Office B*tch 1 - The Summoning

Alex had always been the golden boy of the trading floor. Twenty-six, broad-shouldered, gym-carved arms that strained just enough against the tailored sleeves of his Tom Ford shirts, a jawline that made junior analysts whisper when he walked past. He closed deals with easy charm and moved money like it was breathing. Until three weeks ago.

The mistakes started small—mis-keyed tickets, forgotten follow-ups, a swapped decimal that cost a client seven figures before anyone caught it. The kind of errors people chalk up to burnout. Except Alex wasn’t burned out. He was distracted. And the distraction had a name: guilt. He’d been skimming tiny fractions off certain high-frequency trades, telling himself it was temporary, that he’d replace it before anyone noticed. He hadn’t.

Now the glass door to the executive suite was sliding open in front of him.

Five of them waited inside.

They were the youngest partners the firm had ever promoted—none older than thirty-one—and they wore their youth like a weapon. Crisp white dress shirts rolled to the forearms, sleeves revealing expensive watches and the faint outlines of gym discipline. They didn’t sit behind the long obsidian conference table the way senior partners would have. They lounged. Legs spread, ties loosened, chairs turned outward so the entire room felt like their personal stage.

Elliot, the de facto leader, leaned back with his hands clasped behind his head. Dark hair, sharper cheekbones than should be legal, eyes the color of wet slate. He was the one who’d personally recruited Alex two years earlier.

“Close the door,” Elliot said. His voice was calm, almost gentle.

Alex did. The click of the latch sounded louder than it should have.

The others watched him in loose formation:

• Marcus, golden-blond, former college lacrosse captain, smile too wide and too knowing.

• Julian, lean and dark-eyed, always the quiet one until he spoke and everyone listened.

• Theo, built like he still competed, sleeves tight around biceps, perpetual smirk.

• Caleb, the newest partner, black curls, olive skin, the one who looked at Alex like he was already naked.

• 
  

Elliot tilted his head. “You know why you’re here.”

Alex swallowed. “The… the last quarter’s reconciliation. I—”

“Stop.” Elliot’s voice cut clean. “We’re not doing the excuse portion of the program. Sit.”

There was only one chair left—low, leather, positioned directly in front of the five of them like an interrogation seat. Alex lowered himself slowly, feeling the way the cushion seemed to sink him deeper, smaller.

Marcus spoke first, voice lazy. “You’ve been very… sloppy lately, Alex. Sloppy isn’t a good look on you.”

Julian leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “We’ve seen the logs. We’ve seen the timestamps. We know exactly how much you thought you could take without anyone noticing.”

Alex’s stomach dropped. They knew. Not suspected—knew.

Theo chuckled under his breath. “He’s already sweating through his shirt. Look at that.”

Caleb’s gaze dragged down Alex’s chest, slow and deliberate. “It’s a nice shirt. Shame.”

Elliot raised a hand, silencing the others without looking at them. His attention stayed locked on Alex.

“Here’s how this works,” he said. “You’ve stolen from the firm. From us. That creates a debt. We’re not going to the authorities—yet. We’re not docking your bonus and firing you—yet. We’re going to give you an alternative repayment plan. And you’re going to thank us for it.”

Alex’s mouth went dry. “What… what kind of plan?”

Elliot smiled then—small, sharp, beautiful. “The kind where you learn exactly how small you really are.”

Marcus stood first. He walked around the table until he was standing directly behind Alex’s chair. Close enough that Alex could smell his cologne—something expensive and woody. Marcus’s hands settled on the back of the chair, fingers brushing the nape of Alex’s neck.

“First lesson,” Marcus murmured, breath warm against Alex’s ear. “You don’t get to keep pretending you’re one of us. Not anymore.”

Julian rose next, moving with the quiet grace of someone who never hurried. He stopped in front of Alex, close enough that their knees almost touched.

“Unbutton your shirt,” Julian said. Not loud. Not angry. Just certain.

Alex’s hands shook as he lifted them to the top button. He could feel all five pairs of eyes on him—measuring, amused, hungry.

The first button gave. Then the second. Pale skin appeared, the dark trail of hair leading down his sternum. He kept going because no one told him to stop.

When the shirt hung open, exposing the tight ridges of his abs and the shallow valley between his pecs, Theo let out a low whistle.

“Still looks like a model,” Theo said. “That’s the problem. He thinks the body buys him grace.”

Caleb stepped forward then, reaching out without asking. His fingertips traced the edge of Alex’s left pec, then dragged slowly down over a nipple that stiffened instantly under the touch. Alex sucked in a breath.

“Sensitive,” Caleb noted, almost clinically. He pinched—light, testing. Alex jolted.

Elliot hadn’t moved from his chair. He simply watched, legs spread wider now, one hand resting casually on his own thigh.

“Look at me,” he said.

Alex’s eyes snapped up.

“You’re going to earn your way back into our good graces,” Elliot told him. “One piece of dignity at a time. And when we’re done, you’ll beg us to let you keep coming to work. You’ll beg us to keep owning you.”

Marcus’s fingers tightened on the back of Alex’s neck—not painful, just possessive.

“Say ‘Yes, sir,’” Marcus prompted softly.

Alex’s voice cracked on the first try. He cleared his throat.

“Yes… sir.”

Elliot’s smile widened.

“Good boy.”