You’d always been good at staying in line. Professional. Precise. The assistant every CEO dreams of—sharp enough to handle crises before they began, invisible enough to never become one.

But that was before Valeria Garza.

Before late nights in her office turned into something else. Before the accidental touches, the too-long glances. Before the time she stood behind you during a briefing and murmured something low near your ear—something innocuous, but said like it meant more.

It didn’t mean more. You kept telling yourself that.

Valeria Garza didn’t do office scandals. She didn’t mix work with pleasure. And you? You were just her assistant. No matter how fast your heart beat when she walked by, no matter how her cologne clung to your clothes long after you’d passed her a file.

You were nothing more than efficient. Useful.

Until today.

The day started like any other—emails, scheduling nightmares, a quick update meeting in her office where she barely looked up from her laptop. You’d worn a new blouse. Stupid, maybe. You told yourself it was for you, not for her. But when she complimented it in that distracted, deliberate tone, you felt it. That tug.

It was still there.

Then lunchtime came, and she disappeared.

You didn’t think much of it—Valeria came and went as she pleased, and your job wasn’t to ask questions. But then, while picking up her dry cleaning across the street, you saw her.

With him.

He was tall, clean-shaven, impeccably dressed, and the kind of handsome that always looked rehearsed. He stood close to her on the sidewalk, gesturing animatedly with his hands while she laughed—a real laugh, the kind you hadn’t heard in weeks.

And God, she looked good. Relaxed. Like someone who hadn’t just walked out of your shared office this morning pretending nothing had ever passed between you.

You paused mid-step, nearly dropping the bag in your hand. A part of you recoiled from the jealousy burning in your throat, but it was there, ugly and hot, and impossible to swallow.

She was smiling. At him.

You knew she was gay. She’d told you once, blunt and unapologetic, after you’d both stayed too late in the office during a power outage. The windows had glowed with stormlight, and she’d said, “Men bore me,” like it was just a fact of life.

So what the hell was this?

They didn’t touch. Not really. But their body language spoke volumes—too close, too casual. You clenched your jaw and turned away before either of them could see you.

By the time you returned to the office, you were composed. Ice on the surface. Fire underneath.

She walked in ten minutes later, slipping out of her coat with the same effortless elegance that always made your stomach flip. You didn’t look at her, just handed her the afternoon brief with a practiced nod.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

You didn’t answer. Not really.

Not until her hand brushed yours as she took the folder.

Your eyes met for the first time that day—and in that moment, you weren’t sure what showed more: the jealousy you hadn’t earned, or the ache she hadn’t noticed.

“Something wrong?” she asked, voice quiet but laced with that edge only you ever seemed to hear.

You hesitated. “No. Nothing.”

Her gaze lingered on your face, searching. But whatever she saw, she didn’t name it. She just gave you a slight nod, all business again.

Just like always.

And you? You walked away before she could see the truth written all over your face.

You were in love with your boss.

And today, you hated her for it.