Oops, I Kissed My Villain Boss

Florence's POV

I balanced two coffee trays on both my hands as I slipped through the office doors like I belonged there. A practiced smile curved my pink glossed lips, friendly but not too bright to make people uncomfortable, just enough to look approachable and likeable. I greeted the receptionist by name, dropped a coffee off at the front desk, as I walked further in.

"Thanks! Wait, are you one of the new interns?"

"Oh, no," I replied with a soft laugh. "Just hoping I soon will be."

A woman in red bottom heels passed by, barely sparing me a glance as she did. I turned my smile to her, but the woman didn't return it. Instead, she disappeared down the corridor marked Human Resources, the same direction I was heading. Oh boy.

I tucked in a loose strand of hair behind my ear and kept walking, my heels clicking on the shiny marble floor with confidence. My blouse was crisp, skirt modest, and hair pulled into the neatest low bun I could manage. I probably looked like a dream employee.

Inside the interview room, the HR representative, a woman, middle-aged, bored, and barely looking up, flipped through my résumé with disinterest. "I can see from this that you don't have much experience in corporate admin work."

"I'm a fast learner," I replied smoothly, crossing one leg over the other. "And I'm extremely organized. I'm passionate about structure and productivity." I said like I was reading a script. Which technically I was, I used an AI app to draft out the perfect way to answer questions during an interview.

The woman barely nodded, already scribbling something down. I caught the faint smirk and the way my application was slowly being slid toward the wrong pile. A pile of so dirted and discarded looking files as opposed to the neat and arranged set on the opposite side.

This wasn't going to work. Not like this, I had to change the situation. Fast.

When the woman excused herself to use the bathroom, I instantly made my move. Calmly, like I was just adjusting my seat, I leaned over the desk. In one swift motion, I slid my application from the rejection stack to the approval one and tucked the one from the favored candidate under the discarded pile. The switch took less than five seconds and I left no evidence.

I sat back, sipping from the coffee I had brought for myself, and waited like nothing had happened.

Later, as I walked back through the office, I handed out two more coffees with a warm smile and casual confidence. I waved at one of the assistants and complimented her. "Hey! Love your shoes."

"Thanks! Wait, what department are you in again?"

"Oh, I'm not yet an employee," I replied with a soft grin. "Just... hoping."

People laughed, and complimented my vibe. Apparently it was magnetic, kind, and efficient. I looked like I belonged with them and they would not have suspected me not being an employee until I pointed it out.

At the exit, I nodded politely to the gate man and flashed a charming smile at the security guard.

"Have a great day!" I cheerfully called as I walked out.

Once I was past the glass doors and onto the empty sidewalk, my entire face fell. The bright smile dropped like the mask it was. I walked straight, purposeful, like the weight of the world rested on every step. Unfortunately it did.

My phone buzzed with a notification. I looked at the screen, checking it and it was an alert from my calendar. Day 1: Infiltration complete.

I looked up at the massive glass building behind me, St. Louis Corp, its polished windows gleaming like everything I had lost, everything I would soon recover.

"Phase One," I whispered. "Now let's burn this place down."

********

I pushed open the door to the modest apartment and immediately caught the scent of burning onions.

"Mum?" I frantically called out, locking the door behind me. She wasn't meant to be near any dangerous appliances.

From the kitchen came the clang of metal and a soft, melodic hum, off-key, but familiar. I dropped my bag quietly by the couch and quickly made my way toward the sound.

My mom, Maria Davidson, stood by the stove, stirring a pot like it was a normal Tuesday evening in a house that no longer existed. Her graying hair was tied loosely, her floral nightgown stained with something that looked like flour and tomato paste. The dining table was already half-set, the plates along with matching cutlery clinked against one another, mismatched but neatly arranged.

My steps slowed down. There were four plates, but only four people.

I swallowed hard. "Mum..."

Mom looked up, her face brightening. "Oh good, you're home. Wash your hands, sweetie, your dad should be back soon. I made his favorite stew, and your brother he's always late, isn't he? Always something at the office."

"Mum, we...there's only two of us." I tried to keep my voice calm, steady, but it cracked. "Dad... Dad's not coming home."

Mom blinked, confused. "What are you talking about?" she asked, waving a dismissive hand. "Of course he's coming home, and Gabriel, he'll be really hungry. Don't be silly, Florence, get another spoon. They'll both want seconds."

I held my mother's hands. "Mum, listen to me. Daddy's gone and Gabriel,he's... we don't know where he is. It's just us now."

Mom stared at me, the brightness fading from her eyes like a candle dimming. She shook her head violently and pulled her hands away.

"No," she whispered. "Don't say that. Don't say that again, Florence. Your father is not dead and your brother is not gone. You always say that, but it's not true, you're just confused. I'm making dinner, and they're coming home."

She turned back to the stove and stirred faster, more erratic now. "They'll be hungry. We have to eat. I promised Gabriel we'd watch that old movie tonight..."

The spoon clattered to the floor.

I bent to pick it up just as Mom slammed a cabinet shut and kicked the chair by the table. The plate on top slipped from the impact and shattered all over the ground.

Mom flinched at the sound, then covered her ears and began to hum again like a broken record.

I stood still, holding the wooden spoon in my hands, breathing through my nose as Mom herself rocked slightly by the stove.

This wasn't new, but it never got easier.

I walked slowly to the table and removed the two extra plates. I said nothing, just packed them away, gently, like they weren't reminders of the past.

Mom mumbled under her breath, "He's just working late. Your father's car broke down, that's all. It happens... it happens..."

I finally set the spoon down and leaned against the marble counter that reflected my face. My face was expressionless again, cold, flat, as though I pressed the shutdown button on my emotions.

My phone buzzed on the counter and I stretched to stare at the screen.

* Application Accepted. Probationary period begins Monday.

St. Louis Corp HR *

My eyes lifted slowly to the reflection of herself in the microwave, lips tight, skin pale, exhaustion written in every line.

"Don't worry, Mum," I whispered. "They'll all pay for what they did to us."

And this time, I meant it.

The confirmation email came in at 6:47 a.m.

Subject: Application Approved

Body: Congratulations, Ms. Davidson. Your position as Executive Secretary to Mr. Anthony St. Louis begins today. Report to the 41st floor by 8 a.m. sharp. No delays tolerated. – HR Department.

I stared at the screen for a few seconds before letting my lips curl into a smile. It wasn't joy nor It wasn't excitement. It was satisfaction, satisfaction that my plan was slowly becoming a reality.

Phase Two: Entry into the enemy lair. Check.

I got ready in silence. My hair slicked into a clean, tight bun, minimal natural like makeup, light foundation to cover acne spots and nude lipstick so not to seem too bold. Black pencil skirt, white blouse, heels that said I walk like I mean it. I didn't tremble, I didn't pray, and I sure as hell didn't whisper wishes into the universe. God wasn't coming to save me. God didn't drag some people out of fire no matter how much we pray. Some of us learned to burn and keep walking.

By 7:58am, I was on the 41st floor, badge clipped to my clothes, and heart steady. The office was a wall of glass and sterile perfection, silver accents, minimalist furniture, and the faint smell of espresso coffee and capitalist arrogance in the form of expensive perfume. I approached the sleek desk where a woman sat typing furiously, her brows pinched like someone had offended her ancestors.

" Good morning. I'm Florence, the new secretary." I said with a bright smile.

She barely glanced at me before sighing. "Of course. You were supposed to meet with HR but unfortunately I didn't get the update. There were... texting delays." She waved vaguely toward her phone and then narrowed her eyes at me. "Word of advice? Mr. St. Louis is very strict, and if you mess up once, you're out."

I gave a sweet smile while my brain was screaming profanities.

So strict he destroys families? Frames innocent men? Treats employees like pawns? Yeah, sounds about right.

"Thanks for the warning," I replied.

She pointed down the hall. "His office is at the end of the corridor. He's in a meeting right now so you'll have to wait."

Her system then tinged and she looked at the screen for some seconds before turning back to me.

"His meeting just finished so you can walk right in."

I walked, not too fast, not too slow, just enough to look like I belonged. The hallway was silent, floor-to-ceiling glass on one side, wall art on the other.

Then I saw the door. Anthony St. Louis, CEO.

I didn't even knock, I just opened it and there he was. Sitting behind a massive black desk, pen in hand, eyes scanning documents like they held the secrets to the universe. His hair was jet black, styled back like it knew it belonged to someone powerful. His jaw was sharp enough to slice through lies, and his suit, midnight gray with black pinstripes, looked custom-made for a king.

I knew he was handsome from the articles, the magazine covers, the corporate propaganda. But nothing prepared me for seeing him in person. He wasn't just good-looking, he was dangerous-looking. Calm and unreadable.

And somehow, impossibly, more human than I expected.

He finally spoke still without looking at me. "You're the new secretary?"

His voice was deep, clipped.

"Yes," I said, stepping forward. "I'm Florence Davidson."

"Get me the quarterly files from this month. Make sure the red folders are separated from the blue, then Janine to reschedule the call with the Zurich team. And also, I want a black coffee, no sugar, no cream."

I blinked. "Just like that?"

He gave no response. He just flipped to the next page in his file, like I was background noise.

I turned on my heel and got to work. Even though I got confused and lost a couple of times. Eventually, I found the files, color-coded and sharp-edged. Passed the message to Janine who I found out was the stressed out receptionist, brought the coffee, exactly how he asked. I returned in thirty minutes.

He still didn't look at me.

He pointed to the right side of his office. A small glass corner partitioned off like a glorified storage unit.

"That's your office," he said.

I nodded, said nothing, and went to set up my space. A sleek black desk, one chair, a desktop system, and a frosted glass divider, in the corner of a king's lair, carved out for the help.

He gave me no further instructions, no welcome, just more work. "Follow up on the digital strategy proposals. Cross-check last month's numbers. Refile the project briefs by department priority, and I want it on my desk by noon."

I didn't argue, I just did it.

He didn't speak unless he had a task for me. He didn't ask my name again, didn't even look at me longer than three seconds. But somehow, I felt his presence like it was wrapped around every breath I took.

By 1 p.m., I was barely keeping up. My feet ached, fingers burned from typing and sorting. Also I forgot to eat lunch.

At 4 p.m., he finally stepped out for a meeting and I sagged in my chair exhausted.

Anthony St. Louis is a workaholic tyrant with the emotional capacity of a paperweight. A capitalist machine with good hair and no soul, basically a monster in a three-piece suit.

By the time I left the building, the sky was darkening and my body felt like it had been flattened by a steamroller and then run over again for good measure. The heels I wore were trying to assassinate me, my eyes were dry and my back, completely broken.

But I didn't complain, because I had managed to make it in.

When I got home, I found Mom asleep on the couch, an old family album clutched to her chest. I took it from her gently, covered her with a blanket, and went to the kitchen.

I opened the fridge and sighed. It was empty except for half a bottle of water and an expired yogurt. I leaned against the cold counter and let out a long, tired breath.

"Anthony St. Louis," I muttered, "is a soul sucking, time taking, youth draining capitalist overlord who deserves a slow, painful death."

I pulled out a notebook and crossed off today's task.

Step Three: Survive the First Day. Check.

I stared at the blank page beneath it.

Step Four: Make him pay.

And tomorrow, I'd get started.

Florence's POV

It's been two weeks. Fourteen days of perfectly ironed blouses, multiple rounds of fake smiles, and emotional gymnastics.

I now know the exact time Anthony St. Louis arrives every morning, 8:01 a.m., the number of sugars he doesn't want in his coffee, and that he reviews contracts with the same emotional warmth as someone reading a soup label or a bland soup recipe.

Every day, I sit in the glass corner of his office, silently judging him while pretending to be buried in spreadsheets. And every day, he hands me work like a machine, never faltering, never hesitating, like I'm just another pawn in his shiny, joyless empire.

It all started last Monday, when one of the interns spilled coffee on herself in the elevator. She looked close to tears in her coffee stained dress.

"Take a break," I whispered as I passed her. "Go wash up."

Anthony stepped in seconds later, looked at the stain, and said, "That cup cost $4.20. Get another one and don't make the client wait next time."

The girl nodded quickly, face flushed. When we got to the office, I said nothing. Just set his coffee on his desk with a tight smile.

"You're very consistent," I said sweetly. "Like a very charming death robot."

He didn't respond to me and just handed me a file to type.

He was on a call later that day when a florist arrived with condolence flowers for a business partner who had just unfortunately lost his wife.

Anthony glanced at the bouquet and frowned. "Too sentimental. It is giving the wrong message. Send back something more... neutral."

I blinked at him. "Ah, yes. Wouldn't want to remind a grieving man that his wife is dead with nice sentimental flowers."

He looked up, just briefly. "Handle it."

I did handle it, but I made sure to include a sympathy note that read 'Some losses don't show up on balance sheets.'

Was it petty? Yes it was but also worth it.

By Wednesday, his receptionist, Janine looked like she was one file away from collapsing on the floor. I tried to lighten her load, quietly picking up some of her minor tasks, like proofreading investor emails or organizing the boardroom bookings.

When I mentioned it casually, he just said, "If she's struggling, she'll be replaced."

That was when I muttered under my breath, "So will your soul, when hell finally reclaims it."

He didn't respond. He probably didn't hear me.

******

On Thursday, I asked for a one-hour break to take my mother to the clinic. She was having a panic attack again, trying to find the family photo album she swore my dad had taken to work.

"I can spare thirty minutes," he said without looking at me.

I paused. "Your generosity overwhelms me. Truly."

"I don't pay you for flattery."

No, you pay me for silence. For the illusion that everything here works like clockwork, not because you've built a good system but because everyone's too scared to fall out of it.

The next day, we had a scheduled fire drill. Everyone had stepped outside, laughing, stretching their legs, enjoying the break.

Contrary to Anthony who stood beside me, scrolling through emails.

"Sir," I said, eyes forward, "this building could be on actual fire, and you'd still be reorganizing your Q4 targets."

He didn't even blink. "That's because deadlines are fireproof."

I turned away so he wouldn't see my eye roll.

That afternoon, while reviewing résumés for a new PR officer, he said, "I don't like emotional types. They're unstable, business needs clear heads, not bleeding hearts."

I tilted my head. "So to you empathy is... what? A liability?"

"In this company? Yes."

I stared at him. "Do you ever cry?"

He looked up for the first time that day. "Do you?"

I smiled. "Only when I run out of wine."

**********

Janine and I pooled money for the accountant's impromptu birthday. Nothing fancy, just a small cake in the break room. I didn't expect Anthony to come over. I didn't want him to spoil the mood with his gloomy aura.

But he passed by, paused for a second, and said, "You know this will cut into everyone's work time."

I offered him a slice of cake. "It's chocolate. Maybe it'll melt the ice wall where your heart should be."

He looked at the cake, then back at me.

"Too sweet," he said. "Like distractions."

I laughed, loud enough for people's heads to turn. "Wow. That must be your wedding toast."

His gaze lingered on me for a beat too long. I turned away, pretending not to care.

That night, as I rode the elevator down to the lobby, my reflection stared back at me. Hair in a tight bun, tired eyes, stiff shoulders.

He made me angry, that was true. But not in the explosive, fiery way I expected.

It was colder than that, quiet and silently gnawing at my chest. It was the weird way he seemed to float above human emotion like it was a distraction, the way he walked past people without looking or feeling anything. Like they were all objects to be used and replaced when faulty.

He was everything I thought he would be, and maybe worse.

And still, I caught myself watching him sometimes. Studying the little frown he wore when reading bad reports, the tension in his jaw when someone wasted time, the briefest flicker of something in his eyes when he thought no one was looking.

Was that... pain? In them?

No, it couldn't be. Not with him.

I shook the thought out of my head.He didn't care, he was incapable of that.

And if I ever forgot that, I just had to remember what he did to Gabriel, dad and me. How he destroyed my family.

I got off the elevator, heels clicking against marble, and headed home. Tomorrow, I'd be back. With another smile, and another perfectly filed document hiding another hidden plan.

Because I was here for a reason, and no amount of designer suits or quiet brooding would distract me from it. Not even if his eyes were the exact color of the storm I still carried inside me.