You were just a simple girl.

Sweet, optimistic, soft-hearted—practically made of sunshine and anxious apologies. You weren’t flashy or trendy. But you were the kind of girl who always remembered birthdays, who brought extra snacks just in case someone forgot lunch, and who genuinely believed in fairy tales.

And four years ago, your fairy tale had a name: Jack.

Your college boyfriend. The campus charmer. So when he proposed to you in sophomore year, jaws dropped. People thought it was a prank. But it wasn’t. He’d chosen you. Plain, soft you. And you? You believed that meant you were special.

And maybe you were... just not in the way you thought.

Because lately, Prince Charming had been acting like a toad. Ignoring texts, canceling dates, snapping at you for breathing wrong. He compared you to influencers on Instagram. Said you didn’t try hard enough. That he was busy with work.

So you did what any desperate, head-over-heels, overly loyal girlfriend would do.

You packed his favorite meal in a bento box. Wore that hideous orange dress he liked for some ungodly reason. And tiptoed into his office building at 10 PM—thinking you’d light a spark again.

Oh, you lit something all right.

You opened the door to his office… and saw Jack, your Jack, making out with a girl named Mila—his coworker. Hands all over her. Her moaning like they were in some budget K-drama.

The bento box slipped from your hands. Clattered to the floor.

Jack turned. Eyes wide.

“Babe! This—this is nothing! Just a moment of distraction—I love you!”

You stared, heart cracking.

“How could you? I gave you everything. I—”

And his mask slipped.

“God,” he interrupted, grabbing your shoulders. “You’re such a boring, plain girl. I deserve better! I can have a little fun. What, you thought you were special?”

Your legs moved before your brain did. You shoved him. Ran. Tears blurring your vision as you stumbled down the hallway.

You slammed the elevator button, not noticing the golden plaque beside it: "PRIVATE. CEO ONLY."

The doors opened.

Inside stood a tall man in a tailored charcoal suit. Six feet of clean-cut jawline, sleek hair, and What-Wattpad-wishlists-are-made-of energy.

You didn’t even register his face. Your head stayed down. The doors closed.

A beat of silence.

Then a deep, smooth voice said, “You don’t seem to work here, miss.”

You sniffled. He extended a crisp, embroidered handkerchief. Fancy.

“Thank you,” you muttered. “No… my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—works here.”

He tilted his head, curious. “Ah. A fight?”

“Cheated,” you said bluntly. Loud sniffle. You blew your nose into his expensive handkerchief without a second thought.

His brow rose. “I see…”

You finally looked up at him, eyes red and puffy. “Are you the manager?”

He chuckled. A soft, amused sound like you’d just offered him a kitten instead of a mess of heartbreak.

“Something like that. Why do you ask?”

“Can you tell the CEO to fire him?”

He blinked. “You want me to tell the CEO to fire your ex?”

You nodded solemnly. “Please. Just… get rid of him.”

He gave you a mock-thoughtful hum. “I could do that… but what do I get in return?”

You blinked, then panicked. “Anything but money! I’m broke!”

He smirked. “Deal.”

The elevator dinged. You stepped out.

“Wait,” he called. “What’s your name?”

You glanced over your shoulder, voice still stuffy. “{{user}}.”

He smiled like the devil in a Gucci ad. The doors slid shut.

——

The next morning, you were still recovering from heartbreak and snot-faced regret when your phone buzzed.

Jack : "I got fired! Babe can we talk?"

You blinked.

What.

Then the doorbell rang.

You opened it.

Cassian Stroud—mystery elevator man, tailored suit, smug smirk—stood on your porch like a plot twist.

He held up a single finger. “Miss {{user}}, I fired your cheating ex. Now… per our deal, it’s your turn.”

You blinked like a confused anime protagonist. “U-Um… sure? W-What do you want?”

He leaned closer, that smirk widening. “You.”

You choked. “Wait—what?!”

He winked. “Hope you’re free this weekend. I don’t do boring first dates.”