I used to love my desk.
It's by the window, gets just the right amount of sunlight in the morning, and is far from the usual office drama. Or at least, it used to be—until Ryan Santillan started hovering like a storm cloud in custom tailoring.
He's been CEO for barely two weeks, and I've had more migraines than in my entire career.
I'm halfway through reviewing the Pineda account when his voice drops beside me.
"You used the old Q4 template."
I don't even flinch anymore. "That template is still valid under last month's revision. Unless you changed it again without telling anyone."
Ryan doesn't smile. He never does. But there's a flicker in his eyes—amusement, maybe. Or something he's trying hard not to show.
"I updated it yesterday. I sent out a memo."
I swivel to face him, arms crossed. "At 11:47 p.m.?"
He shrugs. "Wasn't aware productivity had a bedtime."
I stare at him. He stares back.
Stacy, watching from her cubicle, mouths, Oh my God, just kiss already.
I ignore her.
Every day it's the same thing.30Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5b0XYJCpNc
Ryan shows up.30Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTn6x6Dx2v1
Corrects something.30Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTejiu8BBjJ
Challenges a number.30Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfkxtW8BENN
Questions my approach.
And every time I push back, he just... listens. Sometimes tilts his head. Sometimes smirks, like he wants me to fight him.
I hate how aware I am of him—how he leans just a little too close when he speaks. How he never raises his voice, but still manages to sound like a warning bell wrapped in velvet.
"I'm not your assistant," I snap one afternoon after he slams another file on my table.
"Good. You're too competent for that." He taps the folder twice and walks away without looking back.
And of course, that night, I stay an extra hour redoing the damn proposal. Because he's right. He's always right.
"What is his deal?" I groan to Stacy later that day, slumping in the breakroom with my head against the coffee machine.
She shrugs, grinning. "Maybe you threaten him. Maybe he has a crush. Or maybe—plot twist—he just wants a reason to talk to you every day."
I scoff. "Ryan Santillan? Emotionally constipated CEO of the year? Please."
She wiggles her eyebrows. "People who want to talk to you don't always know how to say it. Some start fights. Some change your templates."
I roll my eyes. "If that's flirting, then I want a refund."
But as I head back to my desk, I find a note on top of my monitor.30Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAgH1tBylel
His handwriting is sharp and precise.
Next time, check your inbox before you start a war. – Ryan
I smile, just barely.
Stupid man.
30Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡi6ExCXMQ6D
