, who held power in the curve of her body and the smirk on her lips. I adjusted the straps of my outfit. I started this three years ago because it was the only place I felt like I had control. Here, men paid to worship me. They didn't own me, not like him. When I stepped onto the stage, the lights swallowed me, the music vibrating through my veins. I danced, twirled, let every ounce of pain bleed into performance and for a while, I forgot about Alan Wood. After a long set, Maddox met me backstage. “Good work tonight,” he said, then hesitated. “But, uh, there’s something else.” I arched a brow, wiping sweat from my neck. “What now?” “Someone made a request for you.” I froze. “What?” “A private show,” Maddox said casually. I crossed my arms. “You know I don’t do that. I dance, that’s it. No s*x, no private anything.” “This one’s different,” he insisted. “It’s a special client. He offered fifty thousand dollars.” My jaw dropped. “Fifty thousand?” “Yep. He said only you, no one else.” Maddox shrugged. “And don’t worry, he’s clean, healthy. I checked.” I chewed my lip. Fifty thousand. That kind of money could buy me the freedom I’d been craving and now that I’d quit today… I needed it. “Fine,” I said finally, pulling the glittering mask over my face. “But this is a one-time thing.” “Good girl.” Maddox winked and pointed toward the VIP hall. I pushed open the door, my heels clicking against the polished floor. The room was dim, and a man stood with his back to me, shirt discarded, muscles sculpted under the low light. “Hello?” I said softly. He turned, and my stomach dropped. Alan. f*****g. Wood. I stumbled back, the words slipping out under my breath. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”