Hi everyone. I’m excited about my next book coming out by the end of this month. Please spread the word.
Here’s the first part of Chapter one for your reading pleasure. Thanks so much for riding with me.
Title: My Bosses’s Son
Adanna Ezenna needs this promotion. What’s more, she deserves it. But after a workday from hell, her chances look grim. So, when some joker, posing as the lead actor in a hit series on British BAC-TV network slides into her Cupidess dating app DMs, her response pulls no punches.
She’s not looking for romance right now, and certainly not with a liar and fraud. Hopefully, her stern reply would make him quit bugging her. Because no way could he be the man for her, right?
Justin Igwe is in Lagos searching for his biological father. After a bitter breakup, the last thing he wants, or needs is romance. But since he could really use a savvy local to show him the city, he joins the hip, new dating app Cupidess. And bingo, there she is—someone who knows the city like the back of her hand.
Adanna is totally not his type. Perfect. All he has to do is convince her he’s not a con man. Easy. The hard part? Fighting his unexpected attraction to her.
Trigger warnings: Workplace sexual harassment.
Chapter One: Part 1
Eyes and mouth agape, I stare in disbelief at the man seated in front of me. Did he just say what I think he said?
“I-I don’t understand, sir,” I mutter in a low voice, fighting the bile suddenly churning in my stomach.
He bursts into a garrulous laugh, his double chin jiggling like Jello. Pushing his chair slightly backwards, he pats his protruding belly in a self-assured way.
“You’re not a child, my dear. Surely, you don’t need me to spell it out for you,” he says, reaching to adjust his spectacles over his broad nose. “Nothing in this world goes for free.”
“But … Mrs Aramide said I was qualified for this … this promotion…”
“And she is right, my dear,” he affirms, nodding his head. “You are more than qualified.”
“So, why are you suggesting … why are you saying this?” My heart is beating so fast, I can almost feel the vibrations in my chest. How the hell can this be happening?
Last week, my supervisor called me to her office for a meeting to discuss my future. About time. I’ve been at the mobile network firm Zilteck for six years, working my ass off and going nowhere. No advancement, no pay rise.
So, I was thrilled when Mrs Aramide told me that she’d put my name in for a promotion. Apart from the much needed, fifteen-percent salary boost, I would finally be eligible for the company’s health and welfare insurance program.
“Yes, you’re eligible for promotion, but so are the other five people competing with you. What makes you think you deserve it more?”
“Well, sir…” I stop and clear my throat. “I’ve worked here for over six years, and brought in a lot of clients—”
He waves his hand to silence me, and then, resumes his belly rub. “All well and good, but that’s not how your mates got their promotions. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Simple.”
“And … what does scratching your back entail?”
My question comes out in an almost inaudible whisper, but I can hear the laughter from Chief Madu resounding loudly in my ears.
“Like I said, you aren’t a child,” he says with a voice that now sounds icy, all the playfulness of a few moments ago long gone.
His gaze locks with mine, and the hairs on my neck stand on end. Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades. A shrewdness has replaced the usually benign spark in his irises. He is no longer the jovial boss who calls out cheery greetings to everyone he passes on his way to the fifth floor.
It’s like the Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Someone has replaced Chief Madu, the firm’s General Manager, with an imposter. I don’t recognize the devil sitting behind this desk with the balls to make such an indecent demand before he gives me a promotion that’s rightfully mine.
“All smart women know why they are women.” He rubs his palms together and slides his tongue over his lips as his eyes glide over me in a way that makes me recoil and want to pull the ends of my coat together. “You are beautiful. Sexy. Use what the Good Lord gave you to get what you want.”
Dumbfounded by his audacity, I remain mute, unable to shoot a word past my lips.
“Take some time to think about it, my dear,” he says. “Let’s say … four weeks. I’ll be here on the 25th of this month, and if your answer is yes, you’ll get your promotion.”
“Sir…” I begin, desperate to counter his assumption that I’d entertain this madness for even one second.
Stand up, my mind screams. Tell him to go to hell and to take his job and his promotion with him. I open my mouth, but the words stick in my throat. And even if I could unstick them, my tongue feels glued to the top of my mouth. I can’t speak.
“Don’t worry, my dear, you’re hardly the first, and definitely not the last,” he says in a dismissive tone. “Ask your own supervisor about how she got her own promotion”
Without another word or glance at me, he turns his attention to the desktop in front of him and begins typing on his keyboard, effectively ending our interaction.
Stiff as a board, my mind thrown into complete befuddlement, I rise to my feet and walk out of the office, my gaze lowered to the floor.
Think about it.
As I stumble down the hall, his words buzz like angry killer bees in my head. My throat is tight with tears, but I bite down on my lower lip, fighting it. Why should I be the one crying instead of the disgusting man back there? What have I done wrong?
Pressing the down arrow on the elevator multiple times, I swallow hard, hoping to hell I don’t bump into anyone on my way back to my first-floor office.
The elevator chimes and the door slides open. It’s empty. Thank God for small mercies. Heaving a deep sigh, I step in and squeeze my eyes shut, still pushing back the tears that seem determined to flow.
My mind spins and my stomach churns on the interminable lift ride down. I feel nauseated and somewhat dirty, like I need a bath for simply being in the room with Chief Madu.
Is this my fault? Did I give him a desperate vibe? A runs-babe vibe? I lift my head and glance at my reflection in the elevator mirror.
Is it because there’s a hint of cleavage peeking out from the top of my camisole? Are my clothes too provocative for the workplace? I pull my black pant suit jacket together and hide my chest.
Maybe I’m too chatty, too friendly. At that, I flash back to the last office Christmas party. Oh, God.
Chief Madu asked me to dance. I could hardly say no, but did he misinterpret that?
I cover my mouth with my palms, face warm with embarrassment at the memory of my moves on the dance floor—shaking my ample booty as I danced with almost every male staff member in attendance. Had Chief Madu noticed? Is that why?
Thanks for reading. What are your thoughts?
Check for Part 2 on Friday