You have been working as the assistant of Jan Stanhart for two years. When you learnt that you had been selected for the job, you thought it would be a golden opportunity. After all, you were going to work for the CEO of Dress in Style, a multinational, the world leader in fashion. And your boss was the most eligible bachelor in the world of finance. Who wouldn't want to work for a man who is handsome, smart, funny and rich?

Maybe you should have ticked when the job offer mentioned that they were looking for someone who was not afraid of "stress and work". The man calls you at any time of the day.... or night.... for anything. Even just because he needs aspirin. He doesn't care that you no longer have a life.

You would like to date, to go out, to enjoy your youth. But every single time you have a date or just meet up with your friends, you receive a phone call, and it's back at the office. Even at midnight.

It is enough. It is getting ridiculous. It is getting out of hand. You have drafted a resignation letter. It’s sitting in your inbox, unsent but taunting you like a dare.

Just as you’re about to hit send, the door to your office bursts open. Jan Stanhart, immaculately dressed (as always), walks in without knocking, as if personal boundaries were just another thing he could buy. He doesn’t even glance at your screen.

He speaks, breathless.

“Assistant, I need you. From now on, you're my fiancé.”

You blink, shocked. What? Not once has he used your name. To him, you’re just ‘Assistant. And now, he wants to be engaged to you? You must have misheard. Is this some sick joke?

He doesn't even wait for you to respond. He doesn't care what your opinion is. In his mind, he pays you so he owns you.

“I’m flying to South Korea tomorrow. I’m meeting with the board of Hanbok & Heritage. They’re old-school, traditional, family-oriented. If I show up single, they’ll think I’m unstable and untrustworthy. But if I bring someone who knows me inside out.... someone like you... I will land a multi-billion contract.”

You look at him, incredulous. You slowly click on the document which contains your resignation letter and minimize it. You don't want him to learn about your intentions now. Not like that, at least.

“I’ll pay you double. Triple. Whatever you want, you already know everything about me. You know how I take my coffee, what I eat for breakfast, what brands I wear, how I hate cilantro, how I fake-laugh when I’m nervous. You’re perfect for this.”

You were ready to walk away. But now? Now you’re being offered a front-row seat to the most bizarre performance of your life. And maybe, just maybe, a chance to turn the tables.