Chapter 1

AVA'S POV

"Fuck, you're soaking wet," he said with his hands in between my thighs. His fingers rubbed my clit over my panties, making me moan out in pleasure.

"Mr. Anderson, please," I threw my head back in pleasure as his finger shifted my panties and he inserted one finger inside me.

"It's Max for you."

His mouth attacked my neck, biting and sucking it while his finger moved in and out of me, bringing me closer to my release.

"Please don't stop," I screamed as I was on the verge of coming on done.

His finger stopped moving, making my eyes fly open, staring at him with shock and confusion. Before I could register what was going on, he tugged on my panties and ripped the fabric apart. He tossed it on the desk and then lifted me to sit on his desk.

I grabbed the edge of his desk as he spread my legs apart, throwing them over his shoulders. He didn't give me time to protest as he buried his face between my legs.

"FUCK!" My eyes rolled back in my socket. "Max, oh my God..."

One of my hands tugged on his hair, pushing him closer. He fucked me with his tongue and I released a loud moan not caring if anyone in the office could hear me.

"I'm coming. Please don't stop,"

My toes curled and my fingers tightened around his hair just as my release was going to hit me.

Max's knuckles rap sharply against my desk, yanking me from the daydream where his fingers once traced my thigh.

"Earth to Ava."

I snap my head up. He leans against my desk, arms crossed, brows raised.

"Sir, I didn't-"

"Three times, Ava." His tie is crooked, and last night's lipstick still bleeding at the collar.

He turns toward his office, then hesitates, "I need a gift for tonight."

I grab my notepad, "Usual? Bracelet? Chanel?"

"Ring."

The pen cracks. Gold ink bleeds through paper veins. "A… ring?"

"For Aaliyah."

The words slam into me. My fingers tighten around the notepad's edge, nails pressing into the leather.

Not earrings. Not perfume. A ring.

Max Anderson, the man who scoffs at commitment, the serial heartbreaker- buying a ring?

Aaliyah isn't the first, but is she the last?

I keep my voice steady. "What kind of ring?"

His grin is effortless. "Classy. Elegant. I believe your taste."

Yes. Because I've picked every gift for his women.

But this time, I think I just picked my own ending.

"Budget?" My voice is steady. Someone else's voice. Someone not drowning.

His laugh warps through the roaring in my ears. "No limits,"

The office walls shrink. This is how hearts stop- not with drama, but with a client request typed calmly in Outlook:

Purchase an engagement ring. Highest priority.

As I stood in the jewelry shop, checking out the rings, my thoughts began to run wild. The thoughts of Aaliyah and Max getting married were like a knife stuck in my chest. Could I endure seeing them together as happy?

I had stayed by his side for six years, hoping that one day he would notice me and reciprocate my love but instead, he was getting engaged and he was going to be left running errands for him.

Wasn't it best to just quit and forget about everything? Because I felt like I was going crazy with the unhealthy feelings I had for my boss and worse, he was about to get married. I didn't want to endure the suffering of watching me tie the knot with another woman.

"Are you taking that? It looks perfect for you," The attendant voice brought me back to reality.

"Yes," I paid for it and got it wrapped up.

Max left work early that evening with the ring in his pocket and a bouquet of flowers in his car.

I so much wanted to stop him and tell him how I felt, maybe, just maybe he would change his mind about the proposal but as usual, I chickened out.

I clocked out of the office, walking home instead of taking a bus just to get my head together. As I was entering my neighborhood, my phone rang in my bag.

I pulled out my phone, my brows knitting together at the unknown number flashing on the screen. Letting out a frustrated breath, I answered.

A bartender.

I groaned in irritation.

By the time I arrived, the bartender slid Max's usual receipt across the counter twelve Macallan 25 shots in three hours.

I knew the pattern by heart. Wednesdays for mergers, Fridays for breakups, and Sundays for no reason at all.

His fifth shirt button dangled by a thread.

"Your investors will love this look," I mocked.

He lifted his head, his gaze unfocused but smoldering. "Ava."

He only ever said my name like that when he was drunk.

I moved closer, tilting my head as I studied him. "So, how did it go? Got down on one knee, made a grand speech… and then what?" I teased. "Wait, did she actually say no?"

Max didn't answer. He just stared at me.

My chest tightened. I should look away, step back- but I didn't.

I swallowed, then shook my head and reached for him instead. "Come on, Mr. Anderson. Time to go."

He didn't move. Instead, he pressed his forehead into my shoulder.

I stiffened, my pulse hammering. "You're too heavy," I muttered, trying to sound casual despite the way my body betrayed me.

I managed to get him into the car, shifting closer to adjust his seat. His head lolled onto the pillow, half-lidded eyes never leaving me.

"Mr. Anderson," I breathed.

He hummed in response, and then his hand shot out, fingers curling around my wrist.

My breath hitched.

"You're not like them," he murmured, his voice husky.

I let out a short, breathless laugh. "Damn right, I'm not." I pushed at his shoulder. "So let me go, Mr. Anderson."

But he didn't.

"Stop calling me that," he muttered. "Max. To you, it's Max."

His fingers slid from my wrist to my palm, and then, slowly, he brought my hand to his chest, pressing it over his heartbeat.

I froze.

"You're not them," he repeated, quieter this time. "You're Ava."

Something inside me cracked.

I should have walked away. I should have left him in that car.

But instead, I leaned in.

And when I kissed him, he didn't pull away.

His lips were warm, his breath slow and deep as he let me in.

His hand tightened around mine, anchoring me to him.

I was holding onto him- even if just for tonight.