Fake Dating My Annoying Paralyzed Boss

~Ava's POV~ -------------------------------------------- I hated Mondays. But I hated Adam Hart more. The elevator ride up to the thirty-ninth floor was suffocating. Too bright. Too quiet. Too… pristine. Like the building itself knew it belonged to a man with an ego the size of Jupiter and the smile of the devil. I adjusted the collar of my blouse and mentally rehearsed the mantra that got me through the last six months. Don't curse out your boss. Don’t slap your boss. Don’t imagine shoving your boss down a flight of stairs. Especially when he's already in a wheelchair. The doors opened with a quiet chime, and the scent of citrus polish and power greeted me like a slap. “Morning, Ava,” cooed the receptionist, Jasmine, giving me the once-over. Her eyes lingered on the tiny coffee stain on my cream skirt like it personally offended her. “Morning,” I said tightly, clutching the tray of triple-shot espresso I brought up like a peace offering to Satan himself. And then I walked straight into his office. Without knocking. He hated that. Adam Hart sat behind his massive desk, already suited up like he wasn’t working from the confines of a $30,000 motorized wheelchair with custom carbon fiber wheels. His dark hair was slicked back, jaw sharp enough to slice through my patience. A navy suit clung to his broad frame, crisp and unforgiving. No tie. Because of course he didn’t believe in “constriction.” He glanced up from his screen, eyes narrowing like he’d spotted something foul. “You’re late.” I checked my phone. 8:59. “It’s still 8. The meeting’s at 9:30.” He c****d his head, smile wolfish. “Eight was when I needed coffee. The meeting can wait. My caffeine needs can’t.” I set the tray down harder than necessary. “You’re welcome,” I muttered, crossing my arms. “Next time I’ll just bring it at noon.” His eyes flicked over me slowly, landing squarely on the coffee stain on my skirt. “Rough morning, sunshine?” God, I hated that nickname. Sunshine. He said it with such venomous sarcasm it made me want to crawl across the desk and strangle him with his own pocket square. “Don’t push me, Hart.” He smirked and leaned back in his chair, rolling it to the window with the effortless grace of someone who made even immobility look powerful. The view behind him was breathtaking. Manhattan stretched out in glittering defiance, just like him. Cold. Dangerous. And tempting. “I like pushing you. You make funny faces when you’re mad.” I sucked in a breath, blood simmering. “I swear, if you weren’t paralyzed—” “You’d what?” he cut in smoothly. “Throw something at me? Tsk, tsk. That’d be a terrible PR headline.” And there it was. The shift. The reminder. Adam Hart wasn’t just my infuriating boss. He was the golden boy of HartTech, heir to a tech empire built on ruthless precision, smart algorithms, and s*x appeal. The media adored him. Investors worshipped him. And half the office secretly drooled over his brooding stares and whiskey-smooth voice. But no one knew what I did. Behind the charisma and custom suits, he was a nightmare to work with. Demanding. Petty. Impossible. And now, rumor had it, the company was in trouble. Whispers of an internal leak. A confidential breach. I saw the tension in his shoulders before he spoke again. “Sit. We have a situation.” I blinked. “You’re actually letting me sit now? Do I need to grovel or something first?” His eyes didn’t move from the skyline. “You’re exhausting.” “You’re delightful,” I shot back, sliding into the leather chair across from him. He pivoted in his chair to face me fully, folding his hands like a man about to negotiate with a terrorist. His expression hardened. “There’s a press conference this Friday.” “Okay...” “They want a statement from me regarding the security leak. I’ve already denied it publicly. But the board’s not convinced. They think my image is ‘too distant’ to gain public sympathy.” I raised an eyebrow. “Well, you do glare at people for sport.” He ignored that. “They want me to be more... human.” I laughed. “That’ll take a miracle.” His eyes locked with mine. Cold. Calculated. “No. That’ll take you.” My heart stopped. “Me?” “I want you to fake date me.” Silence. I blinked once. Twice. “Excuse me?” “I’ve drafted a temporary relationship contract. Six months. In exchange, you’ll receive a full raise, a guaranteed promotion, and stock options.” My mouth hung open. “You want me to play your girlfriend? In front of the company? The media?” He nodded once, business-like. “Smile in public. Hold my hand. Maybe kiss me for the cameras. Nothing complicated.” “Nothing complicated?” I repeated, voice high. “You’re my boss.” He leaned forward slightly. “And you need this job.” I glared. “You manipulative bastard.” “And you’re a brilliant, overworked, underpaid assistant with dreams of becoming creative director. This little arrangement could make you more visible to the board.” I stood up, pacing. “This is ridiculous. You hate me.” “I don’t hate you,” he said simply. “You irritate me. There’s a difference.” I stopped pacing. “And the wheelchair thing? What if people ask questions?” His eyes darkened, but his voice remained cold steel. “Then let them. I’m not ashamed of it. You shouldn’t be either.” That hit somewhere low in my stomach. I hadn’t expected that answer. That strength. Damn him. He rolled toward me, eyes never leaving mine. “We make a convincing couple. The media will eat it up. I get to keep my company. You get what you want.” He was too close now. Close enough that I could smell his cologne. Something dark and expensive. I hated how it made me sway just slightly. “And what happens after six months?” I asked quietly. “We walk away.” “Untouched?” I whispered. He held my gaze. “Unless you want to be.” My breath caught. He said it like a challenge. Like a dare. And my body hated me for reacting. Heat crawled up my neck as his eyes dropped just for a second to my lips. “You’re such an asshole,” I whispered. He grinned. “And yet... you’re considering it.” I was. God help me, I was. Because the truth was, I needed this. I needed the raise. The title. The break. And somewhere, buried beneath the smug arrogance and tailored cruelty, Adam Hart fascinated me. He was cold, but he burned. Detached, but watching. Distant, but closer than anyone I’d ever known. Six months. I could survive six months. Couldn’t I? I licked my lips. “Fine. But I want it in writing. And if you try to grope me, I’ll stab you with your own pen.” He smirked like I’d just confessed a fantasy. “Oh, sunshine,” he murmured. “You might beg me to.” And just like that, I knew. I was in trouble. Big, paralyzed, panty-melting, contract-signing trouble.