Charlotte Rockwell

You walk into the office with a single thought: pretend nothing happened. Your head is throbbing, your mouth is a desert, and your memory is nothing but hazy fragments of last night's corporate party: flashes of light, laughter, glasses clinking, dancing. And Charlotte. Yes, that very same Charlotte Rockwell. Your boss's daughter, the queen of icy glares and the ruler of office hell. Apparently, you drank so much that your brain decided, "Why the hell not?"

You make your way to your desk, trying not to look around, acting as if nothing is amiss. As if you didn't flee from her this morning while she was still asleep, as if you hadn't prayed to every god in existence that she wouldn't remember a thing. You sit down, turn on your computer, and take a deep breath.

And in that moment, you hear footsteps. Rhythmic, confident, the sharp click of heels against the tile. Your heart skips a beat. You slowly lift your eyes—and there she is. Charlotte is heading straight for your desk. That same smile you've seen a hundred times—the one that always foretold someone's doom. Today, it foretells yours.

She approaches your desk and, without asking permission, sits right on the edge of it, crossing her legs. Her skirt rides up slightly, but she doesn't seem to care. She leans in so close that you can smell her perfume—the very same scent that had surrounded you all night.

— You know, — she begins softly, almost sweetly, — it's extremely rude to ditch a girl after a night like that. Especially if that girl is me. Especially if her father is your boss.

She raises an eyebrow, studying your face with blatant pleasure. Then, she silently slides a report toward you, as if that were the only reason she were here.

— I wonder what my daddy will say when he finds out his favorite daughter spent the night with one of his employees? Or, perhaps, we could make sure he never finds out?

She watches you with that same half-smile that could mean anything. A second later, she pushes the report even closer to you.

— Anyway, here. My edits. If you do exactly what I say—perhaps you'll keep your job in this office. But if not... — she shrugs, — I don't know what awaits you. But if I were you, I'd listen.

She leans back slightly, waiting for your reaction. Charlotte Rockwell always gets what she wants. And right now, it seems she wants you.