Make Me Yours, Daddy

-018-

~*JUNE*~

Well, this is inconvenient.

It’s Monday… again.

The weekend slipped by in a blur, and now the weight of the workweek settles over me like a heavy, damp blanket.

I wish every day could be a weekend.

Mondays are the worst.

It’s not just that work starts again—it’s the crowded roads, the frantic energy of the city, and the relentless traffic that makes everything feel like a race I’m already losing.

I almost arrived late today.

The narrow miss leaves my heart hammering against my ribs.

I really need to start getting up earlier to catch the train or the bus.

Using cabs every time is becoming far too expensive, and I need to be strict with my savings for my new apartment.

Ugh… life as an adult is exhausting.

Nobody warns you about the constant, grinding pressure of just existing when you finally grow up, the way the bills stack up, the way sleep becomes a luxury, the way your back hurts for no reason and your patience runs thin, and yet you still have to show up every single day and pretend you are fine.

I walk through the lobby, my heels clicking tiredly against the polished marble.

I murmur quiet greetings to a few employees as I pass.

Some respond with a nod, others don’t look up at all, already swallowed by their own Monday morning exhaustion.

I reach the elevator and slip inside.

The moment the doors slide shut, I sag against the cool metal wall and let my head fall back with a soft thud.

My eyes flutter shut for a brief second as I try to gather myself.

I am f*****g exhausted.

My body feels like it’s made of lead, every limb heavy and unresponsive.

Each breath takes effort, as though I have to drag it in through resistance.

A persistent sleepiness tugs at the corners of my vision, pulling me toward unconsciousness like a tide.

I could curl up right here on this elevator floor, close my eyes, and sleep for a week.

Today has barely even started, and it already feels like a waste.

The only productive thing I managed this morning was waking up at six and changing my number online.

It was a grueling start to the day, but it was worth it.

Now, Andrew can’t call me anymore.

The ding of the elevator pulls me back to the present.

The doors slide open on the next floor, and my heart stops.

Mr. Macaulay is standing at the entrance. Without giving me so much as a glance, he steps into the elevator.

He looks like a walking orgasm, dressed in a charcoal suit that probably costs more than my annual salary.

The fabric hugs his broad shoulders perfectly, and the sharp scent of his expensive cologne immediately fills the lift, thick and intoxicating, almost suffocating me.

I immediately squeeze myself into the furthest corner, pressing my back against the metal, wishing I could simply disappear.

Why did he have to step into the same elevator as me?

I haven’t seen him since that morning in his office when I walked in on him getting his... well, you know.

The memory makes my stomach flip.

"Go… good morning, sir," I mumble, my voice barely audible.

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look at me.

He just stands there, tall and imposing, reaching up to adjust the crisp line of his collar before checking his watch.

Shithead.

He’s lucky he’s my boss, because if he weren’t, I wouldn’t even spare him a single look, let alone a greeting.

Sometimes I truly wonder if he gets paid just for being a monumental prick.

"I hope you are learning everything Mark is teaching you," he says suddenly in that thick British accent of his, each word landing with unnerving precision.

If he wasn’t a prick, it would have stirred something inside me.

Or maybe it did, and I just refuse to accept that it did.

"Yes," I clear my throat. "Yes, I am, sir."

"Good," he says curtly

He doesn’t turn his head, but his presence seems to expand, taking up all the oxygen in the elevator. "You’ll be accompanying me to an important meeting today. Make sure you’re ready."

Then, he finally turns to look at me.

His dark eyes move slowly down my body, a heavy sweep from my face to my toes.

It feels like he’s trying to rip my clothes off with his eyes.

My skin prickles under the intensity of his gaze.

"Sort your blouse out before the meeting," he says, his voice dropping an octave. "It’s too revealing. I don’t want you looking like a stripper in an important meeting."

The words land like a slap to the face.

My hand instinctively flies to the neckline of my shirt as I glance down at it again.

It looks perfectly appropriate to me, only slightly sheer, barely enough for anyone to see anything beneath it.

Still, I don’t argue. There’s no point. I’d only lose anyway.

I feel the heat of a flush creeping up my neck, and I swallow hard against the lump of anger and humiliation in my throat.

How the hell is he expecting me to change it?

Going home would mean extra fare I didn’t budget for, and I don’t have the time or energy to waste running back and forth before the meeting.

"Understood?" he prompts, his eyes locking onto mine.

"Yes, sir," I whisper.

"Good," he says.

The elevator dings again, and he turns away instantly.

As soon as the doors open, he steps out with a confident, predatory stride.

I remain inside for a second longer, dragging a trembling hand down my face.

God... I really hate this man.

With each passing day, I seriously doubt I can survive being his secretary much longer.