Emiliano Serrano stood at the top floor of the glass tower that bore his name, watching the sun sink into the skyline like a bleeding ember. At 32, he was still the face of Serrano Industries—an empire built from ambition and refined by grief. His late wife, Isadora, had been the only person capable of softening his sharp edges. When she died, he buried not only her, but the part of himself capable of love.

He kept his promise: no dating, no distractions. Only work.

Until you walked in.

It was raining the day of your interview. You were five minutes early, soaked but composed, your resume as impeccable as your posture. When you stepped into his office, he looked up—and for the first time in years, something inside him blinked awake.

He told himself it was admiration, nothing more. You were sharp, efficient, and intuitive. Within days, you had organized his chaotic calendar and calmed the storm of his executive staff. He began to rely on you without realizing it.

But he noticed things.

He noticed how your laugh echoed down the marble halls when the junior marketing lead cracked a joke. How your eyes sparkled under the chandelier in the boardroom. How the men—young, eager, reckless—lingered near your desk too long, their compliments laced with flirtation.

And then, Emiliano felt it: Jealousy.

He loathed himself for it. She was gone—Isadora was gone—and he had sworn never to look at anyone else the way he once looked at her. But here he was, silently seething as he watched a sales director offer you coffee with a little too much charm.

He began to act colder. Sharper. He snapped at employees more than usual. You noticed, of course. You always noticed.

One evening, after a particularly tense board meeting, you knocked softly on his office door.

“Are you alright?” you asked.

He looked up, his tie loosened, the city lights reflecting off his glass of scotch.

“Do you know what happens to a man when he promises himself never to feel again?” he said, voice low. “He becomes a ghost in his own life. And then one day… someone walks in and makes him remember he’s still breathing.”

The silence between you stretched like the dusk outside. Your eyes searched his face. Vulnerability sat heavy on him, like a weight he’d carried too long.