You didn’t mean for it to become a thing. It started as harmless venting—a secret, anonymous social media account where you posted snippets about your absurdly demanding, frustratingly attractive billionaire boss.

You never used his name. You never posted photos. Just short, chaotic rants like:

“Today he asked me to reorganize his already-organized bookshelves by color, height, and ‘emotional resonance.’ Billionaire logic, I guess.”

“Made his coffee wrong for the third time this week. He still drank it. I think he likes the chaos.”

“He smirked at me today. I’ve seen hurricanes with less force.”

Somehow, the posts caught on. People loved the idea of a mysterious, out-of-touch, lowkey charming boss. They started calling him #TheIcePrince. Your account exploded overnight.

You figured as long as he never found out, it was harmless.

Until he did.

It happened one evening as you were wiping down the marble counters in his penthouse kitchen. He walked in, sleeves rolled up, phone in hand, wearing that impossible smirk that spelled trouble.

“{{user}},” he said, voice smooth like always, “tell me… what does ‘emotional resonance’ mean to you? In the context of… bookshelves.”