All Yours

XIX

AURORA

Stepping into the office, I'm instantly hit with the warm, mouthwatering aroma of freshly fried donuts. My stomach grumbles in anticipation, and I'm determined to locate the source of the amazing smell.

Instead of setting my bags down at my desk and starting up my computer like a responsible employee, I make a quick detour toward the break room to see if the donuts are hiding there.

I'm met with a crowd of people gathered around the counter, their animated chatter drowning out the soft hum of the coffee machine.

Everyone is jostling for a chance to grab a donut before they're all gone. My eyes scan the selection, but disappointment quickly sets in—my favorite flavor isn't there.

Double chocolate girlies rise up.

Deciding it's not worth elbowing my way through the line for a lesser flavor, I resolve to check back in ten minutes. Hopefully, there'll still be something left.

As I make my way back to my desk, the thought crosses my mind—who brought in the donuts, and why?

Walking past the restroom, I feel the familiar twinge of my morning coffee catching up with me. I glance at my watch, figure I'll have just enough time before the day kicks into high gear and head inside.

I quickly do my business, and as I walk toward the door to exit, my hand resting on the handle, it suddenly swings open from the other side.

I gasp, startled by the abruptness, and take a step back.

As the door opens wider, I freeze. My breath catches in my throat as I see who's on the other side.

"Ivan?"

He stands there, his towering frame filling the doorway, his eyes shadowed with something darker than I expected. I blink, trying to gather myself, a smile faltering on my lips as I say, "Ivan! I was hoping to see you. I don't know if you got my text last night—"

Before I can finish, he steps inside, forcing me to backpedal into the restroom. My brows furrow as I notice the tension in his posture and the sharpness in his expression.

The door slams shut behind him, and the sound echoes ominously in the tiled space.

"You were late," he snaps, his voice low but brimming with anger. His nostrils flare, his jaw tight, and his words cut through me like a knife.

"I—I had to stay late at work, but as soon as I finished, I headed straight to the restaurant. You weren't there," I explain, my voice trembling slightly under his intense glare. But something about him feels... off.

Then the smell hits me—sharp and sour, unmistakably alcohol. My eyes dart to his face, and I notice the redness in his eyes and the slight droop to his lids.

He's drunk. He's drunk this early in the morning.

Ivan takes another step forward, and I instinctively take one back, my hand brushing the cold sink behind me. "I'm not a man who waits for sluts," he spits, his tone dripping with venom.

My stomach twists in disbelief. "Excuse me? What the hell are you talking about?"

He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he stumbles closer, the alcohol on his breath making me want to recoil. "Don't act so innocent," he sneers. "Everyone in the office knows you're screwing the boss."

The accusation slams into me like a train. My jaw drops, and I shake my head, stunned by his words. "That's a goddamned lie! I'm not doing anything with Mr. Moretti," I snap back, my voice rising in defense.