Ayla Thompson sat stiffly on the wooden bench just outside Dr. Brennan's office, her back pressed against the cool wall. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, legs pressed together as if trying to disappear into herself.
Her face was still burning.
That old dog, Dr. Brennan, had dragged her here again today under the excuse of "filing important documents." One thing led to another, and before she knew it, she was bent over his desk with her skirt around her waist.
"Fucking bastard…" she muttered under her breath, cursing the Vice President for the hundredth time. "This old pervert just never listened."
She had clearly told him earlier that today wasn't a good day.
She had a mountain of work waiting for her and a bad feeling gnawing at her gut since morning... a strong instinct that something was going to go wrong. But he didn't care. He had dragged her into his office anyway, like always.
And of course, it happened.
