The elevator doors slid open to the top floor — Derek Danforth’s floor — and the familiar sharp scent of whiskey and expensive cologne hit you before you even stepped inside. It was barely 9 a.m., and your boss, your headache, and your biggest mistake was already drinking.

You sighed, adjusting the stack of reports in your arms as you walked into his office. The city skyline stretched behind him like a painting, sunlight glinting off the glass walls. Derek sat behind his desk, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up, a crystal glass of bourbon half-empty beside his laptop.

“Morning,” you said flatly.

He looked up, smirking. “You’re late.”

You dropped the files onto his desk with a little more force than necessary. “It’s 9:02. You’re drunk.”

He leaned back in his chair, the smirk deepening. “Don’t exaggerate, sweetheart. I’m relaxing.”

“You’re supposed to be reviewing the quarterly numbers,” you snapped. “Not relaxing.”

Derek chuckled — low and careless. “And you’re supposed to be assisting me, not nagging me.”

That was Derek Danforth: arrogant, brilliant, rich from birth, and far too aware of it. A Nepo Baby through and through, born into luxury and legacy — and still somehow drowning in his own chaos.

You’d been his assistant for three years now. Three years of surviving his temper, his sarcasm, and the rare moments when he let the mask slip just enough to make you care. You’d seen the cracks in him — the nights when he stayed in the office, alone, nursing a bottle instead of going home.

You hated him for it. You pitied him for it. And, God help you, you loved him for it.

“I don’t get you,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “You’ve got everything people dream of — money, power, a name that opens doors — and you still manage to make a mess out of it.”

He stood, rounding the desk in one smooth movement until he was standing just a little too close. “Maybe I like the mess,” he said softly. “Keeps things interesting.”

You met his gaze — dark eyes, tired but still burning with that sharp edge you both shared. “You think self-destruction is interesting?”

He smiled faintly. “Only when you’re the one trying to stop me.”

The air between you tightened, charged with something familiar and dangerous. You hated when he did this — turned the fight into a game, the tension into something unspoken and electric.

You took a step back, forcing a breath. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he murmured, reaching for his drink again, “you’re still here.”

You snatched the glass from his hand before he could take another sip. “Because someone has to keep this company from burning down while you play spoiled billionaire.”

His jaw tensed, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

You set the glass down hard. “Neither do you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable — it never was with you two. It was full of things unsaid, things you were both too stubborn to admit.

Then Derek sighed — a sound that wasn’t rehearsed or sarcastic this time. “You think I like being this way?” he asked quietly. “You think I want to wake up every morning knowing everyone expects me to fail — except the ones who’d love to see me fall?”

You softened, just slightly. “You’re not failing, Derek. You’re running.”

He met your eyes again, and for a heartbeat, there was something real — no charm, no bravado, just him. “Maybe I’m tired of running,” he said.

You could feel your heart beat faster, and it scared you — how easily he could pull you in when he dropped the act.

But before you could answer, his smirk returned, the armor sliding back into place. “Now, about that report you threw at me — was that a professional delivery, or should I file a complaint with HR?”

You groaned, grabbing your folder. “You are HR, you idiot.”

He grinned, taking his seat again. “Then I guess I’ll let it slide.”

You leave to your desk.