Her sigh is sharp enough to slice. “You’re here to assist as needed. If no one needs you, find something to do. I can’t help you. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
She returns to her typing, her dismissal as clear as the glass between us. The sting in my chest is familiar—ignored, brushed aside, pushed out of the way. Like always.
I turn, starting to walk back toward my desk, my face hot, hands shaking.
But something in me snaps. I’m so tired of being stepped on, passed over, left waiting. If I don’t fight for myself, no one will.
I spin on my heel, march back toward Vivian’s desk, and plant my feet.
“I’m sorry,” I say, voice trembling but clear, “but if no one will tell me what my job actuallyis, I have to ask Mr. Vasiliev directly. I won’t take long.”
She finally looks up, eyes wide with disbelief and just a hint of annoyance. “You can’t just?—”
But I’m already moving, walking straight past her desk, past the pointed stares from a few nearby coworkers, and right up to the frosted glass door of Aleksei Vasiliev’s office.
I don’t knock. I don’t pause. I open the door and step inside
I half expect Vivian to come storming in after me, but when I glance back, the hallway is empty. No angry footsteps, no shouting. The thick door closes behind me with a soundless click, and I realize how different this space feels—cut off from the office noise, insulated. There’s a hush here, heavy and private. Even the city outside seems to fade away.
The office itself is immaculate, almost intimidating in its order. Dark wood, a massive desk, bookshelves lined with titles I can’t quite read from here. A huge window overlooks the skyline, painting the floor with cold blue light.
I clear my throat and call out, “Mr. Vasiliev?”
No answer.
My voice is swallowed by the silence, absorbed by velvet drapes and soft carpet. I take a cautious step inside. The air is tinged with expensive cologne and something deeper—something warm, like cedar or amber.
That’s when I hear it, a faint, muffled sound, almost lost behind the wall. A woman’s voice. Gentle, then rising, then dissolving into laughter or something that almost sounds like a moan.
I freeze. My brain insists I should turn around and leave. Every instinct screams this is averybad idea.
But there’s a pull, insistent and magnetic. Against my better judgment, I follow the sound, crossing to a door at the far end of the room, a private washroom. The door is slightly ajar, steam curling from the crack, and the voice—soft, feminine, rising and falling in a way that makes my skin prickle—spills into the stillness.
My heart hammers. I know I should walk away. But I can’t. I press my hand gently against the door, drawn in by a curiosity I can’t explain, listening as the mysterious voice floats out to meet me.
My fingers brush the edge of the door, heart pounding so loudly I’m sure it must echo in the silent office. I should stop. I know I should. But the voice is so real, so intimate, threaded with something raw that makes my breath catch.
The steam makes the air thick and close as I push the door open another inch, just enough to peer inside. The washroom is as sleek as the office—marble counters, gold fixtures, a wall of glass that fogs with condensation. The sound grows clearer now, unmistakable: a woman’s voice, recorded and lilting, repeating lines with subtle shifts in tone.
It takes me a second to realize what I’m hearing.
The cadence, the inflection, the way the words curl at the edges—it’s my voice, echoing from a hidden speaker somewhere above the mirror. The realization sends a jolt of shock through my body, every nerve ending tingling with disbelief and embarrassment.
Why is my voice playing in here? Who set this up?I glance around, half-expecting to see someone step out from behind the frosted shower glass, but the room is empty.
Suddenly, I’m aware of every secret I’ve ever whispered into a microphone, every anonymous fantasy. The urge to flee battles with the need to understand. I stand frozen at the threshold, torn between humiliation and something stranger—a dark, glittering thrill at being discovered, heard, in the most unexpected place.
The fog drifts away from the glass, and suddenly I see him.
Aleksei stands beneath the showerhead, water cascading down his body, his back broad and powerful. One hand braces against the wall, the other is wrapped tight around his cock, stroking in a rhythm that matches the pace of the audio echoing through the bathroom.Myaudio. My voice, thick with need and promise, pours from hidden speakers and fills the steamy air.
I should leave. I should run, mortified, but I’m rooted to the spot, pulse hammering, body buzzing in a way I’ve never felt before.
My heart slams in my chest. I can hear my own voice, thick with lust, filling the air.
“I didn’t mean to want him like this,” the recording says, low and intimate, first-person, familiar enough that my knees go weak. “But when he looks at me, I feel it everywhere. Between my thighs. In my chest. Like my body already knows what his will feel like inside me.”
Oh my god.
