Well HR never really asks.

Since when does HR ever bother to ask? You rack your brain, sifting through years of corporate drudgery, and it hits you: those in Human Resources don't request—they dictate, their words laced with the arrogance born of someone who has never worked a day in their life properly and the weight of poor policy.

That's the oddity here—Kateryna seeking your preference, like she's dangling a choice that's anything but free. She's probing, gauging whether you'll opt for the privacy of her office over the open cubicle, though neither offers relief from the stifling heat, the broken AC turning every space into a pressure cooker.

Still, isolating yourself with a stunning woman spells trouble in this litigious landscape, a recipe for accusations that could torpedo your career. But as head of HR, she holds the strings; she could spin any narrative she wants, evidence or not.

Better to play along, select what she clearly desires, and brace for the inevitable charade—a half-baked performance review where she'll nitpick your flawless output, urging you to "improve" and preach about being "more inclusive," the usual bureaucratic drivel that masks their irrelevance.

"If it's important, then I think your office is appropriate," you say, keeping your voice steady.

Her smile erupts, illuminating her features like a spotlight, and you lock your gaze just above her head, staring at the empty air to mimic eye contact without the risk.

"An excellent choice, Mr. Peterson," she replies, her tone laced with satisfaction. She pivots gracefully, and as you rise from your chair, she pauses at the cubicle's edge, swaying her hips in a deliberate, teasing wiggle that sends a jolt through you. What the hell?

Wary, you trail behind her down the corridor, the click of her heels echoing like a countdown. As she steps into her office and vanishes from view for a split second, she repeats the motion—another provocative sway, as if daring you to notice.

Once inside the dimly lit room, heavy with the scent of stale coffee and printer ink, she shuts the door with a soft click and lowers the blinds, sealing off the outside world in one fluid motion.

This screams "one of those" meetings—the kind shrouded in secrecy, where whispers of misconduct brew unseen.

Suspicion coils in your gut; is she laying a trap, ready to twist this into something damning?

"So, let's discuss workplace bullying and harassment, Alexton," Kateryna says, perching atop her desk instead of claiming the chair behind it. She crosses her legs slowly, the fabric of her tight pencil skirt riding up just enough to accentuate the curve of her thighs, her posture dripping with a sultry, teasing nature that jars against the stern formality of the topic.

Oh, shit—this is definitely one of those meetings.

"I, for one, believe frivolous reports and outright lies erode the core of what I do here," Kateryna declares, her voice steady as she uncrosses her legs and slides off the desk, standing tall before you.

Her words catch you off guard, and you blink hard, staring at her crimson lips as they form a subtle curve.

"What?" The question slips out, your brow furrowing in disbelief.

Kateryna leans in closer, her glasses glinting under the office light. "I... think... that... you... have... been... subjected... to... workplace... harassment... Alexton," she enunciates each word deliberately, drawing them out as if explaining to someone slow on the uptake, her green eyes locked on yours with an intensity that pins you to the chair.

"You are?" Your response comes out flat, more a reflex than a real question, your mind scrambling to process this twist.

She nods, a smirk tugging at her mouth. "Why else report you for smelling bad when you clearly don't?"

You shrug, feeling the heat creep up your neck, unsure if it's the broken AC or the bizarre turn of this conversation. "It's scorching in here—we're all drenched in sweat, and my deodorant probably gave out hours ago."

That draws a soft laugh from her, light and unexpected. "Your scent is actually quite appealing, Alexton."

The compliment hangs there, jarring, and your pulse quickens—what is she playing at?

To emphasize, she bends forward, eyes fluttering shut, and inhales deeply through her nose, her face inches from your collar, nostrils flaring as she holds the breath, savoring it like a fine wine.

Your stomach twists; this can't be real, can it? Alarm bells ring in your head, urging you to bolt, but your body freezes, heart hammering against your ribs.

"So strong," she whispers, her breath warm on your skin. "So earthy." The words come out in a low hum as she straightens, then saunters around the desk, hips rolling with each step, until she swings a leg over and settles onto your lap, her weight pressing down, thighs gripping your sides.

"I can fix all your troubles, Alex," she murmurs, and it hits you—she's been dropping your first name like it's hers to use, casual and intimate.

Before you can protest or even think straight, she dips her head, lips brushing yours in a soft initial press, warm and tentative, tasting faintly of mint. Confusion floods you—fear knots in your chest, mind racing with worst-case scenarios: Is this a setup? A test? Your hands hover uselessly at your sides, afraid to touch, afraid not to.

Then her tongue traces the seam of your lips, coaxing them apart, and she deepens it, sliding in to tangle with yours in slow, exploratory swirls that send unwelcome sparks through you. The kiss lingers, her fingers threading into your hair, pulling you closer, while panic surges—your breath catches, thoughts fracturing into shards of dread about consequences, about how this could end your job, your life as you know it.

Finally, she pulls back with a gasp, cheeks flushed, lips glistening. "I think," she says, voice husky as you reel internally, terror gripping your throat, "I'll handle all your issues from here on out, my dear." And without pause, she dives in again, claiming your mouth with renewed hunger.