Chapter 1: The Temp Who Stumbled In
Emerson Lane had never thought a temp job could feel like stepping onto a battlefield. But as he rode the elevator up to the 23rd floor of Lafayette Inc., he felt like he'd wandered into enemy territory dressed in his most neutral "I-might-actually-know-what-I'm-doing" outfit.
The lobby of the office was sleek and intimidating, all glass and chrome, the kind of place where you expected someone to casually drop a billion-dollar deal between sips of artisanal coffee. Em's own coffee cup felt laughably small in his hand. He adjusted the strap of his messenger bag and tried to breathe through the sudden surge of nerves.
"Room 23B," he muttered to himself, reading the label on a door so shiny it could double as a mirror. Taking a deep breath, he pushed it open.
And there he was.
Lafayette Jeff. Tall, impeccably dressed, hair that somehow managed to look perfect without looking styled, and eyes that seemed sharp enough to cut through glass—and Em's carefully constructed confidence. He didn't smile. He didn't nod. He just looked. And in that look, Em felt every flaw he'd ever imagined in himself laid bare.
"Emerson Lane," a deep voice finally said, calm and measured, like every word was chosen to land precisely where it would sting—or seduce. "You're the temp?"
"Yes," Em said, voice a little higher than intended. "For the… um… admin position?"
Lafayette's lips quirked slightly, maybe amused, maybe intrigued. "Good. Follow me. We'll see if you survive your first day."
Em followed, his heart thumping like a drumline at a parade. He had expected paperwork. He had expected photocopiers. He had not expected to feel this… raw under someone's gaze.
The office itself was intimidating. Glass walls, pristine white desks, and the faint hum of a city buzzing far below. Em was led to a small desk tucked near the corner, where he was told to make himself useful. His first task was deceptively simple: organize a spreadsheet of contacts for an upcoming investor meeting. But Lafayette hovered nearby, silent but omnipresent, watching every keystroke like a predator studying its prey.
"Do you… type fast?" Lafayette asked, leaning slightly over Em's shoulder. The scent of expensive cologne hit him. Not overpowering, but enough to make Em's stomach twist.
"I… uh, I think so," Em replied, fingers fumbling over the keyboard.
"Think so?" Lafayette raised an eyebrow, sharp and assessing. "In this building, thinking isn't enough. We do."
Em swallowed. His mind screamed "run," but his body stayed, rooted by curiosity—or maybe something else he didn't yet want to name. There was a pull here, magnetic and disorienting, and the more he tried to focus on the task, the more he found himself stealing glances at the man who made billion-dollar decisions like they were casual exercises.
By mid-morning, Em realized he hadn't even had time to breathe properly. Lafayette had him running between departments, copying documents, answering questions no one else knew how to answer. And through it all, that electric tension never let up—every word Lafayette spoke seemed loaded with an energy Em couldn't name.
Then came the first brush of physical contact. A stack of papers slipped from Em's hands, and before he could even apologize, Lafayette's long fingers caught them, holding them steady. His hand brushed Em's. Just slightly—but enough to send a jolt straight to his chest.
"Careful," Lafayette said, not unkindly, his eyes locking onto Em's. "I don't tolerate mistakes."
Em nodded, suddenly aware of how close he was standing, aware of the warmth radiating from the man's body, aware of the way the room seemed smaller, tighter, and heavier around them. "I… I'll be careful," he managed.
The rest of the day was a blur of instructions, phone calls, and notes scribbled furiously, but through it all, Lafayette's presence was a constant, pressing force. Em couldn't focus entirely on the work; he kept noticing how the light caught Lafayette's sharp jawline, how the man's voice could make even the simplest instruction feel loaded with intention.
When the clock finally struck six, Em was exhausted, mentally drained, and inexplicably exhilarated. He was also late—though he wasn't sure for what exactly.
"Good work today," Lafayette said, standing by the door as Em grabbed his bag. "You might actually survive here."
Em's heart thudded. "Thank you," he said, voice tighter than he wanted. "I… I hope so."
Lafayette's gaze lingered a beat longer than necessary, and in that moment, Em realized this job was going to be more than a paycheck. It was going to challenge him, frustrate him, and maybe, in ways he didn't yet understand… tempt him.
As he stepped into the elevator, Em felt a spark of something dangerous and thrilling, a hint that the 23rd floor might be less about spreadsheets and more about temptation—and that the temp had just stumbled into the wrong kind of job.