My Hot Boss is My Fiancé
Description
Marla Quintell never planned to work for a man like Ives Mercer-the notoriously cold CEO of Mercer House, a media conglomerate with more power than most governments. But when her temp job accidentally lands her as his executive assistant, she's pulled into a world of high-pressure meetings, airtight schedules, and a boss who seems more machine than man. Ives doesn't like surprises, interruptions, or Marla's refusal to just follow orders. She doesn't like his silence, his rules, or how he sees right through her. But when a secret manuscript he ghostwrote under a pseudonym goes viral, the company is thrown into chaos-and Ives needs someone he can trust to keep it under control. That someone, against all odds, is Marla. Thrust into late-night strategy sessions, press appearances, and an escalating PR storm, she's not just his assistant anymore-she's also the solution on paper: his fake fiancee. As sparks fly behind closed office doors, both must decide what lines they're willing to cross when work gets personal.
Chapter 1
May 30, 2025
Marla’s POV
I was supposed to spend my Monday answering phones on floor twelve. Smile, forward calls, maybe fake a cough by Friday and get paid for doing the bare minimum. That was the plan when Dana, my cousin, offered me the temp job; easy money, zero stress. Instead, I was ten minutes late, underdressed, and about five seconds from quitting. I wasn’t supposed to be in a private elevator headed for the thirty-seventh floor of Mercer House. The executive floor. Yet, there I was.
I step out of the elevator, heels clicking way too loud for comfort. The air up here is different. Thinner. More judgmental. There’s no welcome desk. Just silence, glass walls, and anxiety. A guy at a sleek side desk glances up and immediately frowns. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah, uh… I’m temping today? Dana Quintell from HR sent me.”
He blinks. Picks up his earpiece. “She’s here.”
Then he stands and waves me toward a huge black door like I’m a stray cat. “Take it through there. He’s expecting you.”
I hesitate. “You sure?” He’s already back in his chair and didn’t even bother to respond.
Anyway, I pushed the door open and it was the biggest mistake of my life. Inside is the coldest room I’ve ever walked into, and it looks… empty. There were no photos, no other clutter. Just a man at a desk, fingers tapping a keyboard.
I recognized him instantly. Ives Mercer. Of course I knew him, Dana never shut up about him. Every Friday night, wine in hand, she'd rant about “that emotionally stunted boardroom robot” who ran Mercer House, as in the billion-dollar media empire whose CEO is someone who probably fires people in alphabetical order. She called him The Grim Reaper of PowerPoints. Said he once tanked an entire department’s project because someone used Comic Sans in a presentation.
Since Dana is in HR, she had a front-row seat to the chaos, panic resignations, people crying in elevators, interns ghosting mid-week. According to her, Mercer didn’t believe in praise. Only performance.
“He’d fire his own shadow if it lagged behind,” she’d say. So yeah, I knew exactly who I was staring at. He looks up. Once.
“You’re late,” he says, eyes narrowing slightly. That’s it. No name, no welcome.
“I- uh, I think there’s been a mix-up,” I say, adjusting my bag. “I was told I’d be helping someone from the marketing team?”
“Sit,” he replies, eyeing towards the desk on the side, then looks back at his screen. “Don’t speak. Don’t touch anything.”
I opened my mouth to explain again, but the look he gave me shut that down fast. That was one thing Dana didn’t lie about. So I sat… in a stupidly expensive chair. And I didn’t touch anything… for the first ten minutes. Until his phone rang; loud, sharp, and echoing through the office. I glanced around, no one else was here. He was on another line, so I answered it.
“Mercer House, this is-” Static, then a pause.
“Put me through to Mercer,” the voice demands.“This is the New York Times. We’d like to schedule an interview with Mr. Mercer.”
I started to panic. Real, chest-tightening panic. I asked them to hold and looked over at Mr. Mercer, still on a call, speaking in that terrifyingly calm tone of his. I stood up from my desk and walked toward him, then started gesturing wildly, pointing at the phone, mouthing “New York Times,” waving like I was on fire. He didn’t even pause his conversation, just shot me a look. One sharp, ice-cold glare. I immediately went back to my desk, then sank into my chair like I’d been shot.
I took a steadying breath before speaking into the phone again. “He’s occupied at the moment, can I take a message for him?”
My eyes darted across the desk for a pen and paper, knocking over a few things in my rush as the voice on the other end began to speak. I scribbled furiously, trying to keep up, when a folder landed on the desk in front of me, with my name on it. I froze, then instinctively set the phone down mid-sentence.
“What is this?” I asked, looking up at him, confusion tightening in my chest.
“Can’t you read?” he said flatly.
Heat rushed to my cheeks, humiliation blooming fast. I gripped the folder tighter. “This is a mistake. I shouldn’t be in here, you’ve got the wrong girl.”
“You’re broke. The other you wouldn’t be here doing a temp job.”
My breath caught. My eyes widened. “How-”
He leaned in, cutting me off with a voice too calm to be kind. “I know you need the money in that contract.”
I flipped through the pages, my heart stuttering at the bold number printed across the bottom. $200,000. Lump sum.
I looked up at him, stunned. “Two hundred thousand?”
“Sign it,” he said, voice low and firm. “And it’s yours.”
“You don’t understand,” I said, shaking my head. “I was sent here by mistake.”
He gave me a slow once-over, gaze lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle. I could tell what he saw, ordinary. Nothing polished or pristine, just a temp girl in worn heels and a borrowed blazer.
“You look... ordinary,” he said at last. “Someone the press won’t bother with. And whether you admit it or not, that money could change everything for you.”
I swallowed hard. “What do I have to do?”
His eyes locked on mine. “You have to be my fake fiancée.”
My Hot Boss is My Fiancé
30 Chapters
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