Page 4 of His Demands

As I trudge through Manhattan's maze, I can't help but wonder if I've just torpedoed my dream.

What if Ivan decides I'm more trouble than I'm worth?

What if I get the dreaded pink slip?

After how I drew the line today there’s no way I can assume otherwise.

New plan—march into the office tomorrow, head held high, and act like nothing happened. I'll do my job, exceed his expectations, and with any luck, Ivan will chalk up today's episode to a bad day and move on.

It's not like we haven't had our share of rough patches. He isn't the kind of boss you can have a heart-to-heart with over coffee. He's all about results, the bottom line.

Maybe he'll appreciate my drive, even if it did come out in a less-than-ideal manner.

As I navigate the city streets, my mind races with possibilities. Will he confront me? Will he pretend nothing happened? Or, worst of all, will he have security escort me out the moment I step through the door?

My aunt Barb would have a field day about this. She’s one of the few people who knows the ins and outs of my job and my struggles with Ivan. I take my phone out of my purse and send her a text.

Today was the worst day ever!!!

I hate my boss!!

Why does he have to be so frickin’ HOT???, my message says.

Just as I'm poised to flesh out my message with more details, the rumble of my approaching subway cuts through my thoughts, signaling an imminent loss of connection. I swiftly press Send and slide my phone back into my pocket, seamlessly melding with the flow of commuters as I step aboard.

Tomorrow, it's back to the grind. Julie Goodacre, the unflappable, the unstoppable. I'll tackle those spreadsheets, charm those clients, and keep Ivan's empire running without a hitch.

And who knows? Maybe this little blip will be the wake-up call we both needed.

Maybe it'll be the start of something new.

Either way, bring it on Ivan.

I'm ready for round two.

Stomping into my apartment, I'm still simmering with a mix of anger and regret.

"Kiki?” I call out to my cat.

The living room window by the emergency fire escape is cracked open. I leave it for my cat to go out if she feels like it. She always comes back, my sweet grey furball. I’m guessing she’s out exploring the neighborhood rooftops again.

My place, nestled in the Upper East Side, is a cozy, charming space—a splash of pastel colors amidst the concrete jungle, filled with soft throws, an overstuffed couch that's perfect for sinking into after a long day, and bookshelves crammed with everything from classic literature to self-help books that I swear I'll get around to reading someday.

Frustration gnawing at me, I head to the bathroom, deciding that if I can't drown my sorrows in a sea of apologies and understanding from Ivan, I'll do it in a warm bath.

After lighting some candles and filling my tub with warm water and lavender scented bubble bath I strip my clothes off and prepare for bliss.

As the hot water pours over me, I let out a sigh that feels like it's been building up for ages.

The tension in my muscles is gradually soothed, easing my mind. Soon enough, thoughts of Ivan return, only they’re not the angry thoughts I typically have of him.

Those dark, brooding eyes, that gorgeous olive toned skin, that chiseled jawline that looks like it was carved by Michelangelo himself.

The vision of him persisting in my head like this does things to me.

Things that make my hands travel downward. My fingers slide between slick folds.

“Oh, wow,” I groan softly, realizing how aroused I already am. I might as well do this. It’ll take the edge off. Besides, I’m the mistress of my domain here.

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