"Weird coincidence, right? The internet's full of horny weirdos."
The words tumbled out of my mouth like expired milk—chunky and obviously wrong. My voice cracked on 'weirdos' like I was thirteen and lying about not watching porn.
Bryson, blessed with the emotional intelligence of a goldfish, just shrugged.
"You should read the comments for entertainment value. Pay attention to the harsh ones, they're always the most creative."
"Oh definitely!" Amber chimed in, already pulling out her phone. "The internet's brutal honesty is better than therapy. And cheaper!"
"Can't wait," I managed, my smile so fake it probably had a Made in China sticker.
They headed to Bryson's car, chattering about dinner plans while I stood frozen next to my Honda, keys clutched like a lifeline.
My phone chose that moment to die—even technology was abandoning me in my hour of need.
The drive home was twenty minutes of pure psychological torture. Every red light gave me time to spiral deeper into panic.
Maybe nobody would connect Tinkerbell444 to Dakota Freeman.
Maybe the post would get buried under an avalanche of other people's sexual disasters.
Maybe I'd spontaneously combust before anyone figured it out.
But humans are trash at resisting temptation, and I'm apparently the garbage queen.
The moment I got home, I plugged in my laptop with the desperation of an addict needing a fix.
Reddit loaded slower than my will to live, but finally, there it was. My digital cry for help had become internet gold.
"YTA for wanting to homewreck three marriages," read the top comment.
They weren't married, but thanks for the assumption, dickhead.
"NTA, life's short, get that billionaire dick," offered another philosopher.
Shakespeare could never.
"This is either fake or you're about to destroy your career."
Finally, someone who understood the gravity of my situation.
"Daddy issues much?"
Ouch. Accurate, but ouch.
I scrolled through hundreds of comments, each one a tiny dagger to my already wounded ego. People had opinions about everything: my sexual frustration, my professional ethics, my mental health, my daddy issues, even my fucking username.
I absorbed every brutal assessment until my eyes burned and my brain felt like scrambled eggs.
Somewhere around 3 AM, I passed out with my laptop still open, the screen's glow probably giving me radiation poisoning to match my shame poisoning.
Morning arrived like a hangover's vindictive cousin. Everything hurt, but underneath the mortification, something else bubbled up—anger. Not at the commenters, but at myself.
The internet trolls were right about one thing: I was being pathetic.
Pining after three men while accomplishing nothing except spectacular public failures? That wasn't the Dakota Freeman who graduated MIT at twenty.
That was a sad, horny disaster using daddy issues as an excuse for mediocrity.
Fuck. That.
I mainlined coffee and attacked The Meridian Tower plans with the fury of a woman with nothing left to lose. Every calculation got triple-checked. Every design element got refined.
The sustainability features I'd been hesitating to propose? Implemented with aggressive efficiency.
By noon, I had a comprehensive overhaul that would make the building 30% more energy-efficient and structurally revolutionary.
The modifications to floors twelve and twenty-two weren't just fixed, they were transformed into something that would make architectural journals weep with joy.
In a moment of sleep-deprived audacity, I opened my email and typed in the client's direct address. Not the Sullivan brothers. Not through proper channels.
Straight to Nakamura Group's inbox like a professional middle finger to protocol.
And signed it as ‘Dakota Freeman. Partner, Freeman Industries.’
Partner. Not an assistant. Not an easily-managed assistant.
Partner.
I hit send before sanity could intervene.
The next day at lunch, I walked into Sullivan Stone Company like I owned the place. Or at least like I hadn't spent the previous night reading strangers' opinions about my sex life.
"Ms. Freeman," the receptionist said, "Mr. Sullivan is expecting you in his office."
Which Mr. Sullivan? I wanted to ask, but followed her to Raphael's corner office instead. He stood behind his desk looking like God's gift to tailored suits and authority complexes.
"The client called," he said without preamble, not even offering me a seat.
Power move noted and ignored, I sat anyway.
"Oh?" I kept my voice neutral, like I hadn't circumvented his entire company to send those plans.
"They're beyond thrilled with the recent changes we made to the structural integration and the sustainability features."
We. WE? I bit my tongue hard enough to taste copper.
"Your modifications to the energy systems were brilliant," he continued, actually making eye contact for once. "The way you integrated the solar grid with the existing infrastructure… It's exactly what this project needed."
Wait. Was that... praise? From Raphael 'You're Barely Competent' Sullivan?
"The client specifically mentioned how impressed they were with the floor twelve and twenty-two solutions. Said it showed 'innovative thinking and bold leadership.'"
He moved around the desk, closer than he'd ever positioned himself before.
"I have to admit, I didn't think you had it in you."
"Thanks for the ringing endorsement," I shot back.
But heat crept up my neck that had nothing to do with anger anyway.
"I'm serious." His voice dropped lower, more intimate. "This is the kind of work that makes or breaks careers. You should be proud."
The air between us shifted, charged with something dangerous.
He was standing close enough that I could smell his cologne. His eyes weren't cold anymore; they burned with something that made my three-year dry spell very, very prominent in my mind.
"I am proud," I said, my voice embarrassingly breathy. "And I'm not just some assistant to be handled, Raphael."
"No," he agreed, stepping even closer. "You're definitely not."
The space between us could’ve been measured in heartbeats—fast, reckless ones. One inch closer and we’d cross a line neither of us could pretend didn’t exist.
His gaze dropped to my lips. Mine mirrored the motion without thinking.
His hand twitched at his side, then lifted—hesitating halfway, like he wasn’t sure if it belonged on my waist or braced against the desk behind me. Every nerve in my body lit up.
"Raphael…" I said, barely more than a whisper, unsure if it was a warning or an invitation.
He stopped, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. His fingers brushed the edge of the desk instead of my skin, knuckles going white around the wood. The air between us pulsed.
"Bad idea…" he said hoarsely.
"The worst…" I whispered back.
Neither of us moved for a long second. Shit, I didn’t realize until that exact moment how badly I wanted him to close those few inches and kiss me, to make me…
The door burst open like a comedy sketch directed by the universe.
"DADDY, LOOK WHAT I MADE!"
A seven-year-old torpedo with pigtails and light-up sneakers came barreling in. Completely oblivious to the fact that she'd just prevented either the best or worst decision of my professional life.
She crashed into Raphael's legs with the force of a tiny hurricane, chattering about something involving glitter and a hamster.
Fuck. He is married?