Chapter Three

Alison stood in the hallway, still reeling from the encounter. Her legs moved stiffly, as though her body didn't quite belong to her anymore. She had just managed to catch her breath when a petite woman in a smart gray skirt and blouse approached her, heels clicking against the marble floor. She had a warm, practiced smile, but her eyes scanned Alison like a scanner.

"You must be the new assistant," the woman said. "I'm Candace. Follow me, I'll show you your desk."

Alison nodded, voice locked in her throat. She followed her down the corridor, past minimalist art and glass-walled offices. Candace leaned in slightly as they walked, her voice dropping low. "A word of advice, Alison. Mr. Lauren doesn't like excuses. He doesn't tolerate mistakes. He's brilliant, but he's not... patient."

Alison forced a tight smile. "Noted."

Candace stopped in front of a sleek glass desk just outside the massive office at the end of the corridor. "This is you. You'll be managing his schedule, calls, travel, and basically making sure his universe doesn't implode. He'll give you direct instructions, and you don't want to miss them."

Alison set her bag down, her hands still trembling slightly. Candace leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Look, I don't know what history you have with him, but trust me when I say, he doesn't let anyone in. Keep it professional, and don't take anything personally."

Alison met her gaze. "I understand."

Candace hesitated, as if she wanted to say more, then gave a quick nod and walked away. Alison stared at the door. Keep it professional. Her fingers twitched. She wasn't sure she even remembered how to feel professional after last night. She sat and took a breath, trying to steady her pulse.

The intercom on her desk buzzed. A cold voice crackled through.

"Miss Grant. In my office. Now."

Her spine stiffened. She stood and walked to the door, knocking once before entering. Ralph sat behind an enormous black desk, his fingers steepled, gaze unreadable. The windows behind him flooded the space with light, but nothing could warm the air in that room.

She stood still, not moving closer. His eyes flicked to her, sharp.

"I assume you're capable of simple tasks, Miss Grant. Or was last night the only skillset you're bringing to this job?"

Alison's jaw tensed. "I assure you, Mr. Lauren, I'm fully qualified."

"Then act like it. I have a full schedule. You'll start by organizing my meetings for the week and drafting a report from the files you'll find in the folder on the right."

He didn't look at her again.

Alison nodded once, turned on her heel, and left without another word. Her hands shook as she returned to her desk, but she sat straight, opened the folder, and got to work. 

Her chest burned with silent fury. He thought she was just some drunken girl who slept with strangers for fun. He didn't care that she'd been shattered, that she hadn't planned any of it. He saw her as a mistake.

But she wouldn't let him define her. If he wanted to pretend last night never happened, fine.

But he would not break her.

She sat stiffly, typing the schedule he asked for with trembling fingers. The longer she sat outside his office, the more the walls closed in. Every time the intercom buzzed, her heart jumped. She typed. Printed. Filed. But her chest refused to unclench. By the time noon hit, the idea was already eating at her. She could quit. Just walk out. Maybe she could find something else. Somewhere she didn't have to feel humiliated every time she breathed. She deserved better.

Her hand reached for her phone. She unlocked it, thumb hovering over her notepad, where she'd typed half a resignation message. Her screen lit up with an incoming call.

"Jayden".

Her little brother's name blinked on the screen. She stared at it for a second before answering.

"Ali…" his voice came through soft and tired. "They said I can't write my academy test unless the fee is paid today. I didn't want to call you but... I don't know what else to do."

Her throat clenched. "It's okay, baby. I'll fix it."

"You always do."

The call ended, but Alison didn't move. Her fingers curled slowly, phone still in hand. He was just sixteen. Brilliant, sensitive, alone. They had no one else. No parents. No extended family. It had always been her. Nights of sharing noodles. Watching cartoons with a candle during blackouts. Crying in secret so he wouldn't see her break.

Quitting wasn't an option. Not when he needed her. Not when there was no one else.

She set the phone down and inhaled deeply.

She would swallow the shame. The stares. Even his cruel remarks. Just to make sure Junior didn't have to grow up scared and alone like she did.

No, she wasn't quitting.

She was staying.

And whether Ralph Lauren liked it or not, she would survive this job—with or without his respect.

She deleted the resignation email.

She wasn't quitting.

Not when her brother was counting on her. Not because of a man who'd already written her off.

The office lights dimmed slightly as the sky outside softened into evening hues. Alison rubbed her temples, ready to shut down for the day when the intercom buzzed again.

"Miss Grant. In my office."

She froze.

Just when she thought she'd made it through the day.

With a deep breath, she stood, adjusted her blouse, and entered. Ralph sat behind his desk, his suit jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up, forearms taut as he typed. He didn't look at her right away, but when he did, it was slow. Measured. Like he was peeling back layers without touching her.

"You're still here," he murmured, like it surprised him.

Alison stood straighter. "I was finishing the report."

He leaned back, studying her with that same unreadable expression, fingers drumming against the table. "Most assistants wouldn't bother. Especially not the ones who stumble into my life half-naked and drunk."

The words stung, but she didn't flinch. "Most CEOs wouldn't sleep with strangers and then pretend they're saints in daylight."

His jaw flexed. "Is that what you think I am? A stranger?"

"I don't think you are anything, Mr. Lauren," she said softly. "Just my boss."

A sharp silence filled the space. The air between them vibrated with unspoken things.

Then he rose.

He moved around the desk slowly, stopping just a foot away, his presence larger than the room. Her breath caught. She could smell him—expensive, masculine, cold with heat underneath.

His eyes swept her face again, slower this time. Less hostile. More... searching.

"Careful, Miss Grant," he said, voice low. "There's only so much tension this office can take."

Alison's heart thudded. So did his.

She swallowed and stepped back. "Goodnight, sir."She didn't wait for his reply. Just turned and walked out, spine straight, chest pounding, her heels clicking like thunder down the corridor.

Behind her, Ralph watched the door long after it closed.

And he wasn't thinking about reports.

He was thinking about her.

He was still staring at the door long after it closed.

Ralph Lauren was not a man easily distracted. He thrived on control, silence, and routine. But tonight, none of it worked. Not when her voice still echoed in his ears. Not when her scent lingered in the space she left behind.

Damn her.

His fingers clenched the edge of the desk as something tugged loose inside him, something he'd buried the moment she walked into his office that morning.

That night had been a mistake. A one-time lapse of control. But it had tasted too real. His mind drifted, despite himself.

The hotel suite had been dimly lit. Expensive. Quiet. He wasn't even supposed to be there. A client dinner had ended early, his tie had felt too tight, his life too repetitive. He wanted noise—but not the kind that came from parties or clinking glasses. He wanted heat. Distraction. So he'd gone to the rooftop bar. Alone. And she had walked in like a dare.

That dress. That mouth. Those eyes that looked half-lost and half-furious at the world.

He hadn't even planned to speak to her.

But she had looked straight at him like she saw someone else behind the expensive watch and cold face. He hated that.bAnd wanted more of it.

She had laughed once—soft and broken—and said something about men who leave. Said he looked like someone who knew how to walk away and never look back. He didn't respond. He just leaned in. The chemistry was fast, sharp, and so damn wrong.

He should've walked away. Instead, they ended up tangled in his hotel sheets.

He remembered how she clung to him like she was trying to forget something. How her breath hitched when he whispered that she was safe. How she flinched when he touched her too gently, like she wasn't used to it. How she moaned like the pain was melting out of her body with every thrust.

And then... gone.

By the time he woke up, she was already out the door. No number. No note.

He'd told himself it was perfect—one night, no attachments.

But something about the silence she left behind made it worse.

Worse than if she had stayed. And now, she was here. In his office. Looking at him like she didn't need him anymore.

He dragged a hand down his face, fighting the heat rising in his chest. It didn't matter. She wanted to pretend it never happened? Good. That made two of them.

But even as he turned off the office lights and loosened his tie, the echo of her voice still clung to the walls. And deep down, he knew she was the only mistake he couldn't forget.