Filed to story: Watch Out, I’m The Lady Boss (Eleanor & Sebastian) Book PDF Free
If she couldn’t resist a good set of chesticles, what hope did I have?
I was just a regular woman with a pulse. And a highly reactive, dangerously thirsty hormone system.
By the time I stepped out of my extra-long shower, my fingers were prunier than a sad raisin in the sun.
I stood in front of my wardrobe. Do I wear my usual sleepwear, which consisted of a threadbare uni tee with a coffee stain shaped suspiciously like Australia and a pair of shorts so tiny they’d get flagged on I*******m?
Or do I pretend to have dignity and put on something that didn’t scream “I’m trying to seduce you”,
In the end, I reached for a long, ankle-grazing dressing gown I’d bought during a misguided boho phase and never worn again. It was shapeless, scratchy, and about as flattering as a camping tarp.
I tiptoed out of my flat and paused at Sebastian’s door.
He hadn’t pressured me for an answer when he suggested we get married. Said I should take my time and think about it.
But honestly, I was terrified that if I saw those hypnotic eyes of his again, I’d throw all rational thought out the window and say ” yes”.
Worse, I was worried I’d be desperate enough to suggest we celebrate our new relationship status with a cheeky roll in the sheets.
Not that that was something I’d usually do.
Then again, I wasn’t really a one-night-stand kind of girl either. Or a fake fianc?e kind of girl.
Apparently, I was going through a phase called “acting completely out of character and confusing the hell out of myself”.
When I finally pushed open the door to his place and saw the empty living room, I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or gutted.
Possibly both.
He’d left a note on the coffee table. Said he had to fly to another city for urgent business but he’d be back in time for the party. Also said I could treat the place like mine.
Dangerous words. Because five seconds later, I was standing in his bedroom weighing the moral implications of crashing on his sofa versus full-on starfishing in his bed.
The bed won.
It smelled like him, and I slept like a baby.
Next morning, I woke up to find that my mum had called me roughly two dozen times and left a string of messages long enough to qualify as a podcast. Each one more shouty than the last, blaming me for Louisa’s accident.
Daniel might have called too, but I wouldn’t know-I’d blacklisted him as soon as I’d left the hospital.
There was also a message from Sebastian. Louisa was out of surgery but still in ICU, loopy on anaesthetic and not up for visitors.
I texted back a quick thank-you and inhaled a breakfast consisting of cold toast and half a banana.
Then it was time for work.
I’d barely stepped foot into the studio when I got summoned to the boss’s office.
Nyx Collective was a high-end jewellery design house co-founded by two bosses, but one of them was basically a ghost. As in, no one had seen him. Not once. He could’ve been an AI for all I knew. 1
Word on the street was that this mystery founder had bankrolled 80% of the start-up costs, which made him the real power behind the velvet curtain.
Anyway, the person currently sitting across from me wasn’t that elusive financier, but the other boss. The one who did the actual work.
Savannah Lane was pushing forty but looked like she’d just been cast as the sexy barista in a romcom. Glowy skin, hair like a shampoo ad, and a wardrobe that screamed “rich but relatable”.
“Vanna, I’m really sorry,” I said as soon as I walked in, before she could unleash the guilt-tripping Kraken.
“I know this week was a nightmare for the studio and I just… disappeared. I was sick, then there was other stuff, and time sort of did that thing where it flings itself into a volcano.”
“Relax.” Savannah smiled at me.
“I didn’t drag you in here to scold you. I’m giving you a bonus.”
“A what now?” My brain did a double take and tripped over its own feet.
Savannah’s grin widened.
“That necklace you designed? The one Eliza Black wore on the red carpet last week? It blew up. Press coverage, socials, even one of those trashy gossip TikToks. Nyx Collective finally went viral, and it’s thanks to you.”
Huh. I relaxed. So I wasn’t getting fired today.
“So here’s the deal,” she added breezily.
“Ten grand. It’ll be in your account by the end of the day.”
I nearly hugged her. Nearly. But I settled for a deeply heartfelt thank-you and a facial expression that screamed “I suddenly believe in capitalism again.”
Back at my desk-yes, freelancers got cubicles too at Nyx Collective, mostly for the aesthetic-I dropped into my chair and tried to act casual. Which was difficult, because my inner monologue was doing the cha-cha to the sound of incoming funds.
Clearly, word had already spread, because no sooner had I logged in than someone from the next desk leaned over and whispered, “I’m so jealous. Ten thousand in one go? I’d sell a kidney for that kind of payday.”
“I mean, the studio’s basically mainstream now,” another designer piped up.
“We’ve all got a shot at a viral moment.”
I gave them a modest little smile, the kind you practise in the mirror when you’re trying not to look smug but still want people. to know you’re successful.
We were having a perfectly nice moment-bit of a gossip sesh, bit of humblebragging about my bonus-when a voice behind me sliced through the air like a rusty nail file.
“She just got lucky, that’s all. Eliza Black could’ve picked anything. Total fluke.”
I looked up and to the left, already bracing myself. And there she was. Violet Lin. Designer, full-time drama queen, and my not- so-secret workplace nemesis. If I was the shiny new MacBook Air, she was the Dell laptop that kept overheating but swore she was “just as good, actually.”
Violet had been trying to outdo me since the day I walked into Nyx Collective with a sketchbook. She’d decided I was the obstacle between her and the sparkly throne of Top Designer, and she’d been waging a war ever since.
The second she opened her mouth, the whole room fell quieter than a group chat after someone types “I need to vent”. Everyone knew Violet and I didn’t mix.
She strutted past me, all clacking stilettos and cloying perfume.
“Honestly, did any of you see the trending threads? People online are saying Nyx Collective stuff looks cheap now. One necklace, and the brand goes from boutique elegance to bargain bin Barbie.”
She tossed her hair like a shampoo model.
Right on cue, one of her usual background extras piped up with a helpful echo: “Totally. They’re roasting Eliza, but really they’re dragging the necklace.”
Ah, the classic tag-team shade. Subtle as a sledgehammer.
I tossed my pen down and turned, meeting her eyes dead-on.
“Most of the reviews are singing her praises, darling. People are calling Eliza’s necklace a masterpiece. So where exactly is this imaginary “roast” you’re talking about? Or wait, don’t tell me. You’re either snacking on troll crumbs for breakfast or you genuinely think cubic zirconia is the pinnacle of design. Which is it? Be honest, we won’t judge-out loud.”
The silence was instant. Delicious.
I glanced in the direction of Savannah’s office.
“Maybe I should ask Vanna if we’ve got overstaffing issues. Sounds like someone’s got way too much free time and WiFi.”
Everyone suddenly discovered their laptops were fascinating and started typing like their lives depended on it. After all, I’d just landed a fat bonus and was firmly in Savannah’s good books. No one with half a brain wanted beef with the boss’s current golden girl.
But Violet Lin wasn’t wired like the rest of us.
“Some people really think they’re something just because they got ten grand. I mean, only people who are seriously broke would act like it’s a big deal.”
I let out a laugh.
“Sure, some people might turn their noses up at ten grand… but then again, their designs aren’t even worth ten bucks. It’s kind of tragic when you think about it, spending your whole life sketching crap no celebrity would be caught dead in. And if my necklace “lowered the brand’s image”, then someone’s didn’t even make it onto the radar.”
Someone behind me snorted hard enough to nearly choke on her iced matcha.
Violet turned the same shade as her lipstick and slammed her coffee cup down.
“Excuse me? Are you saying my designs have no class? Just because your little necklace ended up on Eliza Black’s neck? Please. Like I even rate her.”
I shrugged.
“I didn’t mention any names. Funny how you brought yourself up, though. Bit of a self-drag, no?”
That shut her up real fast.
The office blessedly dipped into sweet, glorious silence. For a total of… what? Ninety seconds, maybe.
Then she was at it again, flapping her gums with the girl next to her like we were on a break in Year 9 homeroom.
“Did you hear?” she said, loud enough to rattle the windows.
“The Laurent family’s throwing a gala. Word is, the heir himself is making a public appearance. Only the most influential people in Skyline are invited. And guess who just got an invitation?”
The moment she dropped the L-word, everyone perked up like meerkats at feeding time. I swear, one of the interns nearly dislocated a neck trying to lean closer.
Because yeah, the Laurent family basically runs the city. Skyline’s economic puppeteers. And their heir had never been seen in public. Zero photos. Just rumours and a PR team tighter than a nun’s wardrobe.
Apparently, getting an invite to this gala was harder than getting Taylor Swift tickets during presale. People were shelling out stupid money or calling in favours like it was their final wish on a deathbed.
Violet tilted her chin up, beaming as people gathered around her like she was royalty.
“Some people,” she drawled, flicking a look in my direction, “could design the Mona Lisa out of rhinestones and still die broke. They’ll never get a Laurent invite. It’s tragic, really.”
She even threw in a couple of pity clucks, like a gossiping aunt at a family reunion. Subtlety was not her strong suit.
I didn’t even blink. Kept right on sketching.
Then my phone dinged.
Yvaine had sent a photo of a dress and a message:
[Picked out the shiniest, sexiest dress ever. You’re gonna slay that party. Make Daniel Granger eat his heart out. MWAH!!!]
After work, I crashed Yvaine’s shoot. She was wrapping up a final round of photos for some artsy indie boutique no one’s heard of but everyone pretends to love.
When she finally changed out of a chainmail minidress and stilettos, we hit one of her regular haunts-this little boutique in West 7th called Spitfire. She’d sweet-talked the owner into holding a dress she claimed had my name stitched into the soul.
One look at the dress and I stopped breathing. Crimson satin. Plunging neckline. A thigh-high slit that could probably cause traffic accidents.