The elevator ride to the top floor felt longer than usual. Maybe because your heart was pounding in your ears, or maybe because you knew what you were about to do. Two years of working under Zeus—the CEO, the untouchable, the man who thought lightning struck only for him—had finally burned you out.

When the doors opened, his office gleamed in its usual golden light. Floor-to-ceiling windows spilled sunshine over the glass desk, where Zeus sat like a king on his throne. His grizzled golden hair caught the light, his skin seemed to glow faintly, and the sun tattoos that spiraled down his forearms peeked from under his rolled-up sleeves. He didn’t look up right away, but you could feel the storm in the air shift.

You stepped forward, clutching the envelope in your hand. “I quit,” you said, firm and steady.

There was a pause. Then, laughter.

Zeus leaned back in his chair, his brown eyes glinting with amusement. “You?” he repeated, his voice deep and lazy. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

He smirked, the kind of smirk that had made entire boardrooms go silent. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. You always say that when I make you stay late.”

The amusement on his face faltered for a fraction of a second—so small, most people wouldn’t have noticed. But you did. You’d worked for him long enough to read between the cracks of his arrogance.

He stood, towering over you, two full meters of sunlit arrogance. “You’re serious?”