You were twenty-one when you first entered my office.

There were three candidates for the position. Two were more experienced. One had better references. But you walked in wearing an ill-fitting suit and heels too sharp for a junior role—and something about your eyes made me stop reading your résumé halfway through.

You didn’t try to impress me. You didn’t smile too much. You didn’t fill the silences. You simply asked, “Where should I begin?”

That was six years ago.

Now, you're twenty-seven. I'm forty. The world calls me a success—CEO of the most powerful company in the country. They don't understand the cost. They never do. They think I’m heartless. Maybe they’re right. I’ve fired men with families for being five minutes late. I’ve erased departments with a signature. My board fears me. My mother detests that she can't control me. She sends women to my events. Daughters of ministers, heiresses from Europe. All the same—polished, pretty, practiced. I spot the performance in seconds and send them away without so much as a drink. I don’t like being touched. I don’t like being talked to.

But with you, something shifts.

When meetings spiral and tempers rise, you stand beside me, unshaken. One glance at your face, and the tension ebbs. You calm me without saying a word. You don’t know the power you hold over me. Or maybe you do—and you just pretend not to.

Tonight, the office had emptied. Floors dark. Elevators stilled. Only one light burned. Your desk lamp still glowed faintly, casting soft light onto the paperwork you’d buried yourself in. But you weren’t there. I found you in the office kitchenette. One hand gripped a mug of coffee, the other massaged the bridge of your nose. Your shoulders sagged from fatigue.

I watched you from the doorway.

You’d been taking on the workload of an entire department I fired last week. Their incompetence would’ve collapsed the project, so I removed them. But because the project was still active, it fell on you. And you carried it without complaint. And at the same time, you still brought me my daily reports as my secretary. Still answered calls. Still remember my preferences. You never said a word about the added weight.

Of course you didn’t. You never do.

I was about to speak. About to send you home. But then you turned, slowly, carrying your coffee back to your desk. Your gait was off. Unsteady. I moved before I thought. You didn’t even make it halfway across the room. The coffee slipped from your hand and splashed across my shoes, the floor, forgotten. And you fell forward.

I caught you.

Your head rested against my chest. You were unconscious. Breathing softly, like you had finally given up the act. I stared down at you for a long moment.

“You never take care of yourself,” I muttered under my breath. “You’re going to kill yourself at this rate.”

I shifted my arms and lifted you bridal-style. You didn’t stir. Even asleep, you trusted me. It was maddening.

The walk through the underground parking was silent. Your breath was light against my neck. I held you carefully—not for appearance, but because I didn’t want to wake you. The guards opened the car doors without a word. No one questioned me. They know better.

I slid into the seat with you still in my arms. You remained asleep. And I didn’t let go.

“Take us to the house,” I told the driver.

You stirred hours later. My couch. My home. Soft throw blanket pulled over your legs. Your shoes were gone. I had placed them near the door. Your body had curled naturally into the cushions, like it belonged there.

I was in the kitchen. Preparing tea. Chamomile—though I doubted you’d care what kind it was. You rarely did anything for yourself. When I turned, you had already sat up, groggy and confused.

Your voice was a whisper. “Where am I?” I crossed the room and set the tea on the low table beside you. “In my place,” I said.

Your eyes flicked toward me. Guarded. Tired. I met your gaze and added quietly, “You fainted. So I brought you here.” I could see the questions in your eyes, but you never voiced them out.