The Art Of Seducing My Boss

The search for a job in the big city was a special kind of torture, a fact Alexa knew all too well. It was a soul crushing, resume blackhole of despair. Which is why, even as her lungs burned and her heel threatened to snap, she was desperately sprinting down the rain slicked sidewalk, one arm flailing wildly at the stream of yellow cabs that refused to acknowledge her existence.

She was late. So, so late. At 27, Alexa often felt life was a series of near misses. A near miss for her dream job, a near miss with every decent man she’d ever dated, and now, a near miss with every taxi in Manhattan. She was unlucky in love, perpetually stretched thin financially, and lived with her forever bestie, Marla, in an apartment so small they could high five from their respective beds. But Alexa was also a beauty, a fact she used as armor.

She had a cascade of dark hair that defied the city’s humidity, eyes the color of warm honey, and a smile that could disarm a bomb when she chose to use it. Her features were what people liked to call ‘seductive,’ with full lips and a curve to her hip that made her pencil skirts a weapon she both loved and hated.

“Come on, come on!” she hissed under her breath, finally spotting a cab with its light on. She lunged for the door, yanking it open and sliding into the worn leather seat just as a cold drizzle began to morph into a proper downpour.

“Hankook Tower, please. And fast.”

As the cab merged into the glacial flow of morning traffic, Alexa’s mind raced faster than the wheels. Philip Hugges. The name was a thundercloud in her head. The CEO of Hankook, a multi billion dollar conglomerate that owned half the city. Her boss. A tyrant.

That’s what she called him, anyway. In the sanctity of her apartment, over cheap wine with Marla, he was “The Ice King, heartless Hugges,” a man who she was convinced had been assembled in a lab from pure ambition and crushed dreams. He was a machine, a devastatingly handsome one, sure, with that sharp jawline, those piercing blue eyes, and a body that looked like it was carved from marble by a very angry artist. But a machine nonetheless.

He operated on logic, efficiency, and a profound lack of human emotion. She hated him. Yes, she repeated to herself, staring at the raindrops tracing paths on the window, I hate him.

The elevator ride to the 45th floor felt like a ascent to her own execution. Each ding of a passing floor was a tolling bell. She smoothed down her damp skirt, patted her hair, and practiced a neutral expression in the polished brass doors. "Don’t let him see you sweat. Don’t give him the satisfaction". She burst through the glass doors of the executive suite, her professional smile plastered on her face.

The reception area was