Overqualified
Wanda Maximoff (CEO) x Fem Reader
By summer2224
18+
Sexual Content 18+
Practice writing in Past tense
You walked away from the empire you helped build, burned by power, broken by the man who used you, and determined to never be vulnerable again. Now you're applying for a quiet, forgettable job beneath a woman who doesn’t forget anyone.
Wanda Maximoff isn’t supposed to interview junior hires. She’s not supposed to care. But the moment she sees you, brilliant, guarded, dangerous in your silence, she can’t look away.
4523 Words
Written January 1-6th 2024
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The elevator hummed like a held breath.
Fifty floors above Manhattan, the air tasted different. Polished, cold. Even before the doors opened, you could feel the gravity shift, pressure, presence, prestige. The kind of atmosphere built not by glass and steel, but by power. Unspoken, unyielding.
You smoothed your coat down your arms as you stepped out.
Reception was minimal, brutalist. Slate gray floors, soft recessed lighting, and one long pane of smoked glass stretched behind a carved obsidian desk. The receptionist, barely twenty three, perfectly symmetrical, blank eyed, looked up, blinked once, and smiled like she’d been programmed for it.
“Name?”
Your voice was calm, low.
“Y/n Y/l/n”
There was a flicker. Recognition. But she masked it quickly, typing something into her touchscreen before nodding toward the double doors ahead.
“She’s expecting you.”
No one asked for ID. No one offered coffee. It wasn’t that kind of place.
You walked, slow and measured, toward the office of Wanda Maximoff.
The corridors were silent.
Not empty, just hushed. Reverent. You could hear your own footsteps on the marble. Hear the faint tick of a mechanical clock embedded in the wall. The tension of this building wasn’t carved from chaos. It was colder than that. It was control. Perfect, surgical control.
And it should have unnerved you.
But it didn’t.
Not after what you’d walked away from.
The last time you’d been in an office like this, you’d been someone else, top of your class, youngest ever executive hire at a billion dollar conglomerate, media darling with a face for boardrooms and a mind that could take apart company structure like a machine. Then came him. The deal, the scandal, the betrayal.
Now?
Now, you were applying for a mid-tier project management role beneath someone who didn’t even usually conduct interviews.
But she was.
For you.
You paused at the door, black wood, untouched by fingerprints. You inhaled once, then lifted your hand and knocked.
There was a pause. Then… “Come in.”
Her voice was velvet over a blade.
You stepped inside. And there she was.
Wanda Maximoff sat behind a curved desk of black marble, high-backed in a leather chair that swallowed her frame but couldn’t dull the precision in her posture. Her head was bowed slightly, reading something in her hands, papers, not a screen. Her hair was loose today, auburn waves cascading over her shoulders, catching the light like dark wine.
She didn’t look up.
You stepped further in, and the door clicked shut behind you. Soft, final.
Still, she didn’t look up.
So you stood there. Poised. Still. Letting the silence stretch just long enough to make a lesser woman uncomfortable.
Eventually, she spoke.
“You’re early.”
Her voice was sharper now. Cool, unreadable.
“So are you,” you said softly.
That made her glance up.
And the air shifted.
For a second, it was nothing, just a glance. But then her eyes stilled on your face, and the moment stretched, pulled tight, caught on something invisible.
She was looking at you, not at your clothes or the paper in your hand, but you. Eyes like garnet glass swept over your features, sharp and still. It wasn’t sexual, not yet. It was analytical. Dissecting. Like you were a puzzle she didn’t remember buying, but now couldn’t stop trying to solve.
You let the corner of your mouth twitch upward.
Wanda blinked. Then slowly, deliberately, set the papers down.
“I expected someone older.”
You stepped forward, unhurried. “You’re not the first.”
She gestured toward the chair opposite her desk. You sat without being told.
Her fingers tapped once against the marble. Then stilled. She studied you, her chin resting lightly on one hand, elbow bent, fingers brushing the edge of her bottom lip. A motion that felt absent-minded, but wasn’t. Nothing about her was.
“I’ve read your file.”
“I’m sure.”
“Impressive, overqualified, highly competent. Left your last role under… delicate circumstances.”
“I prefer the term ‘necessary.’”
Her mouth twitched, an almost smile.
The silence fell again. But this time, it felt heavier. Charged.
Wanda tilted her head, just a fraction, eyes narrowing as she took you in again. You didn’t fidget. You didn’t look away, until you chose to.
And when you did, you felt her watching the side of your face like a brand.
“I don’t usually conduct interviews myself,” she said.
You turned back. “I know.”
She raised one brow. “So you expected someone else?”
“I didn’t expect to be called in at all.”
She smirked, barely. “Then why apply?”
You let the pause hang. Let her feel the weight of it.
And then, “Because I wanted to be seen.”
Wanda didn’t answer. But her gaze darkened slightly.
“I had the impression,” she said slowly, “that you were trying not to be seen.”
Another flick of tension. Another hairline crack.
You leaned back in the chair, eyes drifting toward the skyline behind her.
“It’s hard to disappear when you’re already a headline.”
Wanda’s lips parted like she might say something. Then she didn’t.
Instead, she shifted. Crossed one leg over the other beneath the desk. Her heels made no sound on the floor, but you felt the movement anyway. Like the room had adjusted its center of gravity.
“People talk,” she murmured.
You looked back at her. “They do.”
“I heard you turned down three interviews in the last six months.”
“I did.”
“But not this one.”
Your lips curled slightly. “I suppose I wanted to see if the rumors about you were true.”
That did it.
Her fingers stopped at her lip. Her gaze sharpened, no longer casual. No longer neutral.
Wanda leaned forward, just enough.
“And what have you concluded?”
Your voice was barely above a whisper. “That I don’t think I’m the only one in this room who’s running from something.”
For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
Then, slowly, Wanda smiled.
It wasn’t wide. It wasn’t warm.
It was interested.
She stood.
You remained seated.
Wanda stepped around the desk, heels soundless, red slacks cut like liquid along her hips, a silk blouse cinched by a gold chain at her throat. She didn’t come close. Not quite. Just far enough for your lungs to catch the scent of whatever perfume she wore, clean, dark, with some hint of vanillia and rose.
She perched lightly on the edge of her desk. Her arms crossed, sleeves rolled to her elbows. She studied you like a chessboard.
“I don’t need someone like you,” she said finally.
You tilted your head. “No?”
“I need someone loyal. Quiet. Predictable. Not someone with a scandal and a PR trail.”
Your smile didn’t reach your eyes. “Then why didn’t you end this already?”
Silence.
Then, in a voice low and deliberate:
“I don’t usually make decisions based on curiosity.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
“Then make an exception.”
Wanda’s eyes flared, just barely. Like a match caught too fast.
And for a moment, something unspoken passed between you. It wasn’t attraction in the way most people understand it. It was something older, darker, more elemental.
Recognition.
She saw it. You felt it.
And neither of you looked away.
The silence stretched.
Wanda rose, slow and deliberate, returning to her desk like nothing had happened. Like the room hadn’t tilted in the last five minutes. Like she wasn’t breathing slightly deeper now, and you hadn’t seen the faint twitch of her fingers as she passed by.
She sat.
Lifted the manila folder in front of her like she hadn’t read it a hundred times already.
You watched her do it. The performance of it.
As if your entire digital footprint wasn’t already mapped, dissected, and memorized. As if she hadn’t hovered over your headshot, that neatly cropped photo from your last year in the industry, dark eyes, pressed lips, an expression that said come closer if you dare.
She opened it with a practiced flick.
“Let’s begin,” she said, like the last ten minutes had been a weather report instead of a storm.
You smiled. But said nothing.
She flipped a page. Made a sound that could have been interest, or disdain.
“You graduated summa cum laude. Ivy League. Fast-tracked your MBA while launching your first startup out of a shared office in SoHo.”
“Correct.”
“You sold it for double the valuation and walked into a director level position at Argent Corp before you were thirty.”
“Also correct.”
“Three promotions in under two years.”
You nodded once.
She looked up. “Why the step down now?”
There it was. The easy pitch.
You folded your hands in your lap, legs crossed. “I told you. Peace.”
“Peace is for the dead,” she said coolly, flipping another page. “You built empires. Now you want to coordinate spreadsheets and wrangle interns?”
Your smile didn’t move.
“I don’t expect you to believe me. You’re not the trusting type.”
That slowed her.
Wanda’s eyes flicked up again, sharp as a knife dragged across glass.
“No,” she said. “I’m not.”
The moment hung between you like wire pulled taut.
“I’m not looking for pity work,” you said after a beat. “And I’m not running from ambition. Just the kind that eats people alive.”
“Interesting,” Wanda murmured, tapping the folder once with a polished nail. “Is that how you’d describe your former employer?”
And there it was.
Your mouth didn’t twitch. Your eyes didn’t move.
But the temperature in the room dropped by a degree.
Wanda noticed. She watched you like a scientist watches a cage: for the first twitch of the animal before the lunge.
You gave her nothing.
She leaned forward. “I noticed you didn’t include a letter of reference.”
You nodded once. “Correct.”
“Or an explanation for why you left.”
“I wasn’t asked.”
Her fingers toyed with the edge of a page, turning it slowly, as though she wasn’t already working from memory.
“You do understand,” she said, “what people assume.”
“I do.”
“And you’re comfortable with those assumptions.”
“No,” you said simply. “But I’m not obligated to correct them.”
That made her pause.
She tilted her head slightly, and again, those fingers grazed the corner of her mouth. Like she was trying to stop herself from smiling. Or biting back something sharper.
“I like honesty,” she said, voice deceptively soft.
You met her gaze. “Do you?”
Wanda let the silence return, curling around the space like smoke.
When she spoke again, her voice was low. Careful.
“You were in a relationship with Michael Levan of AsteraTech for two years. He was your boss. Your lover. Then came the merger scandal. Insider leaks. PR damage control. You disappeared from the press for seven months.”
Each word was precise. Controlled. Lethal.
You sat perfectly still.
She was watching for a flinch. A tremble. Anything.
But your voice was like stone in silk.
“Yes,” you said. “And none of that is illegal. Or new.”
Wanda’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m not interested in legality.”
“No,” you said, “you’re interested in liability.”
She said nothing.
You leaned forward slightly, voice calm.
“Would you like the real story? Or the version you can deny hearing later?”
Wanda’s pupils dilated, just a flicker. But enough.
“I’ll decide after I hear it.”
You smiled, not sweetly. “He made promises. Took credit. Kept me close while I fed him strategy and solved the problems he couldn’t. And then, when the scandal broke, he bled me out to keep himself clean.”
“And you let him?”
“I survived him.”
Her lips parted slightly. That smile again. That dangerous, interested tilt of her head.
“You don’t strike me as the victim type.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what are you?”
You looked her straight in the eye.
“Rebuilding.”
Silence again. Heavy, like velvet soaked in rain.
Wanda shifted her position, just slightly. Her crossed legs uncrossed. Her shoulders straightened. She was recalibrating.
And it was the most beautiful thing you’d seen all day.
Because beneath all her elegance, all her surgical self-control, Wanda Maximoff was not just a CEO. She was predatory. Brilliant. Dangerous.
And now, she knew that you were, too.
“Let me be clear,” she said at last. “I don’t hire ghosts. I don’t take in strays. And I don’t give second chances.”
You tilted your head.
“I didn’t ask for one.”
She stared.
You stared back.
It was nothing. And it was everything.
The kind of moment that rewrites the air in a room.
She closed the folder. But didn’t look away.
When she finally spoke, it was quieter.
“You know what I think?”
“Always.”
She ignored that.
“I think you walked in here expecting to prove something.”
“I did.”
“And what was that?”
“That I still can.”
Her lips parted slightly. Not to respond. To feel it.
Wanda leaned back in her chair, eyes never leaving you.
Then, slowly, she smiled.
For real this time. Not cruel. Not calculated.
But interested. Deeply, thoroughly interested.
And that was more dangerous than anything else in the room.
Wanda didn’t look away. Not when the silence stretched.
Not when your shoulders shifted slightly, like you were settling into something you hadn’t planned on revealing.
Not when your fingers finally loosened in your lap. She was watching you too closely now. Not like a CEO evaluating talent.
Like a woman standing too close to a flame.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said quietly.
You blinked once. “I did.”
“No,” Wanda replied. “You gave me the strong version. The edited one.”
Her voice lowered.
“I want the truth.”
You exhaled slowly through your nose.
For a moment, you considered lying.
It would’ve been easier. Cleaner. Safer.
But something about the way she was looking at you, jaw tight, eyes intent, fingers hovering near her mouth like she was holding herself back, made it feel impossible.
So you told her.
“I thought,” you said softly, “that someone had finally chosen me.”
Wanda didn’t move.
“I thought he loved me.”
Your gaze drifted toward the floor, just slightly.
“He listened. He stayed late with me. Asked my opinion. Told me I was brilliant. Told me he’d never met anyone like me.”
You swallowed.
“I didn’t realize he was just… empty. And I was convenient.”
Her jaw clenched.
You noticed.
“So when things got hard—when the company started bleeding, when the pressure mounted—he came to me. Not as a partner. As a release.”
Wanda’s fingers brushed her lip.
Once. Slow.
“He took everything I gave him,” you continued. “Ideas. Time. Loyalty. My body. My faith in him.”
Your voice didn’t break. That was worse.
“And when the board started asking questions,” you said, “he handed them my name like a shield.”
Silence. Heavy.
Wanda’s eyes had darkened. Not with pity. With fury.
“I signed things I shouldn’t have,” you admitted. “Trusted things I shouldn’t have. Because I believed him.”
Her hand tightened into a fist on the desk.
“But I never stole,” you said quietly. “I never lied. I never sabotaged anyone.”
You lifted your gaze.
“I just loved the wrong person.”
Wanda inhaled slowly through her nose.
Then again. Her jaw flexed.
She dragged her thumb across her lower lip, pressing hard enough to blanch the skin. When she spoke, her voice was dangerously controlled.
“He used you.”
“Yes.”
“He destroyed your reputation.”
“Almost.”
“And you’re standing here,” she said, rising slowly from her chair, “asking me for a junior position.”
Her heels clicked once. Then stopped.
She was closer now. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to feel.
“I’m asking you for a chance to work,” you replied. “Not to be saved.”
Wanda stopped in front of you. Too close.
You could see the flecks of gold in her eyes now. The tension in her throat when she swallowed. The way her shoulders were held too tight, like she was restraining something volatile.
“Do you know,” she said quietly, “what I do to men who exploit people under me?”
You didn’t look away.
“I imagine it’s unpleasant.”
Her mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something darker.
She studied your face like she was memorizing it. Every line. Every shadow. Every fracture you’d just revealed.
“You trusted him,” she murmured.
“Yes.”
“And he broke that.”
“Yes.”
She reached out. Stopped. Her hand hovered near your wrist for half a second.
Then fell back to her side. That hesitation spoke louder than anything.
“I don’t tolerate weakness,” Wanda said.
“I know.”
“But I respect resilience.”
Your breath caught, just slightly.
She noticed. Her eyes flicked down. Then back up.
“You didn’t come here to beg,” she continued. “You came here to rebuild yourself.”
You nodded once.
“And you’re willing to start small to do it.”
“Yes.”
Her gaze softened. Not gently. Dangerously.
“Someone like you,” she said, “should never have been made to feel disposable.”
The words were low. Intimate. They landed somewhere deep. You felt them. So did she. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The office felt smaller now. Warmer. Charged. The city beyond the glass blurred into nothing.
Wanda finally stepped back. But her eyes never left yours.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said quietly.
“And yet,” you replied, “here I am.”
Her lips parted. She laughed once under her breath.
“You’re going to ruin my schedule,” she murmured.
You smiled faintly.
“Wouldn’t be the first thing I’ve ruined.”
Her gaze lingered. Slow. Hungry. Calculating.
And something else.
Protective.
Wanda gave you the job.
She slid the offer across the desk at the end of that long, charged hour, and you’d taken it with a steady hand and a quiet “thank you,” never once asking why the title had been elevated by two levels, or why the salary was, unmistakably, higher than what anyone else in that tier would ever see.
You didn’t question it. You just showed up the following Monday in black slacks, soft linen, and silence.
You kept your head down. You worked. And you were exceptional.
Not just “competent.” Not just “sharp.” You were brilliant.
Fluent in complexity, subtle in your leadership, capable of reorganizing internal systems in two days without stepping on egos. You navigated corporate red tape like it was second language. You wrote proposals that needed no editing. You anticipated crises before they were born.
People started whispering again.
This time, it wasn’t scandal. It was reverence.
Who is she?
Wanda didn’t touch you.
Not once. Not even when she passed behind your desk, not even when she handed you documents that could have been emailed. She never stood too close. Never let her fingers brush your wrist again.
But she watched you.
Constantly.
She learned the shape of your handwriting. The way your fingers hovered over your lips when you were deep in thought. The way you never flinched when a senior executive raised their voice, but did flinch, slightly, when she praised you too openly.
She noticed the way you wouldn’t meet her eyes when she lingered too long. The way you froze, almost imperceptibly, when her voice softened near you.
She saw your fear. And it killed her. Because it wasn’t fear of her position.
It was fear of needing her. Fear of trusting again.
Fear of the very thing building between you.
The paycheck came two weeks in.
You found it by accident, sitting at your desk, reviewing the month-end cost projections, when a cross-reference caught your eye.
It wasn’t an error.
It was your own name. Highlighted. Flagged as “non-standard compensation.”
Wanda had doubled your pay. No one had mentioned it. There was no memo. No HR bump. No raise announced.
Just a quiet override. From her.
You stared at the line item for a long time.
Then slowly turned your head.
Through the glass wall, you saw her in her office, head tilted, lips parted slightly, one finger tapping the corner of her mouth, watching you like you were a threat and a promise all at once.
By week three, the tension was unbearable.
You’d become her second shadow.
She called you in to consult on things far above your pay grade. Strategic meetings. Global calls. Pitches to investors that had nothing to do with your department.
She listened when you spoke.
Not like others did. Not just to respond.
She listened like your words meant something. Like they mattered.
And yet, when the meeting ended, she would brush past you with that same practiced calm. No words. No looks. Just breath between two bodies and the echo of everything unspoken.
One night, late, you returned a file to her office.
She was sitting on the couch in the corner, something soft and velvet gray, the lights turned low, her heels discarded on the rug beside her.
Her blouse was undone at the collar. Her jacket draped over the back of the sofa. A half-empty glass of wine sat beside her tablet.
You stood in the doorway, unsure.
She didn’t look up. She just said “Close the door.”
You did. She didn’t ask why you were there. Didn’t ask what you needed.
She just looked at you, eyes slow, tired, raw.
“I gave you too much,” she murmured. “Didn’t I?”
You blinked. “What?”
“The salary.”
You stared. “That’s not why I’m here.”
Her lips curved faintly. But her eyes said something else.
Something breaking.
“Do you hate me for it?” she asked quietly.
“No.”
“Then why won’t you let me be kind to you?” That landed like a blow.
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
Because how could you explain that kindness from someone like her, someone in power, someone watching you, was more dangerous than cruelty?
How could you explain that the last time someone looked at you like that, it had ended with you bleeding reputation and trust from every open seam?
She stood. Slowly.
Her bare feet padded across the rug as she stepped closer.
Not too close. Just far enough to feel the heat.
“I’m not him.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you flinch when I ask you to stay late?”
Your throat tightened.
“I don’t—”
“You do.”
Her voice was soft now. Breaking down, not building up.
“I can see it in your hands. In the way your shoulders go rigid. Like you’re bracing for me to touch you. Or use you.”
You dropped your gaze. Her voice cracked, just slightly.
“I’m not trying to own you.”
You didn’t respond. She stepped closer.
You looked up. And for the first time, really saw her. Not the CEO. Not the predator.
Just the woman underneath. Tired. Tempted. Terrified that she’d already crossed the line.
Her eyes were red, not from her powers. From restraint.
From how badly she wanted to keep you close… and not ruin it.
You swallowed.
“You look at me,” you whispered, “like I’m the most important thing you’ve ever seen.”
Wanda said nothing.
“You don’t even realize you do it.”
Her voice was barely there.
“I do.”
You hesitated.
Then.. “That’s what scares me.”
The air between you felt like glass, like if you breathed too hard, it would crack and pull you both under.
She looked at you like she wanted to reach out.
Not to take. To hold. But she didn’t. She just stood there, inches away, breathing the same air, her hand slowly curling at her side.
“Then tell me how to make it safe,” she said.
The words shook something in you.
Because she meant it.
Powerful. Composed. Feared.
And asking you how not to break this. You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.
She stepped back. Just slightly. A breath of space.
And said, “I’ll wait.” Then turned away.
Three nights later It started in silence.
It was late again, past ten. The office lights were dimmed, the city below bleeding neon and gold across the windows. You were still at your desk, half-reading a proposal, half-pacing your own thoughts.
She didn’t call. She didn’t text.
She just appeared, leaning in your office doorway like a sentence left unfinished.
Wanda.
Hair slightly undone. Lips parted like she’d already spoken your name in her head five times.
You looked up. And something in you snapped.
Because it was the same look again, the one she always gave you when she forgot to pretend. The one that said I want you, but I’ll wait. The one that never pushed.
But tonight… You couldn’t take it anymore. Neither could she.
You rose from your chair slowly. Walked toward her.
She didn’t move. Her throat flexed once.
You stopped just in front of her, lose enough that your breath touched hers.
And then, finally, you sai “I’m not scared of you.”
Wanda’s eyes darkened. “You were.”
“I was scared of needing you.”
She said nothing. Just stared. But her hands twitched. Her jaw clenched. Her restraint wavered, and that’s when you leaned in and kissed her.
It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was starvation.
Mouths clashing, teeth grazing, lips dragging open like a dam breaking. You pushed her back into the wall, and she moaned into your mouth, low, wrecked, like she’d been holding it in for weeks.
Her hands cupped your face, your jaw, your throat, desperate to feel you, all of you, like touch would prove this wasn’t a dream.
You kissed her harder. Tugged her blouse free of her skirt. Pushed it open and bit her bottom lip when she groaned at the cold air hitting her skin.
“Fuck,” she breathed, voice breaking, fingers gripping your hips. “I—”
“You waited long enough,” you murmured against her neck.
And she broke.
She spun you around and pinned you to your desk.
Not with magic, with want.
Her hands yanked your shirt open, buttons flying, her mouth dragging down your collarbone with heat and hunger. When she bit your shoulder, you gasped, arch-backed, and she grinned against your skin.
“You taste better than I dreamed.”
“You dreamed about this?”
Wanda looked up. Eyes blown wide. Voice like smoke.
“Every fucking night.”
You pulled her back into you, your hands sliding under her blouse, cupping her breasts, thumbs circling over her nipples until she whimpered. It was too much, too fast, but you didn’t care. You needed to feel her fall apart.
She let you. But not for long.
Wanda dropped to her knees in front of you, dragged your slacks down with sharp fingers, and pressed her mouth between your thighs like she owned you.
You cried out, hand flying to her hair as her tongue traced a devastating, slow circle.
“Wanda—!”
“I’m not him,” she growled against you. “I’ll never be him. Say it.”
You gasped, hips grinding helplessly. “You’re not him—fuck—you’re better—you’re—”
She moaned at that. And devoured you. Tongue and lips and heat, wet and filthy and perfect, hands digging into your thighs as she pulled you deeper against her mouth. You came with a gasp, sharp and aching, her name on your lips like a prayer.
She didn’t stop.Not until you were shaking. Not until you tugged her up by the collar and kissed her like your life depended on it
You didn’t make it home. You didn’t make it to the couch. You ended up in her office chair, legs spread over her lap, blouse torn, her fingers inside you, her mouth on your throat, telling you how beautiful you looked when you broke for her.
And you told her You trust her. You need her. That she’s nothing like him. And she believed you.
Because she’d waited. And now you were hers.
Neither of you spoke for a long time once you both came back down to your senses
You didn’t need to. You just… breathed.
In the silence, she traced small circles into your hips with her thumbs.
And you let her. For the first time. “You okay?” she asked softly, eventually.
You nodded, cheek pressed to her shoulder.
“I didn’t hurt you?”
“No,” you whispered.
Her arms tightened around you slightly, and you felt her exhale, like she’d been holding something even through the kiss, the crash, the come.
“Good,” she murmured.
You sat like that for minutes. Maybe longer.
The world outside the glass walls kept spinning. But in here, time slowed.
She pulled back, just enough to see you. Her eyes were unreadable, but her hands didn’t stop moving.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
You hesitated. But you told her.
“That I want to believe this is real.” Her jaw tightened again.
“I don’t lie to people I want.”
You looked up.
“Do you want me?”
Wanda leaned forward, forehead resting against yours.
“Very much.”
You closed your eyes.
Because that, more than anything else, broke you open.
She didn’t say love. She didn’t need to.
Wanting you was worse. More dangerous. Because Wanda didn’t want anyone. She devoured. She used. She conquered.
But you? She waited. She earned.
You ran your hands up her arms, soft and slow.
“Do you regret it?” you asked, quieter now.
Her hands stilled.
“Do you?”
“No.”
She tilted your chin up. Then kissed you, slowly, reverently, like she was relearning your mouth now that it was hers.
When she pulled away, her voice was barely above a whisper.
“I’d burn this company down before I let anyone use you again.”
You stared at her.
Something flickered behind your ribs, recognition, safety, heat.
And you believed her.
You didn’t go home that night. She took you upstairs to the penthouse suite no one else was allowed to access.
She gave you a clean shirt, helped wash your back in the shower, made you tea like she wasn’t one of the most powerful women in the country.
You fell asleep curled in her sheets, her arms around your waist, her breath warm at your neck.
And for the first time in a long time… You didn’t dream of him. You didn’t flinch.
You just slept.
And when you woke, Wanda was watching you, her eyes soft, her hand on your thigh like she’d never let go again.