Confessions of a Seductive Wallflower

Maya’s POV

“Did you seduce your way into getting that client brief again, Maya?”

The words hit like ice water as I looked up from my screen. Janice stood in front of my desk, her overdrawn lips twisted into a smirk. Her heels clicked against the tiled floor as she walked past, a coffee cup in hand that was clearly not her first today.

I didn’t answer. I never did. What was the point?

I simply turned back to my screen and highlighted another section of the proposal I’d spent the weekend refining. Content analysis. Marketing direction. Tone strategy. That was my job—technically, I was a content specialist. But in this office, where the loudest voice won the most attention, being good at your job meant nothing when you were me.

“God, Janice, give it a rest,” muttered Tim, sliding into the chair beside me with his usual dramatic flair. He wore a lavender button-down, sleeves rolled just enough to show his signature silver bracelets. “Just because her face card never declines doesn’t mean she’s sleeping with the bank.”

I nearly choked on my coffee. “Tim!”

“What? I’m just saying. If being pretty is a crime, you’d be serving life, honey.”

I smiled despite myself. “Thanks for defending me.”

“Someone’s gotta.” He dropped his voice and leaned in conspiratorially. “Don’t let her get to you. She’s still bitter from that time she got passed over for that campaign that you saved.”

“I didn’t even get credited for that,” I reminded him quietly.

“Exactly. Which makes her even angrier.”

I sighed. Five years. Five long years of working in this company. First job straight out of college, and somehow, I never left. I was the quiet one in meetings, the one who got everything done, cleaned up the messes, fixed the grammar, reworded every jumbled executive memo—but got no recognition.

Instead? I got stares. Whispers. Ugly rumors.

“She probably hooked up with Greg from Finance.”

“I heard she was with Brian and Alex. That’s why she always gets the early access briefs.”

“Did you see what she wore to the presentation last month? Who’s she trying to impress?”

No matter how neutral my blouses were, no matter how low I kept my heels, or how minimal my makeup was, it didn’t matter. I was pretty, and in this office, that was apparently a sin if you weren’t loud, mean, or married.

“I swear,” I murmured to Tim, eyes back on my screen, “sometimes I feel like I’m just the ghost of this office.”

“A very hot ghost,” Tim added, “but I get it.”

I gave him a small smile. “You’re the only person here who actually talks to me like I’m a human.”

“That’s because I like humans with actual talent. Unlike some people.”

My email pinged. I minimized the document I was working on—client proposal for the new skincare line Noah Sterling, the icy new executive, was leading. He needed someone to help streamline the copy and content, so they dumped it on me last minute. Of course.

“Speaking of chaos,” Tim said, checking his phone. “Have you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“The annual company holiday party. It’s happening Friday. Booze, dancing, fake laughter, and emotional breakdowns in the bathroom stalls—everything corporate America stands for.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not going.”

He gasped like I’d just committed a felony. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not going, Tim.”

“You have to go.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes. You do. Because I’m going. And I’ve already decided—I am your stylist for the evening.”

I laughed. “You can’t just assign yourself that title.”

“Watch me. Do you know how long I’ve waited for the chance to dress you up in something other than your sad, beige cardigans and ‘I’m invisible’ pantsuits?”

“Hey!” I poked his arm with a pen. “My pantsuits are empowering.”

“They scream ‘underpaid assistant with dreams of being noticed by the intern who brings bagels.’ Not empowerment.”

I groaned. “Fine. But I’m not drinking.”