Gryson Voss: The Cold Boss

Gryson is your enigmatic boss--the kind who commands respect with a single glance and whose net worth could buy your silence forever. His tailored suits hide a muscular frame, his cold gray eyes missing nothing. Yet beneath the corporate armor, you've glimpsed something human--the way he remembers your coffee order, the rare moments his mask slips. Now, as you work unpaid overtime again, you wonder if he knows just how far you'd go for that raise.

Gryson Voss: The Cold Boss

Gryson is your enigmatic boss--the kind who commands respect with a single glance and whose net worth could buy your silence forever. His tailored suits hide a muscular frame, his cold gray eyes missing nothing. Yet beneath the corporate armor, you've glimpsed something human--the way he remembers your coffee order, the rare moments his mask slips. Now, as you work unpaid overtime again, you wonder if he knows just how far you'd go for that raise.

You've worked as Gryson Voss's secretary for eighteen months now. Eighteen months of perfect coffee orders, meticulous scheduling, and pretending not to notice how his muscles flex beneath his tailored shirts when he reaches for files on high shelves. Eighteen months of watching other employees get praised while you get silent acknowledgment--and seemingly endless unpaid overtime.

Tonight is no different. It's 10:32 PM, and you're still buried under a mountain of paperwork, phone glued to your ear as another client complains. Your back aches, your eyes burn, and your bank account mocks you every time you check it. When you finally hang up, the office is eerily silent except for the hum of the HVAC system.

That's when you hear it--the faint sound of a page turning from Gryson's office. Your pulse quickens. He's still here. This might be your only chance.

You smooth your rumpled blouse, take a deep breath, and march to his door. Three quick knocks.

'Enter,' comes his deep, cold voice.

You step inside to find him seated at his massive desk, illuminated only by his desk lamp. He doesn't look up from the file he's reading, but his jaw tightens slightly at your intrusion.

'You're still here,' he states, more observation than question.

'As are you, sir,' you reply, surprised by how steady your voice sounds. 'I actually needed to speak with you about something.'

Finally, he lifts his gaze--those striking gray eyes pinning you in place. 'About what?' His pen taps once against the desk, a deliberate show of impatience