My Boss's Bali Massage Trap

After having my baby, I kept getting painful bouts of mastitis - and my needs only grew stronger.

Ryan was always buried in work, never around when I needed him. We started fighting constantly. Then his insecurity took a dark turn - he flipped everything around, insisting I had postpartum depression. Before I knew it, he was dragging me overseas for "special treatment."

The so-called therapy center turned out to be a luxury spa. And my masseur? A ridiculously handsome European guy who leaned in close, his breath warm against my ear: "Madame... would you like to discover real pleasure?"

I'm Evelyn Anderson. Twenty-six. New mom. Currently leaking breast milk in the office bathroom like some kind of human dairy farm.

Since returning from maternity leave, my routine's been: pump at dawn, stash bottles in the fridge, let my mother-in-law play milkmaid. But no matter how much I express, by midday I'm swollen and aching - cue awkward bathroom sessions where I discreetly relieve the pressure while praying no one hears.

The worst part? The way the single guys in the office eye my chest like I'm a walking Hooters.

Then came the day I brought reports to Vincent Lowell's office. My CEO - early thirties, unfairly attractive, and very much single - looked up from my paperwork and casually remarked, "Evelyn, you've got... a situation." He gestured toward my blouse with that infuriatingly perfect smile.

I nearly died. Mumbled thanks, fled to the bathroom, changed into my emergency blouse (because of course this happens often enough to pack spares). When I returned, Vincent was reviewing my work with that intense focus of his.

"Solid work," he said, signing with a flourish. Then, mid-sip of coffee: "How'd you like to be my new PA next month?"

My brain short-circuited. His current assistant was leaving, but me? The salary was double mine. The bonus could pay for a year of diapers.

"You think I could handle it?" I blurted.