~Becklan's POV~
His face tightened with pure corporate disgust. "We are not going to a MILF shooting a low-budget adult film. How dare you dress like this? Why does your uniform keep getting shorter every time you put it on?"
I flashed a wide, dazzling smile. "Sir… did you forget? This is only my second day working in this mansion."
He rolled his eyes, his patience thinning. "Will you just answer my question?"
"It's very simple, Mr. President," I said, hand on my hip like I owned the room.
"I'm showcasing the beauty I was born with. I'm supposed to be a model, but because someone downgraded me to maid duty, I have to let the world enjoy what's left of my glory."
Leon stared at me, his eyes cold enough to freeze liquid nitrogen. He took a long, threatening breath.
"Give me one good reason," he hissed, his voice dropping to that lethal silk, "why I shouldn't fire you right now for gross insubordination and public indecency."
I maintained my smile, though I knew I was playing with fire—specifically, the kind of fire that results in being homeless.
"For gross insubordination," I replied, dipping my head apologetically, "I am truly sorry, Mr. President. That was unacceptable, and I accept any punishment." I paused, letting the remorse linger for a moment. Then I tilted my head defiantly. "But public indecency? Sir, with all due respect, it's my body. I do not see how this should concern you in any way."
My uniform was short, but it wasn't technically illegal. It was just spectacularly distracting.
Before Leon could respond with the full force of his fashion demon rage, Lan, the head of staff and a connoisseur of quiet chaos, stepped forward.
"Mr. President," Lan said calmly, the perfect diplomat, "perhaps you should let Beck be. I suppose he just loves to show his body, and I must be honest, it's truly a work of art."
A ripple of agreement went through the staff lined up behind me.
Then, from the back row, one of the younger maids whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, "I'd do the same if I had that body!"
Hearing my peers validate my status as a magnificent object, I simply could not hold back. I broke character completely. I threw a hand to my chest and turned slightly, beaming at the maids.
"Thank you!" I whispered back dramatically, as if receiving an Oscar for Best Use of a Micro-Skirt. "It's hard work, but I appreciate the recognition!"
Leon watched this entire debacle, the staff rallying behind my barely-covered hips, the open admiration, my obnoxious acceptance speech, and his perfect corporate control snapped. He looked like a man who was simultaneously counting to a million and considering setting his own hair on fire.
He shook his head, a single, violent motion of utter defeat. "Fine," he bit out, his voice hoarse with frustration. "Wear whatever you like. Just get my things."
That was it. I won.
He didn't wait for me to gloat. He simply pivoted on his heel and strode out the front door, leaving a trail of expensive cologne and simmering fury.
I grinned triumphantly. That was a clear win for Team Becklan, scoring in the first quarter of the day.
I snatched up Leon's pristine silver lunchbox and sprinted after him. I was moving so fast I nearly overshot the black armored sedan waiting at the curb.
I slid into the back seat, landing slightly closer to Leon than was appropriate for maid-to-mogul relations. The fabric of my outrageously short uniform skirt rode up even higher, giving him a front-row view of my aggressively toned thigh.
Leon didn't even look at me. He just glared straight ahead, running a hand through his dark hair as if trying to physically smooth out the stress I caused him.
"Drive," he snapped at the driver. "Straight to the company. And Beck?"
"Yes, Mr. President?"
He finally turned, his eyes icy. "If any of my clients mention your attire today, I am blaming Lan."
I smirked slightly, keeping my tone casual but confident. "Mr. President, trust me, if any of your clients comment, it's not because I did something wrong. It's because they're enjoying the view."
He shot me a lethal look, one so sharp it practically screamed that hiring me was the worst decision he'd made in years. And God, the satisfaction that rolled through me was impossible to hide.
The car pulled up to the glittering headquarters of Leon Haute Couture. Stepping out in my micro-uniform was an event. Seriously, everyone admired me! Every staff member, from the harried interns to the senior designers, gave me that appreciative, head-to-toe scan. One poor soul even whispered loudly, "He must be one of Leon's new campaign models!"
The more people showered me with compliments, the more Leon hated it. He kept shooting me looks that perfectly contradicted every nice thing anyone said. His face was a thundercloud of resentment as he marched past me, refusing to acknowledge the masterpiece walking beside him.
By the end of the day, my feet were tired, my ego was massive, and Leon informed me we had to meet a client out of town. I seriously didn't understand what this meeting was about, something dreary involving textiles and long-term investment, I assumed, but he simply said, "We are lodging."
"Okay," I chirped. Free vacation, terrible boss. I didn't think too much about it.
Later that night, after a silent, tense car ride, we arrived at a ridiculously fancy hotel. Leon immediately disappeared with his actual assistant, leaving me with a young man who looked like he regretted his life choices. I didn't care where Leon went.
The assistant led me to a gorgeous room. It was 11:46 PM, and I was exhausted. Alone, I stripped completely, tossed my clothes onto the expensive velvet armchair, and collapsed onto the soft, cloud-like bed, relishing the freedom of being naked.
I was half-asleep when, around midnight, I heard the distinctive beep-click of a key card.
My eyes snapped open. The door swung inward.
And there stood Leon.
He looked every bit as exhausted as he claimed, his suit slightly wrinkled and his tie loosened. But the moment his steel-grey eyes landed on my half-exposed, post-model-career body, he froze.
My brain hit the emergency alarm. I scrambled, yanking the duvet up to my chest like it was a shield against a nuclear blast.
"Mr. President!" I shrieked, my voice going annoyingly high. "Why are you in my room?"
He chuckled, a short, dry, utterly infuriating sound. "Your room? Beck, be grateful I'm allowing you to stay in the same room as me."
"My eyes widened in disbelief. 'What? But I thought you went to…'"
"Beck," he cut in, his voice flat with exhaustion. He didn't raise it, he just bulldozed over my words. "I don't have time for drama."
He ran a weary hand over his face. "I just came back from a client meeting. I'm exhausted."
He gestured dismissively toward the closed bathroom door. "I'm going to shower and then rest. Do not disturb me, and do not stress me any further."
And then it hit me like a bucket of icy water: he's showering. And I—Becklan—currently stark naked under this single, flimsy layer of cotton, am stuck in the same luxury room as him. The room he could easily have booked a separate suite for.
What would happen?