Miles, fresh out of college and into the CEO's assistant role, had barely settled in before he stumbled headfirst into an absurd quagmire. When Mr. Everett, the man who held the very pulse of the empire, casually lifted his shirt to reveal an old, faded scar on his back and uttered a simple, "Help me with this," the office whispers of "executive impairment" coiled like venomous snakes around my mind.
A sudden chill snaked up my spine, quickly replaced by the feverish rush of adrenaline. 'Help him,' I thought, interpreting it as a direct, literal plea – a secret request for a 'fix.'
And so, as if possessed, I unbuckled Mr. Everett’s undeniably expensive leather belt. With trembling hands, I proceeded to bind him – this impossibly powerful man – tightly to the ten-thousand-dollar, ornate floor lamp. I genuinely believed I was conducting a secret, sacred 'therapy session.'
Everett’s cerulean eyes, initially scanning the belt wrapped around him, snapped to mine. Blue lightning seemed to crackle within them. His face transitioned from calm to ashen, then to a near-transparent, deathly white. It wasn't anger; it was the ultimate indignity, the profound humiliation of being utterly violated. When his gaze fell upon the open copy of 'New York's Sexiest Bachelors' magazine on his desk, and the neon sticky note I’d used to highlight his profile, his fury was no longer a flicker of lightning, but the gathering rumble of a full-blown thunderstorm.
“Miles!” His voice, though muffled by the belt, took on a deeper, more dangerous tone, like a predator biding its time. “You’re fired. Get out. Now!”
Fired? My tuition! My entire life! After a momentary blank, a frantic, desperate thought flashed through my mind. Like a drowning man grasping at a final straw, I took the plunge. “Are you quite sure, Mr. Everett?” My voice trembled, yet I forced out a semblance of coldness. “Fiona, the new HR manager, she’ll be here any minute.”
I gestured towards the closed office door, like a gambler pushed to the brink, revealing my only card. “Do you want her to see… this? The venerable Mr. Everett, bound to a lamp by his assistant, with ‘New York’s Sexiest Bachelors’ lying right there? That image, I imagine, would become the most talked-about ‘anecdote’ throughout the entire company, indeed, all of Manhattan.”
A storm brewed in Everett’s eyes. He clenched his jaw, each word seeming ground from shards of ice: “You… are truly something.” Under my blackmail, he had capitulated. He was giving me one last chance.
But it was not without cost.
After he freed himself, he didn’t immediately lash out. Instead, he pulled a thick, entirely black booklet from his drawer and slammed it down before me. It wasn't an employee handbook; it was an ‘Assistant Code of Conduct,’ its gold-embossed title gleaming with an icy sheen under the light.
“Miles.” His voice was low and dangerous, each word tipped with a barb. “Violate a single rule in here, and you’ll receive a letter from my lawyers. It won’t just be a dismissal then.”
He left, leaving me alone in the office, my heart hammering a furious drumbeat in my chest. I clutched the heavy manual, muttering to myself, “Deep breath, you’re not gay… you’re not…”
Was I really not? And what, exactly, would Mr. Everett’s ‘Code’ demand? What kind of extraordinary ‘expectations’ would it contain?
Med student Miles catches his influencer girlfriend cheating. To get back at her, he stages a “fake a
