Chapter 14 : The Boss’s Daughter

6:58 a.m. – Hell Wakes You Up

You wake up to screaming.

Not the fun, cathartic kind you get on roller coasters, but the kind of primal scream that says “there is a rat in my bed and the rat is also naked and also human.”

You open your eyes.

There is a girl.

She’s young — maybe 20 — and pretty in the way people are when they’ve had expensive orthodontics and generational wealth.

You are half‑naked.

She is half‑naked.

And your bare chests are fused together in that disgusting magical way that’s like being gift‑wrapped with skin.

“WHY AM I STUCK TO YOU?!” she shrieks.

“WHY ARE YOU STUCK TO ME?!” You scream back. Because why not.

7:00 a.m. – Recognition

It takes a moment.

Rachel Townsend.

You’ve seen her at the Christmas parties. Laughing with your boss — her father — while you hovered near the buffet like a raccoon at a picnic.

“Oh no,” you whisper.

“Oh no what?”

“Oh no, you’re—”

“Yes,” she says flatly.

Your life flashes before your eyes. It’s not very interesting, and it ends at about 9:00 a.m. today.

7:05 a.m. – The Erection Problem

And then the inevitable happens.

Because you are a man. Because she is 20, half‑naked, and fused to you like a sticker you can’t peel off. Because biology is cruel and uncaring.

“Oh no,” you mutter.

Her eyes widen. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” you say too fast, the universal language of guilt.

Her expression shifts to one of pure, concentrated horror. “Are you—oh my God. Are you getting—”

“NO,” you interrupt. Which is a lie. It’s happening. It’s mortifying. It’s unstoppable.

She makes a noise like she’s just witnessed a war crime. “You’re disgusting.”

You look at the ceiling, praying for a meteor strike. “This isn’t voluntary! It’s basic human physiology!”

She doesn’t respond, because there’s really no comeback to that besides continued, seething judgment.

7:15 a.m. – Attempts at Dignity

“Okay,” you say, because people always say ‘okay’ when things are catastrophically not okay. “We just need to… get up.”

You both try to sit.

You do not get up.

You do, however, manage a sort of sticky, creaking flop that feels like two raw chicken breasts trying to separate.

Rachel groans. “This is literally the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You stare at the ceiling. “I can't say the same.”

She side‑eyes you. “Wow. Your life must really suck.”

8:32 a.m. – Transit

You do eventually get dressed. This takes twenty minutes and results in an outfit that can only be described as “mutually defeated.” You try for a hoodie to cover things. She insists on a designer coat. The end result is two humans stuffed together like a badly‑zipped sleeping bag.

“I’m not taking the bus,” she announces, with the confidence of someone who’s never been denied anything in her life.

“Cool,” you wheeze. “I wasn’t planning on going anywhere like this.”

She rolls her eyes, pulls out her phone, and orders a car. You do not get a say in this. You do not get a say in anything anymore.

9:15 a.m. – The Lobby

You arrive at the office to the kind of silence usually reserved for funerals or nuclear disasters.

Everyone sees her.

Everyone knows her.

And everyone knows you shouldn’t be touching her.

There’s a collective oh God expression that spreads across the lobby like a disease. One of the interns drops her coffee. Someone else pretends to check their phone. The receptionist goes very still, like prey hoping the predator won’t notice her.

“Morning,” you mumble.

No one answers.

9:20 a.m. – The Elevator Ride From Hell

If Dante had written The Inferno in the age of corporate America, there would’ve been a special circle of hell for being trapped in an elevator, chest‑to‑chest, with your boss’s daughter while the entire accounting department stares at you like you’ve just detonated a bomb.

Rachel seems unfazed. She’s humming. Humming.

“Why are you so calm?” you hiss.

“Because none of this affects me,” she says sweetly.

You hate her a little.

9:25 a.m. – The Meeting

You are marched — there is no other word for it — into the conference room for the weekly staff meeting.

Every single face turns toward you.

Someone coughs. Someone else whispers “Is that Rachel?” like you’ve shown up carrying a live tiger.

And then, at the head of the table, sits Mr. Townsend.

Your boss. Her father.

His expression is unreadable. Which is worse than rage. Rage you could work with. Rage you could apologize to.

This? This is the quiet, calculating look of a man deciding whether to fire you, kill you, or simply erase you from existence with money.

“Would you like to explain this?” he asks, in a voice so calm it might actually be ****.

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. What comes out is: “Magic?”

Rachel, unbothered, says, “Don’t worry, Daddy. It’ll wear off.”

Daddy. She said Daddy.

And that’s when it happens.

The thing you’ve been dreading since waking up.

Because you are fused chest‑to‑chest with a 20‑year‑old who smells like expensive shampoo, and she shifts slightly in her chair to get comfortable, and biology is cruel.

You feel it.

The stirring.

The betrayal.

The Erection.

Your brain immediately begins screaming: No no no no no NO NO NO—

Rachel freezes. Looks down. Then slowly, deliberately, looks up at you with the smile of someone who has found new and exciting leverage.

“Oh my God,” she says loudly.

Everyone in the room goes still.

“Daddy,” she purrs, never breaking eye contact with you. “He’s getting hard.”

The air leaves the room.

The rest of the day doesn’t matter.

Because you died in that room.

Your body just hasn’t caught up yet.

6:00 p.m. – Bus Ride, Part II

The bus ride home is quieter, but only in the way funerals are quiet.

Rachel looks… relaxed. Like someone who’s been through the stages of grief and decided “gleeful cruelty” was the best coping mechanism available.

You are catatonic.

She shifts slightly — because why not **** you more — then sighs dramatically. “You’re not gonna, like… cry or anything, are you?”

“No.”

“Because you look like you might. Like, if I poked you right now, you’d just start ugly crying into my hair.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. Your soul left your body in that meeting.” She tilts her head. “It was kind of floating above the conference table for a while. I think my dad inhaled it.”

You close your eyes. “Thank you for that imagery.”

She pats your arm condescendingly. “Don’t worry. Nobody will remember this tomorrow.”

You turn your head. “Really?”

She grins. “No. They’ll remember it forever. But I figured lying would help.”

It doesn’t.

11:00 p.m. – Sleep?

She ends up falling asleep curled against you like you’re the world’s saddest body pillow.

You don’t sleep.

Every time she shifts, her chest brushes yours. Every time she exhales, you feel it in your bones.

You stare at the ceiling and wonder what terrible things you did in a past life to deserve this. Probably tax fraud. Or leaving a shopping cart in a parking spot. Or something worse.

7:00 a.m. – The Pop

When the bond finally breaks, it does so with that horrible sticky pop.

Rachel stretches like she’s just woken from a spa nap. “That was fun.”

“Fun,” you croak.

She pops out of existence.

And you wonder if there’s enough bleach in the world to scrub this day from your memory.