Enslaving My Ex-Boss

[Hazel] Halloween—one of the holiday nights when nice people disguise themselves as their favorite fictional psychopath characters, while the real ones drop their masks and reveal who they truly are. During this time of year, the odds of finding a psychopath lurking in a sexy girl’s closet is higher than 74%. There’s probably one right here in this building, hiding in a closet, waiting for his beautiful victim to fall asleep so he can creep out and touch her—doing what he couldn’t when she was awake. I can’t relate to the thrill they get from touching their victim, but the suffocating adrenaline of hiding in a closet? That, I understand—because I’m doing the same. Hiding in a closet, like a goddamn psychopath stalker. In front of me is a social media sensation Samantha Prescott—rising star of the film industry. A girl seemingly blessed by the god of human sculpture. Her body, height, hair, complexion—everything flawless. However, she is not the reason I’m stuck in this closet. The reason is my boss. Elijah Davenport—the rich, hot, and sexy CEO of Silver Arc Entertainment, the world’s top celebrity management agency. Everyone dreams of working with them because once the Silver Arc represents you, fame and success are all yours. People envy me for being Elijah Davenport’s secretary. But that envy would vanish if they knew that being his secretary included working on holidays, hiding in a five-star hotel's closet, peeking through a tiny gap and witnessing him cheating on his wife. God! What was I even thinking when I signed up for this? Elijah's eyes locked on Samantha's juicy plum lips, his gaze lingering as if contemplating his next move, every inch of his posture radiating restrained desire. The back of his fingers brushed over her cheek, his touch slow and deliberate. "Are you ready?" His voice dropped into a whisper as he leaned in close, his breath stirring a loose strand of hair near her ear. Samantha didn’t respond with words. She simply nodded, her chin lifting slightly, offering herself to him. Elijah’s hand slid to the nape of her neck, his fingers spreading wide as he tilted her head. His lips hovered over hers for a second before he crushed his mouth against hers in a kiss that seemed far too intense to be spontaneous. I gulped a lump of desire to wet my dry throat because their kiss was increasing the room’s temperature, evaporating the moisture of shame. And then, suddenly, his lazy brown eyes moved up from her lips to me, who was witnessing the scene from the closet. My pulse spiked. The heat rising in my chest forced its way up my throat, and I barely stopped myself from gasping. I pressed the closet door shut just enough to stay hidden, my fingers trembling. For a few seconds, the room fell into utter silence—except for the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. A sharp, piercing voice shattered the stillness. "How dare you?" I flinched, my heart nearly stopping. I eased the door open, just a sliver, holding my breath. Standing between Samantha and Elijah was Miranda Davenport, Elijah's wife—contractual, but still, wife. "How could you do this to me?" Her voice wavered, raw and broken. "Two years. A whole damn two years. I’ve waited, Elijah. Hoping... praying... that one day you'd love me. That you’d look at me like a woman, your wife. But—" Her voice cracked into a sob. "You wouldn’t even touch me. Yet here you are... kissing her." Her eyes darted to Samantha, loathing unmistakable. "This good-for-nothing whore." Samantha straightened, chin lifting in defiance. "Excuse me? I’m not a w***e. I’m the future of the movie industry." Miranda snapped back to Elijah, disbelief and fury in her eyes. She waited for him to defend her. He didn’t. He just stood there, jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides. "Seriously?" Miranda’s voice shook, but fierce. "Your employee insults your wife, and you say nothing?" Elijah exhaled, eyes narrowing. "Why don’t you decide what’s more important right now?" His voice was chillingly calm as he stepped past her, brushing her shoulder dismissively. "Me cheating on you? Or..." He pulled Samantha closer, curling an arm around her waist. "Me fighting for your respect?" He raised his free hand and mimed air quotes around the word "respect." Miranda froze, her eyes wide and rimmed red. Her smudged eyeliner made her look like a tragic heroine at the end of her rope. "How could you do this to me?" Her voice dropped to a whisper before rising in fury. "How?" Her fists clenched and trembled, pounding his chest. "How? How? How?" Each hit getting weaker than the last. Elijah stood motionless, letting her vent, until his hands shot out, capturing hers. "Enough," he said calmly, as though he’d rehearsed this moment. "Why?" Miranda’s voice softened, breaking into weak sobs as she slumped against him. "Why?" She hit his chest again, slower now. "Why?" "Shush, baby, shush..." Elijah hugged her back, his voice a mix of calm and mockery. "You know why I did this to you?" he asked. "Simple. I wanted you to know how it feels to get cheated on, fooled, betrayed by the person you trust the most." Watching Miranda crumble under the weight of Elijah’s words, I couldn’t tell if this was justice or just cruelty in expensive suits. Miranda pulled back, eyes wide with shock and terror. "Wha—" Her lips parted, but no words came out. "What do you mean?" she whispered. "What do I mean?" Elijah chuckled dryly. "Wait," he held up his index finger. "I will show it to you. It's easier that way." He then approached the nearest table and grabbed a blue envelope placed on it. He then looked at Samantha and smiled professionally, "Sam, darling, thank you for your assistance. I appreciate it a lot. But I guess you need to leave." Samantha nodded her head and left without saying a word. She knew her job was done and left without a word of curiosity. She was indeed a professional. Why wouldn’t she be? After all, I was the one who chose her for this job. I didn't provide the context, did I? Nope, I guess I didn't. I'm sorry. Why don't we just go to the flashback? I promise I'll keep it short. So here’s the context : Elijah had a doubt that his wife was cheating on him, so he told me to hire a personal investigator and look after her. I did as he said, and after a few days of investigation, the PI proved him right. Miranda was indeed having an affair. Feeling betrayed, he planned this whole charade to make her feel the same betrayal that she made him feel. And as his secretary, I had no choice but to become his accomplice in the plan. I was the one who told Miranda about Elijah’s fake affair with Samantha and the news that tonight he was going to meet her at the Silver Arc Hotel. Actually, the reason why I’m stuck in this closet is related to this as well. It’s a little embarrassingly funny, but yeah. After doing Samantha’s touch-up, I was about to leave, but then I saw Miranda coming towards the hotel room. Elijah wanted his plan to be perfectly executed, no hiccups at all. So, yeah, panicked, I had no option but to run inside and hide in this obnoxious closet. Elijah tore the envelope open with a swift motion, pulling out a handful of photos and tossing them into the air as if they were worthless bills thrown at a stripper. The pictures fluttered in the air before they descended, landing in a chaotic pile on the floor. Miranda’s breath hitched, and her hand trembled as she looked at those images. They included every kind of position she tried with Maximo, her bodyguard. Miranda's hands shook as she picked up a few of the photos, her fingers barely touching the edges as if they might burn her. She shuffled them anxiously in her grasp, her voice barely a whisper. "This... this is not—" "Don’t you dare lie to me," Elijah's voice cut through her stammering, low and dangerous. "I’m not lying," Miranda said, her voice faltering. Her lips quivered as she continued, desperate for him to understand. "It’s not what it looks like, Elijah... I swear." Elijah’s eyes narrowed, the weight of his fury bearing down on her. "So, you're telling me you’re not sleeping with your bodyguard?" he asked, his jaw clenched tight. Miranda stumbled over her words, her throat tightening with panic. "It’s... it’s not like that, Elijah, trus—" "Were. You. Sleeping. With. Him. Or. Not?" Elijah bit out each word through clenched teeth, his hand curling into a fist at his side. His gaze was relentless, burning into her. "Tell me, Miranda. Tell me you weren’t. Tell me that, and..." he paused, his anger faltering, his eyes flickering briefly with something else—something weaker, almost vulnerable. "And... I swear, I’ll burn all these pictures as if they never existed." To be continued…