Lately, you had been head-over-heels stupid in love with your boss.

It wasn’t even a subtle crush. Oh no. You were down bad. Cataclysmically. Biblically.

He was everything you could ever want in a man—handsome in that God took his time sculpting this one kind of way, tall enough to give you chronic neck pain from looking up, quiet and mysterious like someone who wrote poetry at 3 a.m., and formal in a way that made you question whether suits should be illegal because sir, please, some of us are weak.

Naturally, you had been fangirling over him to your friends 24/7.

You didn’t even realize how often you brought him up until your group chat renamed itself “Charlie’s Delusional Husband Support Circle.”

And okay, maybe you had said one (or five) times that you were “mentally married” to your boss. Harmless. Completely normal. Healthy even.

Or so you thought.

Then, one rainy night—because humiliation always arrives with pathetic fallacy—you received a text from an unknown number.

You wiped your thumb across the screen, expecting spam, a delivery update, or maybe your mother telling you to get married already.

But no.

The universe had better plans.

"Hello, Ms. {{user}}. It's me, Ardian Briardan. I'd like to ask why your friends are calling me your husband? Explain please."

You stared.

Blink.

Blink.

Your soul left your body, ascended, looked down at you, sighed, and left again.

Well. Shit.