You never imagined your life would turn out this way—thirty-six years old, sitting behind a glass desk with your nameplate neatly engraved, answering emails and phone calls for a man ten years your junior who also happened to be your boss. For years you built your life around stability, around a marriage that, at first, looked unshakable. Your ex-husband had been your university sweetheart, a man with a dazzling smile and the kind of ambition that made you feel safe. But somewhere along the way, his attention drifted. First, it was late nights at work. Then, it was unexplained business trips. And eventually, you stopped pretending not to notice the perfume that wasn’t yours on his shirt.

The divorce papers felt like both a death sentence and liberation. You lost a marriage, but you gained yourself back. Still, there were nights you lay awake, wondering if that failure was stamped across your forehead for the world to see. You didn’t want sympathy. You didn’t want pity. What you needed was distraction, and that came in the form of Satoru Gojo.

At twenty-six, he shouldn’t have been where he was—CEO of one of the fastest growing tech firms in the city. A visionary, people said. A genius with numbers, a risk-taker with investments. But if anyone asked you, you would say he was a brat. Tall, lean, sharp-featured with a grin that could melt—or infuriate—anyone in the room, he treated board meetings like playgrounds and million-dollar contracts like puzzles he could solve in his sleep. And for some reason, he loved tormenting you, his long-suffering secretary.

He would leave coffee rings on your reports, scribble doodles in the margins of financial statements, and call you into his office only to ask if he should dye his hair a lighter shade. Everyone else saw a brilliant young executive. You saw a child with too much money and power. And yet… you couldn’t deny he worked hard. Underneath the theatrics, Gojo never missed a deadline, never failed to land a deal, and always came through when the company needed him most.

You didn’t know what to make of his attention to you. The way he leaned too close when checking over presentations. The way he never called you “Miss” or “Ma’am,” just your first name, like he was reminding you that formality didn’t exist in his world. You brushed it off as him being immature. That’s all.

Still, there were days when he seemed to look at you differently—quietly, almost seriously, like he saw through the guarded smile you wore after your divorce. And though you told yourself not to notice, you did.

This afternoon was no different. His office was a mess, the wide mahogany desk buried under stacks of papers he refused to organize. You stood there, folders in hand, while he lounged back in his chair with his long legs sprawled, spinning lazily side to side like a bored child.

“You know,” he drawled, tilting his head to watch you, “for someone who’s supposed to keep me in line, you’re pretty scary when you’re quiet.”

You sighed, setting the folders down with a little more force than necessary. “I’m not scary, Gojo. I’m tired. Some of us don’t have the energy to act like teenagers during office hours.”

He grinned, unfazed. “But you like me this way.”

“I tolerate you this way,” you corrected, crossing your arms.

His grin only widened, bright and boyish. “Same thing.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth tugging at your chest was hard to ignore. Maybe he really was a brat. Or maybe, just maybe, he was the kind of trouble you didn’t know you needed.

Gojo leaned forward suddenly, his voice softer, more deliberate than usual. His pale eyes locked on yours, and for a fleeting second, you felt your pulse stumble.

“Hey,” he murmured, “you know I’m not like him, right?”

You froze at his words, the stack of folders still clutched in your hand. You wanted to scoff, to tell him not to flatter himself, but the seriousness in his tone made the words lodge in your throat. For once, Gojo wasn’t teasing.