My Boss's Secret Thirst Trap

I was doomscrolling at work when I found the question.

My subordinate keeps trying to seduce me. Should I fire her?

I frowned. The description of her outfits and her routine why did it sound exactly like me?

The next day, I wore my most basic, soul-crushing corporate attire. White button-down. Blue skirt.

The question updated immediately.

"This woman is a master manipulator. Look at how sexy she dressed today."

Attached was a picture of a generic outfit that looked exactly like mine.

The comments were confused: "?"

Me: "?!"

Chapter 1

I stared at the photo on my screen. Frozen.

That was definitely my outfit.

I clicked on his profile and started digging from the beginning.

His early posts were textbook finance bro.

Stocks. Crypto. "Grindset" motivational quotes I didn't understand.

Then, the tone shifted.

"There's a girl in the office. Eyes like sparkles. Always smiling at me when everyone else hides. What does it mean?"

The comments flooded in.

"She wants you, bro."

Him: "Company policy forbids office romance."

Commenter: "Do you like her?"

Him: "I don't have time for women. While others are dating, I study the blade. Women only slow down my draw speed."

Commenter: "Alright, Sigma. Whatever you say."

But then things got weird.

The stock tips vanished.

The updates about "The Subordinate" took over.

Yesterday's plea for help had over 5,000 upvotes and thousands of comments.

"She's constantly provoking me. It's affecting my revenue stream. What do I do?"

The internet loves a train wreck.

"Fire her."

He replied instantly: "I am a principled leader. I don't fire people without cause."

"How is she provoking you? Give us the tea."

He wrote a manifesto.

"Every Monday meeting, she dresses provocatively. She stares at me with those bright eyes while giving her report."

"I mentioned once that I minored in Literature. Turns out, she writes answers on Quora."

"My handle is Endless Summer. Her social handle is June."

The internet paused.

"I was with you until the names. What does Endless Summer have to do with June?"

He replied within seconds.

"June is the gateway to Summer! She named herself June because she wants to get into Summer. She wants to get into me. It's a subliminal signal!"

Commenter: "Lol. Okay, buddy. That's a reach."

I sat back in my chair.

I was starting to suspect the delusional poster was talking about me.

My nickname in the work group chat was indeed June.

Not because I wanted to "enter" anyone.

But because I was born in June.

I never paid attention to anyone else's handles.

I didn't know who Endless Summer was.

My main gig was being a corporate drone. My side hustle was writing online.

Everyone knew that.

I never exposed my pen name.

And I definitely didn't stalk my coworkers' online aliases.

Chapter 2

The internet has no chill.

"OP, what do you mean she's provoking you? You're just hallucinating."

"Yeah, those usernames aren't even related. You're reaching, bro."

"LMAO. OP has already written a 300-episode romance drama in his head, and the girl is still on the opening credits."

The poster wasn't having it.

"Then explain why she tries so hard to perform for me in every meeting?"

The comments turned to pity.

"Is it possible just maybe she wants a raise?"

I sipped my coffee in the breakroom, staring at the screen.

I needed to know who this guy was.

But first, I had to confirm if the "subordinate" was actually me.

The next day, I went full NPC.

Basic white button-down. Boring blue pencil skirt.

It wasn't Monday.

No scheduled meetings.

But Sam, my direct supervisor, suddenly called a team huddle.

Five minutes after the meeting ended, the question updated.

"This woman is dangerous. She dressed so sexy today!"

I switched to my burner account.

"How sexy? Pics or it didn't happen."

In less than an hour, my comment had a thousand likes.

It verified the ratio. I was winning.

To prove the haters wrong, the poster uploaded a picture.

It was a stock photo of a white shirt and blue skirt.

Commenters: "???"

The replies were a wall of confusion.

He was typing furiously now, desperate to prove his point.

"You guys don't get it. She wore that just to see me!!"

Huh?

What else was I wearing?

I typed back: "Wore what?"

The internet followed my lead.

"We're curious now. What is it?"

"This fit is basic corporate drone attire. Where's the sexy?"

"Honestly, it's kind of frumpy. OP is down bad."

The poster snapped.

"The stockings! I'm a leg man, okay? She wore them on purpose. She knows exactly what she's doing, showing off those long, straight legs."

"And the tattoo. On her ankle. A gardenia. Its lethal."

Case closed.

The subordinate was me.

I have a gardenia tattoo on my right ankle.

My name is Fallon.

And the gardenia is my signature flower.

The comments section exploded.

"Guys, I'm trying not to laugh out loud at work. My face is cramping."

"OP is absolutely obsessed with her."

"Bookmark. Forwarding to my work bestie. This is tea."

The poster started spiraling.

"Forget it. I can't explain it to you people."

"I don't like her."

"My focus is purely on revenue and growth."

The top comment read:

"LMAO. If this guy was cremated, his mouth would be the only thing left because it's still so stubborn."

Chapter 3

I have two direct supervisors.

One is Timothy, the operations lead.

He's married.

Pass.

The other is Sam, the department head.

Single. Funny.

A strong possibility.

Then there's the Big Boss, Alistair.

He is devastatingly handsome.

But he is a ruthless capitalist.

Cold as liquid nitrogen.

Rumors say he is allergic to women and only gets aroused by profit margins.

Probability: Low.

Logic dictates it has to be Sam.

To confirm, I slid into the poster's DMs using my burner account.

"Do you work at Nexus Tech?"

The reply was instant.

"How did you know?"

I looked up.

Sam was standing by the printer, humming a breakup ballad.

"Oh, what kind of man are you, what kind of man"

He was completely lost in his own vocal performance.

He wasn't looking at his phone.

Then

Alistair?

The thought hit me like a physical blow.

I couldn't shake it.

I had to rule him out.

I downed a shot of vodka I kept stashed in the breakroom before I dared to knock on Alistair's door.

He was reading a file, framed by the dying sun.

Gold-rimmed glasses rested on the bridge of his nose.

The air in the room instantly changed the moment I stepped in.

It smelled of expensive cedar and aged leather.

A cold, sterile scent that screamed money and distance.

He didn't look up immediately.

His features were sharp. Predatory.

Sculpted by a god who prioritized aesthetics over mercy.

When his eyes finally flicked to me, the temperature in the room dropped below freezing.

Abyssal. Dark. Devoid of warmth.

My stomach dropped.

I instantly regretted this.

A man like this doesn't shitpost on the internet about his feelings.

But I was already inside the lion's den.

"What is it?"

His voice was a low rumble.

It vibrated in the floorboards.

The sheer weight of his presence made my palms sweat.

I forced a plastic smile onto my face.

"Um there's a corporate outreach event on the platform. They want to invite you. Do you have time?"

He didn't blink.

"Bring the file here."

He flipped through the papers I handed him.

I stared at his hands.

Fingers like carved marble. Cold. Elegant.

A Patek Philippe wrapped around his wrist.

They looked familiar.

I'd seen hands like that on the poster's profile.

I closed my eyes and went for the kill.

"Sir Alistair. What is your handle ID? I need to note it down for the organizers."

He glanced at me.

Silence stretched, suffocating and heavy.

The poster said his ID was Endless Summer.

Alistair turned his monitor.

He opened his profile page.

I looked down, holding my breath until my lungs burned, waiting for the verdict.

Chapter 4

The name on the screen hit me like a physical blow.

Alistair.

Just his real name.

Not Endless Summer.

My lungs seized. I was running out of oxygen.

The office was dead silent.

Eerily quiet.

Because I was leaning in so close, gravity did its job.

A lock of my hair slipped from behind my ear.

It drifted down and grazed the back of his hand.

"S-Sorry, Sir."

I scrambled back, apologizing frantically.

Alistair didn't move.

His lips pressed into a razor-thin line.

His entire body went rigid.

Every muscle in his forearm locked up. He looked physically repulsed by my touch.

I was insane to think this man was the poster.

I fled his office. My legs felt like jelly.

It was a close call.

But at least I had eliminated Alistair as a suspect.

So who was it?

I was still spiraling when my phone buzzed.

Notification.

The question updated.

"You guys said she doesn't like me? She just made a move! She came in for a pointless report and deliberately let her hair brush against my hand. This woman. Her tactics are relentless."

My pupils dilated.

This

This wasn't a coincidence.

The poster is Alistair?

Alistair thinks I'm trying to seduce him?

I'm not.

So that means

He's interested in me?

The thought hit my brain, and I immediately shook my head, trying to dislodge the water inside.

No way.

How could a tyrant like him catch feelings?

Sure, he looked like a god.

But he worked like a machine.

He was brutal to his employees, but lethal to himself.

During the IPO year, he left the office at midnight and returned at 4 AM.

Even the security guardsex-Marinescouldn't keep up with his stamina.

There was a running joke in the office.

If Alistair wanted to date, he'd have to carve that time out of his eating or shitting schedule.

Because if he cut into his sleep schedule any further, hed literally die.

I glanced through the glass partition.

He was working.

Expression: Stoic.

Phone: Cast aside.

But the timing of that update was mathematically impossible to ignore.

It didn't matter if the poster was Alistair or not.

I was going to test him.

He claimed he "didn't like" the subordinate? He was playing hard to get?

Fine.

I decided to give the internet a show.

I logged back into my burner account and went for the jugular in the comments.

"Bet you're just an old, ugly creep fantasizing about your female subordinate because you can't get one in real life."

The internet pivot was instant.

"True. We're all laughing, but the girl is actually in danger."

"She's out here grinding for a promotion, and this greasy boss is writing fanfiction about her."

The vibe shifted fast.

Everyone started attacking the poster's appearance and vibe.

Someone even posted a stock photo of a balding, sweaty middle-aged man.

"This is definitely what OP looks like."

Chapter 5

At first, the poster tried to defend himself.

"I'm 6'2". I have an eight-pack. I'm handsome. Women chase me."

The internet laughed in his face.

"Haha. Sure, Jan. On TikTok, everyone is 6'2" and a billionaire."

"Oh, please. If the line of women chasing you went around the block, you wouldn't be here writing fanfiction about your subordinate."

"Checked OP's post history. Case closed. He's a fake alpha. A Larper."

The roasting intensified. The comments turned vicious.

"Disgusting. This guy is probably a neckbeard IRL. Imagine a girl dressing nice and this creep thinking it's for him. Gross."

The poster had no comeback.

He was drowning in the hate.

I imagined him on the other side of the screen, probably coughing up blood from rage.

I decided to twist the knife. I sent him a DM.

"Do you want to prove yourself?"

He replied instantly.

"How?"

"Post one of those transition videos that are trending. Show your body. If you're hot, the hate stops. Simple."

Silence.

He didn't reply.

His profile stayed dormant.

But the comment section kept cooking him. The engagement was skyrocketing.

I lay in bed, silently liking every negative comment.

I scrolled until my eyes burned. It was deep into the night.

Just as I was about to pass out, I grabbed my water cup for a sip to wake myself up.

Suddenly, the timeline refreshed.

A new video.

I woke up instantly. My finger tapped the screen before my brain caught up.

The video started in near-total darkness. I could only make out a tall, broad silhouette.

Then, a sharp, metallic shing sliced through the quiet audio.

The beat dropped.

The visual exploded.

Warm, golden backlighting slammed into the frame, outlining him in a halo of heat.

I couldn't see his face. The camera didn't want me to.

It wanted me to look at the anatomy.

The lens glided over a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. It tracked down the thick column of his throat, lingering on the sharp protrusion of his Adam's apple as it bobbed.

It swept over exquisite, deep-set collarbones.

His hands gripped two glowing blades of light.

His chest was broad, the muscles carved from stone. It wasn't just bulk; it was dense, functional muscle built from years of discipline.

The lighting caught the texture of his skin, highlighting every ripple of his pecs, every vein tracking up his forearms.

And there, nestled in the hollow of his left collarbone, revealed by the stark lighting a single, dark mole.

It was a masterclass in stoic restraint and raw sex appeal.

Thud.

My grip went slack.

My water cup hit the floor, water splashing over the wood, but I didn't hear it.

The video was short.

It ended with him executing a clean, sharp sword stance. The muscles in his back shifted like tectonic plates under a white shirt that was now wet and clinging to his skin.

Fade to black.

I sat frozen in my bed.

I was stunned into catatonia by the sheer aggressive beauty of the male form.

The comment section nuked itself.

"HOLY SHIT!!!! That body. That aura. You told me this was a creepy incel?"

"I apologize, OP. I was unfamiliar with your game. Do you need a human ornament for your leg?"

"Mom asked why I'm on my knees looking at my phone. It's because I'm looking at GOD."

"So who is the subordinate? I need her name and location immediately. How is she surviving this?!"

Chapter 6

Some of them were bordering on harassment.

"I bet the sound he makes when hes fighting for his life on the toilet is still the sexiest thing Id ever hear."

"Hubby, I stepped on the scale and thought I gained weight, but then I felt a tremble behind me oh, it's just you inside."

"Sorry, Sir, but there is a flaw in your performance. Cosplay stands for Costume Play. You delivered the Costume, but you didn't Play with me. Please fix this."

The comments were getting feral. Absolutely unhinged.

I was under my duvet, shaking with suppressed laughter. My stomach muscles seized.

I had to bite my pillow to keep from howling and waking my parents in the next room.

I was feasting on this premium content.

Then, one comment stopped me cold.

"That mole on his left collarbone is lethal. Who gave him the right to have a beauty mark there? Thats a target for kissing."

Wait.

Right!

If I could just see Alistairs left collarbone.

If the moles matched

Case closed.

I would take the video, march up to him, and confront him with the evidence.

Witness. Physical proof. Motive.

He wouldn't be able to run.

And then then I would clarify things. I would demand to know how the hell he thought I liked him!

But there was a logistical problem.

How does one see the left collarbone of the Great Demon King, Alistair?

I waited a week. No opportunities. Zero access.

Until the Monday morning meeting.

Our department had made a catastrophic error in the quarterly report.

The air pressure in the conference room didn't just drop; it vacuum-sealed.

Alistair sat at the head of the table. He didn't slam the table. He didn't raise his voice.

But every word he spoke was a scalpel dipped in liquid nitrogen, surgically removing our dignity and displaying the bloody remains.

"This is the final product? After a month of billable hours?"

His long finger tapped a page in the report. Just once.

He scanned the room. No one dared to breathe, let alone make eye contact.

"The logic is fractured. The data support is nonexistent. Do you think the company's money is free? Or do you think my time is worthless?"

Sam broke out in a cold sweat. He leaned in close to me, his voice a frantic whisper near my ear.

"Fallon, quick. Go get Alistair a coffee. We need a buffer. Calm him down"

His warm breath brushed against my ear.

It tickled.

Sam didn't even finish his sentence.

A laser-focused glare sliced through the air, hitting me and Sam.

Smack.

Alistair swept the entire stack of files off the table. They hit the floor with a violent crash.

He turned to Sam, his voice jumping an octave, shattering his icy composure.

"You perform this poorly, and you still have the audacity to whisper? Do you want to be fired?!"

The room went deathly silent.

It was the first time anyone had seen him lose control like that.

No one understood what had just happened.

It was just a whisper. Why the nuclear reaction?

Chapter 7

Sam was paralyzed. Frozen in terror.

I was equally petrified.

I had just taken a step forward to get the coffee, but I silently retracted my foot.

Maybe Alistair saw my flinch. Maybe he saw the sheer panic in my eyes.

He waved a large hand in my direction. His voice dropped. The ice melted, just for a fraction of a second.

"You need the restroom, right? Go."

My body moved on autopilot. I stood up mechanically and walked toward the breakroom.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind me, I could hear Alistairs voice through the wall. Cold. Biting. He was back to shredding them.

My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

But my brain wasn't on the meeting. It was on loop.

The video.

The left collarbone.

That tiny, seductive mole.

I just needed to check. Just one look.

The thought wrapped around my brain like a vine, squeezing out all rationality.

I poured a cup of coffee. Then, I deliberately diluted it with cold water. I wasn't trying to send the man to the burn unit; I just needed him wet.

I walked back to the conference room door. Alistair was still lecturing.

I took a deep breath.

I pushed the door open.

I walked toward him.

Just as I placed the cup near his hand, I executed a strategic stumble.

"Woah!"

Splash.

The entire cup of dark brown liquid hit his expensive, bespoke suit. Right on the left shoulder.

"I am so sorry, Alistair!" I gasped.

I didn't give anyone time to react. I didn't give him time to react.

I practically pounced on him.

My hands flew to his chest, frantically clawing at the sodden fabric of his jacket and shirt.

"Let me dry that! Take it off, quickly! Before it soaks through!"

My target was clear.

Left collarbone.

My fingertips grazed the damp fabric of his dress shirt.

Beneath the wet silk, I felt it.

The temperature of his skin radiating through the cool liquid. The sudden, hard contraction of muscle as he tensed up.

It was rock solid. Granite wrapped in silk.

The room let out a collective gasp of horror.

I didn't care. I successfully yanked the collar of his shirt aside, exposing the skin.

It was pale. Cold-toned.

The texture was smooth. The muscle definition was exquisite.

But

No mole.

It was clean. Blank.

Nothing.

Time stopped.

I froze, my hand still gripping his collar, my fingers pressing against his damp chest