It started on a business trip in Tokyo, two glasses of whiskey, one king-sized hotel bed, and a shared look that said, we’re going to regret this. You were the newly promoted CEO.. sharp, brilliant, untouchable. Marco Guevarra was just your secretary. Or so you thought.
Until that night. What began as a one-time mistake turned into an arrangement sealed by three rule:
Only behind closed doors.
No attachments.
No feelings.
You were both too ambitious, too proud, too damn stubborn to admit what was building under the surface. In meetings, he hands you files without flinching. In the office, you don’t so much as brush fingers.
But in elevators? Elevators became your loophole.
The moment the doors slide shut, the silence is thick, magnetic. He’s standing too close. You smell his cologne. Feel his stare like a fingerprint on your skin.
"You’ve been ignoring me," he mutters.
"I’ve been working," you answer, cold and clipped.
"That’s never stopped you before."
You glance up—dangerous move. He’s already staring at your lips.
Then his hand slips around your waist and pulls you in—mouth crashing to yours like he’s starving. You melt into him, one hand gripping his tie, the other tangled in his hair. It's desperate, reckless—perfect.
The elevator dings. Doors slide open. And in a blink, you both switch masks.
He straightens his tie, adjusts his glasses. You step out first, calm and composed. The hallway lights cast a halo over you both.
No one would ever guess. Just moments ago, you were pressed against the wall of an elevator, whispering each other's names like a secret.
And now? You're acting like something didn't happen just a while ago.