Under The Mistletoe with My Boss.

Lyla’s POV

17 unread messages?.

My chest tightens.

That’s not normal. Not unless something is wrong.

I blink hard.

Most of the notifications are from work, emails, reminders, calendar alerts, and one message blinking at the top… from Alexander Sterling.

I freeze.

Why would my cold, terrifying, impeccably dressed boss be messaging me before 7 a.m.?

A prickle creeps down my spine.

Something’s off.

I swipe the notification open.

Alexander:

`Ms. Anderson… we need to speak this morning. Please come directly to my office before the team meeting.`

My stomach drops through the mattress. “What? Why?” I whisper to myself.

Did I mess something up yesterday? Did I forget to send the quarterly file?

I’m exhausted enough that I could’ve.

I toss the blanket aside and sit up, rubbing my temples. That’s when I notice the message I had sent last night… one I barely remember sending because I’d been half-asleep, too tired to take off the red lingerie under my robe after taking pictures for Ryan.

My own message sits right beneath Alexander’s name in the chat.

No. No. No.

My thumb shakes as I click it open.

And there it is… my worst fear.

Me.

Red lace.

Half-pose.

Stupid, sleepy smile.

I gasp, a sharp, strangled sound that echoes in the room. “Oh my God… NO!”

My heart slams in my chest so loud it hurts.

My hands fly to my face. “No, no, no, no, no…”

I scroll up, praying for a miracle, like maybe the universe decided to spare me embarrassment for once.

Nope.

The message clearly shows ‘Delivered’ to ‘Alexander Sterling.’

Not Ryan.

I fling myself face-first into my pillow and scream. I want the earth to swallow me whole. How much I'd love to have a time machine to go back and slap last-night me for trusting her sleepy brain with anything more complicated than breathing.

I sit up again, heart pounding, brain spiraling.

He saw it. He totally saw it. He’s definitely firing me. Or worse… he’ll make me talk about it.

A violent wave of mortification crashes over me.

I jump off the bed, pacing in frantic circles. “Okay, Lyla. Think. You have to fix this. Something… Anything.”

But how do you fix accidentally sexting your boss? The man who runs an entire corporation? The man who wears suits worth more than my rent? The man who calls me ‘Ms. Anderson’ even in emails addressed solely to me?

I check the time. 6:52 a.m.

I have thirty-eight minutes to make myself look like a functioning adult, get to the office, and somehow face Alexander Sterling without dying on the spot.

Fantastic.

~

I rush through my morning routine like someone lit a fire under me: shower, hair, makeup, and half-burnt toast clenched between my teeth.

The entire time, my mind keeps replaying the image like a cruel loop.

Red lace.

His name.

Delivered.

I nearly choke on the toast as I pull on my coat.

What must he be thinking? What if he thinks it was intentional? What if he thinks I’m some unprofessional mess who hits on her boss?

“Oh my God, this is so bad…”

I grab my bag, sprint out of my apartment, and start speed-walking down the street like the sidewalk insulted my mother.

The morning air is cold and sharp, waking me up more brutally than caffeine ever could. But it doesn’t calm me. My anxiety only gets worse the closer I get to Sterling Innovation.

By the time I get to the lobby, walking straight into the elevator, my palms are sweating.

The air feels different as the elevator's door opens on the executive floor. Thicker… Tighter.

Or maybe that’s just me slowly suffocating from shame.

I step outside, smoothing down my blouse, trying to appear composed.

I run into Hazel, one of my coworkers and my best friend, as I enter the office.

“The Ice King is waiting for you. Do whatever it takes to survive today, as always, Lyla,” she whispers, glancing toward Alexander’s office.

I force a nod. “Thanks.”

My heart pounds in my ears as I walk toward his office door. My fingers tremble as I knock.

“Come in,” Alexander’s voice says, deep and controlled.

I inhale sharply and push the door open.

He’s standing behind his desk. Perfect posture, suit immaculate, and expression unreadable. Not unusual; he always looks like that. Except right now, something is… tighter. More deliberate.

“Good morning, Ms. Anderson,” he says. His voice is steady. Too steady and practiced.

“Morning,” I squeak.

He gestures to the chair. “Sit, please.”

I do, mostly because my legs feel like jelly, and sitting is safer than collapsing dramatically on his rug.

Alexander circles his desk and sits across from me.

He takes a measured breath. “I won’t take much of your time.”

His tone is clipped, formal, and… thank God, not even remotely flirty. He looks like a man trying very, VERY hard to pretend nothing happened.

“I received… a message from you last night.” The pause is tiny, but it slices the air. “A message I believe was not intended for me.”

Heat rushes up my neck so fast I swear steam might explode out of my ears.

“I… I’m so sorry, sir,” I blurt. “It was a complete mistake. I didn’t mean… I wasn’t… I was half-asleep and exhausted, and I meant to send it to my fiancé, but I didn’t check the contact, and I swear I wasn’t trying to be inappropriate…”

He lifts a hand gently. “Ms. Anderson. It’s alright.”

I shut my mouth so fast my teeth click.

Alexander clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I understand that mistakes happen,” he says. “Especially when one is tired.”

His jaw flexes just a little. “And for the sake of professionalism, we will not discuss the contents of that message.”

Relief floods me so intensely I sag in the chair. “Yes. Yes, please. Thank you,”

I breathe out.

He nods once. “Good. I would appreciate it,” he continues carefully, every word chosen like he’s defusing a bomb, “if such… personal images… are double-checked before sending in the future.”

“Oh God… absolutely,” I say quickly. “Triple-checked. Hundred-checked. I’m deleting every shortcut on my phone.”

A flicker… a tiny one, touches the corner of his mouth. Not a smile, just something softer. Almost amused. Almost.

“Very well,” he says, clearing his throat again as if forcing himself back into CEO mode. “Now, regarding today’s meeting…”

“Wait.” The word slips out.

He looks up, brows raised. “I just… I wanted to say thank you,” I murmur. “For not… making this weird.”

He pauses.

“I’m your employer, Ms. Anderson,” he says quietly. “It is my responsibility to maintain a professional environment. You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Oh, but I do. I absolutely do. Still… hearing him say that steadies me in a way I didn’t expect.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“You’re welcome.”

He shifts the conversation instantly as if determined to yank us both away from the dangerous territory.

“Now,” he says briskly, “let’s go over the quarterly figures before the department arrives.”

Just like that, we’re back to business.

For the next twenty minutes, we talk about budgets, deadlines, and reports. And Alexander is… impeccably professional. Focused and neutral. Not one hint of last night nor one accidental glance.

I keep nodding like a bobblehead, praying my cheeks stop burning before I leave his office.

When the meeting ends, he closes his laptop. “That will be all. And Ms. Anderson?”

“Yes?” “If you need a lighter workload this week, let me know.”

I blink.

“I… I’m fine.”

He nods once.

“Good. You’re dismissed.”

I stand, gather my things, and walk to the door.

As I walk back to my desk, Hazel sends a text:

`ARE U FIRED???`

Me:

`No. Somehow not.`

Hazel:

`Omg tell me everything`

Me:

`Later. Still trying not to pass out.`

Hazel sends a row of laughing emojis.

I drop into my chair, bury my face in my hands, and groan.

I survived. Barely. But the worst part?

Alexander didn’t mention the picture again. He didn’t look weird. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease.

He was perfect. Controlled. Calm. Which somehow… makes me even more aware of what he saw. And no matter how hard I try to shake the thought…

God. This is going to haunt me forever.

Lyla's POV

(The following week)

I sometimes think wedding planning should come with hazard pay, or at least a warning label: Side effects may include stress eating, emotional exhaustion, chronic eye-twitching, and the sudden urge to elope.

Plus working full-time under the world's coldest, most annoyingly perfect boss isn't helping at all.

Staring at two nearly identical shades of beige wedding invitations as I stand in my small but cozy apartment just outside Boston, I’m pretty sure I’m losing my mind.

My phone is placed between my shoulder and ear as my wedding planner, Erica, continues her passionate rant.

“Lyla, sweetheart, linen beige is not the same as champagne beige,” she insists for the third… no, fourth… time.

“They look identical,” I mumble, holding both samples up to the morning light coming through my window.

“They’re not. Linen beige is warmer, and champagne is more sophisticated.”

“They’re beige.” I let out