My Controlling Boss

Zara

Friday. Five forty-seven p.m. And I was still here. Of course, I was still here.

Marcus Fucking Johnson. My boss. The bane of my existence. The reason my social life was a barren wasteland populated only by tumbleweeds and takeout containers.

I stared at the blinking cursor on my screen, trying to summon the energy to finish the ridiculously detailed report he’d demanded by end of day. End of day, he’d said. For normal humans, that meant five. For Marcus Johnson, it meant whenever the hell he decided his P.A. had suffered enough.

My temples throbbed. Another Friday night sacrificed to the altar of Johnson Media Corp. I swear, the man got off on it. Just as that thought crossed my mind, a sharp buzz cut through the relative quiet of my office.

The intercom. His summons.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear, I muttered, my stomach tightening. I hated that intercom. I hated his voice, even distorted by the cheap speaker. “Lane, my office. Now.”

No ‘please’. No ‘thank you’. Just the curt command that always set my teeth on edge. I took a deep breath, smoothing down my skirt – not that he’d notice or care what I was wearing. “Yes, Mr. Johnson.”

I pushed back my chair, the scraping sound loud in the sudden silence. Time to face the beast in his lair.

His office was exactly what you’d expect from a billionaire media mogul with an ego the size of Manhattan. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a dazzling, heartless view of the city. Sleek, modern furniture that probably cost more than my student loan debt. And him. Marcus Johnson. Standing by the window, a dark god in a custom-tailored suit that probably cost more than my car. Damn him.

He turned as I entered, and for a split second, my breath hitched. It always did. The man was infuriating, demanding, an absolute prick. But God, he was beautiful. Sharp jawline, intense dark eyes that seemed to see right through you, and an air of controlled power that was both terrifying and… something else. Something I refused to name.

“Close the door,” he said, his voice smooth and cold as the marble under my sensible heels.

I did, the soft click echoing in the large room. I waited, hands clasped loosely in front of me. The air crackled with his usual intensity.

“I have a situation,” he began, turning fully to face me. His gaze was sharp, direct. “A vital one for the company.”

Oh, here we go. Another crisis only I could magically solve after hours.

“Next week is the Global Media Summit in the Bahamas,” he continued, walking towards his massive mahogany desk. He didn't sit. He preferred to loom. “We’re on the verge of closing a billion-dollar investment deal with Henderson Group. Old money, very conservative.”

I nodded, trying to look engaged while mentally calculating how much overtime this new ‘situation’ would cost me in lost sleep. “I’ve prepared all the briefs, Mr. Johnson. Your schedule is finalized.”

He waved a dismissive hand, as if my hours of work were nothing. “That’s not the issue, Lane. Henderson himself… he values stability. Family. He likes to see that in his business partners.”

A cold knot formed in my stomach. Where was this going?

Marcus paused, his eyes boring into mine. And then, BAM! He dropped the bomb.

“I need a fiancée for the week.”

My jaw didn’t just hit the floor; it probably cracked the expensive Italian tile. A what now?

“Excuse me?” I managed, my voice a squeak.

“A fiancée, Lane. Someone to portray my loving, supportive partner. Someone believable. Someone… presentable.” His eyes raked over me, lingering for a moment too long. My cheeks burned. Was he implying I wasn’t presentable usually? Asshole.

“And you,” he said, his voice dropping to that dangerous, silky tone he used when he was about to ruin my life, “are it.”

I stared at him, words failing me. Me? His fiancée? Was he actually insane? This has to be a joke. A really, really bad joke.

“Mr. Johnson,” I started, trying to keep the outrage from my voice, “with all due respect, I am your personal assistant. Not… not an actress. And certainly not your fiancée.”

“You’re intelligent, Lane. You’re quick on your feet. You can handle this.” He took a step closer, invading my personal space. I could smell his expensive cologne, a scent that was both enticing and a warning siren. “The summit is for seven days. All you have to do is smile, look adoringly at me – try not to gag – and wear a very large diamond ring.”

I wanted to tell him to shove his fake ring right up his perfectly sculpted, custom-tailored ass. The nerve of this man! The absolute, unmitigated gall!

“I can’t,” I said, finding my voice, a little shaky but firm. “I won’t. Find someone else. Pay a professional. I am not doing this.”

A smirk touched his lips. That infuriating, arrogant smirk that made me want to scream. And also, annoyingly, made a weird, unwelcome flutter deep in my stomach.

“Oh, I think you will, Lane.” His voice was soft, but the underlying steel was unmistakable. “Because your alternative is less appealing.”

He leaned in, his face mere inches from mine. His dark eyes held no warmth, only cold calculation. “Play my doting, soon-to-be wife for one week – public displays of affection included, so brace yourself – or you can kiss your much-needed paycheck goodbye. Clean out your desk by Monday.”

My breath hitched. Fire me? He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. I needed this job. My student loans were a crushing weight, and my sister was counting on me to help with her college tuition. He knew that. The manipulative bastard knew exactly where to stick the knife.

Pure rage, hot and sharp, surged through me. But beneath it, a cold dread spread. He wasn’t bluffing. He’d do it without a second thought if it suited him.

He straightened, that damnable smirk still playing on his lips. He knew he had me. Knew I was trapped between a rock and his very hard, very expensive place.

“The choice is yours, Lane,” he said, his voice like velvet over steel. “Let me know by morning. The jet leaves Sunday.”

He turned back to his window, dismissing me. Just like that. My world tilted on its axis, my future suddenly a terrifying blank or a week-long lie in paradise with the devil himself.

I stood there, frozen, a maelstrom of emotions warring within me. Fury, disbelief, and that tiny, traitorous flutter again because damn him, he looked too good, too powerful, even when he was being the most manipulative prick on the planet.

How could I possibly do this? But more importantly, how could I not?