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She Discovered Her Boss’s Private Side by Mistake… and Nothing Felt Normal After That

Molly Brooks had 1 rule as a digital security analyst: never open an executive’s personal folders. That rule was still intact until the morning she found herself staring at a folder on the CEO’s computer marked “private, don’t touch.”

She told herself it was a security vulnerability. The encryption was weak, dangerously weak for a company like Peterson Holdings and almost absurd for a man like Simon Peterson. Any hacker with intermediate skills could reach it if they cared enough. That was the professional explanation. The less professional truth was that curiosity had already moved her finger toward the mouse.

She clicked.

The first image was of Simon shirtless in a private gym. Molly froze, then told herself she would close the folder immediately. She did not close it. The second image showed him getting out of a shower, a towel around his waist, water still on his skin. She scrolled again without meaning to, or at least that was what she would later insist.

The third image loaded.

There was no towel.

For 3 seconds, Molly’s mind went blank. Then a voice sounded behind her.

“Ms. Brooks, how’s the audit going?”

It was Simon.

Molly screamed. The mouse flew from her hand. She jumped from the chair so hard her knee struck the desk. Her hands went to the keyboard in a frantic attempt to minimize, close, erase, or destroy any visible evidence of what she had just seen.

Simon stood in the doorway of his own office in an immaculate suit, his expression caught between concern and confusion.

“You screamed,” he said.

“No. I mean yes, but it was a cough. Allergies. The dust here is terrible. You should have it cleaned more often. I’ll email the cleaning department immediately.”

The words came too quickly. Simon stepped into the room, watching her with narrowed eyes.

“Why did you jump out of the chair?”

“Exercise. Blood circulation. I was sitting too long, and doctors recommend movement every hour. Or every half hour, actually. Thrombosis is very dangerous.”

Her glasses were crooked. Her face was hot. Her heart was beating at a speed that felt clinically impossible. She could not look at him without seeing the image that was now lodged in her memory.

“Molly,” he said, his voice lower.

“Yes.”

“What were you doing on my computer?”

“Digital security audit. As scheduled in the monthly calendar. Completely authorized by the board.”

She handed him the authorization as if it were evidence in her defense. Simon glanced at it, then looked at the desktop, which now appeared entirely innocent.

“And did you find anything concerning?”

“No. Absolutely nothing. Everything is perfect. Your system is impeccable. Zero vulnerabilities.”

Simon crossed his arms.

“Then why are you acting like you’ve seen a ghost?”

“I’m not acting strange. This is my normal face. I’ve always been red. It’s rosacea.”

It was a poor lie, and she knew he did not believe it. He took a step closer. Molly backed into the desk and hit her hip.

“You keep hitting my desk,” he observed.

“It’s a small desk. Too small for an office this size. Ergonomics matter.”

“Molly. Look at me.”

She obeyed because the command was gentle but firm. Meeting his eyes was a mistake. She saw the face from the photograph, the body she should never have seen, and felt the heat rise in her cheeks again.

“What did you see?”

“Reports. System files. Security logs. Extremely boring work-related things.”

“Molly.”

“I already showed you. The desktop.”

“Before you minimized everything in a panic. Before you screamed like the building was on fire.”

He stepped closer again. His cologne reached her, expensive and clean, and it made her already-failing composure worse.

“It’s embarrassing,” she finally whispered.

“Embarrassing for whom?”

“For both of us. Mutually. Mortifying, actually.”

Simon’s expression shifted as he began to understand. “Open the computer again and show me exactly what you were looking at, or I’ll open the history and find it myself.”

“You won’t want to see.”

“Let me decide that.”

Molly held still for a moment, then moved back to the computer. Her hand trembled as she opened the history. The folder appeared on the screen.

Simon went still.

“Ah,” he said.

“Yes. Ah.”

She opened it. The first gym images appeared. Molly looked anywhere but at him.

“You opened my personal folder,” he said.

“The encryption was ridiculously weak. It was a legitimate security concern, and the name was provocative. Who labels something ‘private, don’t touch’ if they do not expect curiosity?”

“So you opened it out of security concern?”

“Yes. Completely professional.”

“And you saw my fitness progress photos.”

“They were impressive. You clearly dedicate yourself to training. Physically admirable. Professionally speaking.”
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He Thought She Was Ugly and Boring… Until One Night Changed His Mind Forever

The Plaza Hotel ballroom glittered like something out of a Fitzgerald novel, all crystal chandeliers, champagne towers, and people who wore their wealth like a second skin. Blake Morrison stood at the center of it all, 1 hand holding a glass of Dom Pérignon, the other gesturing wildly as he recounted the story of his company’s latest funding round to a circle of impressed investors.

“$500 million,” he said, letting the number hang in the air like a trophy. “Which is not bad for a kid from—well, okay, from the Upper East Side, but still.”

The group laughed on cue.

Blake was good at this: the charming CEO, the golden boy who had turned his tech startup into Manhattan’s newest unicorn. At 34, he had everything. Money. Power. A penthouse with a view of Central Park. A rotation of model girlfriends who looked perfect on his arm at events exactly like this one.

Speaking of which, where was Sienna?

Blake glanced around the ballroom, then remembered with mild annoyance that she had canceled at the last minute, something about a shoot in Miami.

He had brought his secretary instead.

Emma Chen sat at their assigned table near the edge of the room, nursing a glass of water and looking profoundly uncomfortable in a navy dress that seemed designed to make her disappear. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight bun, her black-framed glasses perched on her nose as she scrolled through her phone, probably checking his calendar for Monday, Blake thought, with a twinge of something that might have been guilt but was more likely indigestion from the oysters.

Emma had worked for him for 2 years. She was efficient, quiet, and utterly forgettable, which was perfect, really. Blake did not need a secretary who distracted him. He needed 1 who kept his life running smoothly, and Emma did that flawlessly, arriving before him every morning with his coffee order memorized and leaving after him every night with the next day’s schedule already organized.

He had never asked about her life. He had never wondered why someone as young as she was—28, maybe—seemed so content to fade into the background.

It had simply never occurred to him to wonder.

The band transitioned from bland cocktail jazz into something with more tempo. Around Blake, people began moving toward the dance floor, that awkward corporate shuffle that passed for dancing at events like this.

“Morrison,” called James Chen, 1 of his early investors. “You’re going to show us some moves? Celebrate that valuation.”

Blake laughed, setting down his glass.

“Are you kidding? Have you seen these people dance? My grandmother has better rhythm.”

“Big talk,” James shot back.

“Bet you can’t do better.”

“Bet I can,” Blake countered, the champagne making him bolder than usual.

His eyes landed on Emma, still at the table, looking like she wanted to be anywhere else. An idea formed. It was terrible, as most of his champagne-fueled ideas were.

“Hell, even my secretary could out-dance everyone here.”

The group turned to look at Emma.

She glanced up from her phone, sensing the attention, her cheeks flushing pink.

“Prove it,” someone said.

Blake did not catch who.

“What?”

“Prove it. Get your secretary out there. If she can actually dance, really dance, impress us, I’ll—”

“What’s the stakes?”

“You marry her,” another voice called, and the group erupted in laughter.

Blake was drunk enough to think it was hilarious.

“Done.”

“Hey, Emma,” he called, waving her over, his voice carrying across the ballroom. Several nearby tables turned to watch. “Come here. Show these dinosaurs how it’s done.”

Emma stood slowly, and Blake caught something in her expression that he had never seen before.

Not embarrassment.

Something sharper. More dangerous.

She walked toward them, and Blake expected her to stammer some excuse and flee back to the table, or maybe the bathroom. Instead, she stopped in front of him, close enough that he caught a hint of her perfume, jasmine and unexpected, and said quietly, “You want me to dance?”

“Yeah, come on. It’ll be fun.”

“What kind of dance?” Emma interrupted, her voice steady.

Blake blinked.

“What?”

“What kind of dance do you want me to do, Mr. Morrison?”

She turned to the band, still in that eerily calm voice.

“Do you know ‘Fever’?”

The bandleader, an older man who looked delighted by the unexpected turn, nodded.

“Peggy Lee version?”

“Perfect.”
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The Millionaire Thought She Was Ugly and Boring… Until She Revealed the Woman He Never Expected

The Plaza Hotel ballroom glittered like something out of a Fitzgerald novel, all crystal chandeliers, champagne towers, and people who wore their wealth like a second skin. Blake Morrison stood at the center of it all, 1 hand holding a glass of Dom Pérignon, the other gesturing wildly as he recounted the story of his company’s latest funding round to a circle of impressed investors.

“$500 million,” he said, letting the number hang in the air like a trophy. “Which is not bad for a kid from—well, okay, from the Upper East Side, but still.”

The group laughed on cue.

Blake was good at this: the charming CEO, the golden boy who had turned his tech startup into Manhattan’s newest unicorn. At 34, he had everything. Money. Power. A penthouse with a view of Central Park. A rotation of model girlfriends who looked perfect on his arm at events exactly like this one.

Speaking of which, where was Sienna?

Blake glanced around the ballroom, then remembered with mild annoyance that she had canceled at the last minute, something about a shoot in Miami.

He had brought his secretary instead.

Emma Chen sat at their assigned table near the edge of the room, nursing a glass of water and looking profoundly uncomfortable in a navy dress that seemed designed to make her disappear. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight bun, her black-framed glasses perched on her nose as she scrolled through her phone, probably checking his calendar for Monday, Blake thought, with a twinge of something that might have been guilt but was more likely indigestion from the oysters.

Emma had worked for him for 2 years. She was efficient, quiet, and utterly forgettable, which was perfect, really. Blake did not need a secretary who distracted him. He needed 1 who kept his life running smoothly, and Emma did that flawlessly, arriving before him every morning with his coffee order memorized and leaving after him every night with the next day’s schedule already organized.

He had never asked about her life. He had never wondered why someone as young as she was—28, maybe—seemed so content to fade into the background.

It had simply never occurred to him to wonder.

The band transitioned from bland cocktail jazz into something with more tempo. Around Blake, people began moving toward the dance floor, that awkward corporate shuffle that passed for dancing at events like this.

“Morrison,” called James Chen, 1 of his early investors. “You’re going to show us some moves? Celebrate that valuation.”

Blake laughed, setting down his glass.

“Are you kidding? Have you seen these people dance? My grandmother has better rhythm.”

“Big talk,” James shot back.

“Bet you can’t do better.”

“Bet I can,” Blake countered, the champagne making him bolder than usual.

His eyes landed on Emma, still at the table, looking like she wanted to be anywhere else. An idea formed. It was terrible, as most of his champagne-fueled ideas were.

“Hell, even my secretary could out-dance everyone here.”

The group turned to look at Emma.

She glanced up from her phone, sensing the attention, her cheeks flushing pink.

“Prove it,” someone said.

Blake did not catch who.

“What?”

“Prove it. Get your secretary out there. If she can actually dance, really dance, impress us, I’ll—”

“What’s the stakes?”

“You marry her,” another voice called, and the group erupted in laughter.

Blake was drunk enough to think it was hilarious.

“Done.”

“Hey, Emma,” he called, waving her over, his voice carrying across the ballroom. Several nearby tables turned to watch. “Come here. Show these dinosaurs how it’s done.”

Emma stood slowly, and Blake caught something in her expression that he had never seen before.

Not embarrassment.

Something sharper. More dangerous.

She walked toward them, and Blake expected her to stammer some excuse and flee back to the table, or maybe the bathroom. Instead, she stopped in front of him, close enough that he caught a hint of her perfume, jasmine and unexpected, and said quietly, “You want me to dance?”

“Yeah, come on. It’ll be fun.”

“What kind of dance?” Emma interrupted, her voice steady.

Blake blinked.

“What?”

“What kind of dance do you want me to do, Mr. Morrison?”

She turned to the band, still in that eerily calm voice.

“Do you know ‘Fever’?”

The bandleader, an older man who looked delighted by the unexpected turn, nodded.

“Peggy Lee version?”

“Perfect.”
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“I Know How to Help You,” She Whispered—And the Millionaire Couldn’t Look Away

His friends made a $5,000 bet.

$5,000 if Arthur Duckworth could get the ugliest woman at the party to go out with him.

He laughed and thought it would be easy. It always had been.

They chose Catalina Spinster, the woman in the dull brown dress. Her hair was pulled back simply, her thick glasses made her look severe, and she seemed insecure enough to make the game feel effortless. So Arthur walked up with the magazine-cover smile that had never failed him and asked her to dance.

She looked at him, then at the friends laughing in the corner, and smiled.

It was a dangerous smile.

The answer she gave left Arthur in shock, and every guest nearby stopped to listen. By the time Catalina walked out of the ballroom with her head held high, Arthur’s reputation was in ruins, and he wished he had never accepted the bet.

The Ashworth Foundation charity gala was exactly the type of event Arthur Duckworth tolerated with French champagne and poorly disguised boredom. The Meridian Hotel ballroom glittered beneath crystal chandeliers, filled with empty conversations about sustainable investments, and Arthur had begun mentally calculating how much longer he had to stay before leaving would seem rude.

That was when Ravi Walters, his best friend since fraternity days, leaned toward him with the crooked smile that never meant anything good.

“Dude, I’m going to die if I have to hear 1 more person talk about portfolios,” Ravi murmured, already on his 3rd whiskey of the night. “We need entertainment. Something memorable.”

Arthur should have recognized the tone of danger, but the champagne was good, and he was bored enough to take the bait.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Remember that classic bet from college?” Ravi looked around the ballroom with growing interest. “$5,000 if you can get the ugliest girl in the room to go out with you.”

The rational part of Arthur’s brain sent a clear warning, but 31 years of uninterrupted success with women and an ego inflated by easy attention won out over hesitation.

He gave the confident smile that always worked.

“This is going to be too easy.”

Ravi scanned the ballroom as if he were on a reconnaissance mission, then stopped and discreetly pointed toward a woman half hidden near the drinks table.

She wore a dull brown dress. Her hair was pulled back in a simple bun, and thick black-framed glasses gave her the air of a serious teacher, entirely out of place among the elite in Chanel and Valentino. She was alone, holding a glass of white wine with both hands as if it were a shield against the room.

“Perfect,” Ravi declared. “$5,000 then, Arthur. Bet’s on.”

Arthur extended his hand, shook Ravi’s in an agreement he would regret forever, and walked toward her with the confidence of a man about to have his reputation spectacularly destroyed.

Catalina Spinster knew exactly what type of event she was attending and had accepted the invitation only because the host was an important client. The brown dress was the most formal thing she owned that was not a work suit, and she had given up competing with the women in designer gowns after about 5 minutes.

At 29, with a solid career as a freelance data analyst, Catalina had no interest in impressing people who probably could not even explain what she did for a living.

She was considering faking a work emergency when she noticed someone approaching with the kind of intention that made all her defenses rise at once.

When she looked up and saw who it was, she had to make a conscious effort not to roll her eyes.

Arthur Duckworth. The man who appeared in society columns with irritating regularity, always with a different model on his arm and that smile that probably worked on 99% of the female population.

What Arthur did not know was that Catalina had information about him.

Very specific and deeply embarrassing information acquired 6 months earlier during a networking happy hour with Denise Palmer, a risk analyst who had dated Arthur briefly and, during her 3rd mojito, had shared details involving anatomical disappointments, questionable performance, and a great deal of overcompensation.

When Arthur stopped in front of her with that magazine-cover smile, Catalina simply watched him and waited.

“Hi,” he said, his voice polished for maximum impact. “Want to dance?”

Catalina looked over his shoulder and saw Ravi Walters watching the interaction with far too much interest.

The pieces fell into place with perfect clarity.

A bet.

Of course it was a bet.

What else would make Arthur Duckworth approach the most visibly out-of-place woman at the party?

Instead of reacting visibly, she tilted her head as if considering the offer and asked, in a voice too sweet to be sincere, “A bet, is it?”

The change in his expression was immediate and absolutely delicious. The confidence faltered, his eyes widened, and for a fraction of a second Arthur looked like a deer caught in headlights.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t,” Catalina agreed, placing her glass on the table with deliberately calm movements. “So you’re telling me that you decided, completely by chance, to approach me specifically while your friend over there watches like this is some fascinating social experiment? What an interesting coincidence.”

Arthur was clearly panicking, and Catalina enjoyed every second of it.

Then, because she had spent years accumulating knowledge about the people around her, and because she firmly believed information was power, she decided to use the ammunition Denise Palmer had kindly provided.

“You know,” she began, keeping her voice low enough to sound intimate but loud enough for nearby guests to hear, “it’s funny that you chose me for your little bet, because I worked on a project with Denise Palmer a few months ago. Remember her?”

Recognition dawned in his eyes, quickly followed by pure panic.

“She had some very interesting stories about you,” Catalina continued. “Stories involving certain physical limitations that you apparently compensate for with superficial confidence and expensive cars.”

The silence that followed was beautiful in a cruel way.

People around them began paying attention. Ravi’s eyes widened, clearly trying to decide whether to intervene. Arthur’s face started turning red.

Catalina was not finished.

She took another step toward him, her voice still calm.

“She specifically mentioned it was 3 minutes. 3 minutes including foreplay, which frankly is impressive in its brevity. She also had very strong opinions about certain anatomical aspects that explain a lot about the compensatory sports car and the constant need for validation through superficial conquests.”

The room did not explode in laughter, but there was a collective murmur, the chain reaction of delicious scandal moving through bored people. Catalina heard someone laugh under their breath. A woman in a red dress covered her mouth while looking at Arthur with a mixture of shock and amusement.

Arthur was genuinely red now, his jaw tight, his fists clenched at his sides.

For a moment, Catalina almost felt sorry.
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The CEO Millionaire Said He Couldn’t Stop Looking—And She Thought It Was About Her

Sophie Bennett was having the kind of day that made her question every life decision that had led her to that exact moment.

It started with her alarm not going off, or rather, going off and being aggressively snoozed 6 times until she jolted awake at 7:47 a.m. with the kind of panic that makes the heart try to escape through the rib cage.

She was supposed to be at the Upper East Side property viewing at 8:30 with her boss and extremely important clients.

The coffee incident happened at 8:15.

Sophie had grabbed her travel mug, her portfolio of architectural plans, her bag, and what remained of her dignity, then sprinted for the subway. She made it onto the train just as the doors closed, which felt like a small victory until the train lurched and her coffee lid, which she definitely remembered securing, except she clearly had not, popped off and dumped 16 oz of vanilla latte directly down the front of her white blouse.

“No, no, no, no,” Sophie whispered, staring down at the rapidly spreading brown stain that made her look like she had been attacked by an extremely aggressive coffee fountain.

The businessman next to her pretended not to notice. Everyone in New York had mastered the art of politely ignoring other people’s catastrophes.

By the time Sophie arrived at the $15 million penthouse viewing, she was 20 minutes late, wearing a blazer buttoned all the way up to hide the coffee disaster and seriously reconsidering her career choice.

Maybe she should have become a park ranger. Trees did not care if you were late. Trees did not judge coffee stains.

“Bennett, there you are.”

Marcus Chen, senior architect and Sophie’s boss, shot her a look that could have curdled milk.

“The Harrisons are waiting. Try to look professional.”

Sophie bit back about 12 sarcastic responses and followed Marcus into the penthouse, clutching her rolled-up architectural plans like they were a security blanket.

The penthouse was objectively stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows, original hardwood floors, and a terrace that wrapped around the entire unit with views of Central Park that probably cost more per square foot than Sophie’s entire apartment. It was the kind of place that made a person understand why people became architects: to create spaces that made someone feel something.

Sophie hung back while Marcus did his thing, schmoozing with the Harrisons and another potential buyer who had shown up. Some guy in an expensive suit who looked like he had walked off a Calvin Klein billboard. Tall, dark hair slightly messy in a way that was definitely intentional, a jawline that could cut glass. He had the casual confidence of someone who had never worried about a coffee stain in his life.

Sophie pointedly ignored him and focused on taking notes about the crown molding.

The viewing lasted 45 minutes. Sophie nodded at appropriate times, handed Marcus the plans when needed, and tried not to think about how much she was sweating under her fully buttoned blazer in the middle of June.

Finally, mercifully, it ended.

“I’ll be in touch,” Marcus told the Harrisons, shaking hands all around. “Ms. Bennett, head back to the office. I’ll meet you there.”

Sophie nodded, gathered her things, and made her escape.

The elevator in the building was 1 of those fancy glass ones that offered a panoramic view as it descended. Normally Sophie enjoyed them. Today she just wanted to get back to the office, change into the emergency shirt she kept in her desk, and possibly hide under that desk for the rest of the day.

She hit the button for the lobby and leaned against the elevator wall, closing her eyes.

The doors started to close.

Then a hand shot through, triggering the sensor.

The doors reopened.

Calvin Klein billboard guy stepped in.

Of course.

Of course the universe would trap her in an elevator with someone who looked like that while she looked like a coffee-stain disaster hiding under a blazer.

Sophie pressed herself further into the corner, trying to become 1 with the elevator wall. The guy did not acknowledge her. He just pressed the button for the 15th floor and pulled out his phone.

The elevator began its descent. Smooth. Quiet. Expensive.

Sophie stared at the floor numbers.

She could feel him looking in her direction. Or maybe she was being paranoid. She was probably being paranoid. Why would he be looking at her? She looked like she had lost a fight with a Starbucks.

But no.

He was definitely looking.

Sophie could see his reflection in the glass. His phone was down, and he was staring at something near her.

At her.

Sophie’s internal alarm system started blaring. She had dealt with enough creeps on the subway, in bars, and at professional events where men thought networking meant staring at her chest. She knew that look.

The guy sighed.
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He Never Noticed His Assistant… Until He Saw Her Smiling at Another Man by the Pool

Turquoise bikini, knockout body, hair in shiny waves, and a shy but devastating smile.

“Who is that?” Ethan murmured.

Then she turned in profile, and he choked.

No. It could not be.

But it was.

Mia Brooks. His assistant.

The woman he saw every day and had dismissed as ridiculously ugly and plain.

“Sh*t,” Ethan whispered, watching another man make her laugh.

Every man at the party was staring now, and a jealousy he had not known existed started to boil.

Some people are seen every day yet never truly noticed.

Ethan Sterling had the kind of arrogance that came wrapped in Italian suits and an 8-figure bank account, and he knew the world had been too generous with him. There was no point pretending to be humble. At 32, his tech company was worth billions, and Seattle bowed at his feet.

The people who worked for him learned quickly that Ethan did not ask about weekends or remember birthdays. He saw employees as replaceable parts in a well-oiled machine. Mia Brooks was the quietest part of all, so invisible that Ethan frequently forgot she was a real human being instead of an extension of management software.

That was exactly how she liked it.

Being invisible meant not being judged, not being the nerdy girl nobody invited to dances or noticed in school hallways.

3 years of being treated like intelligent furniture. 3 years of “Brooks, handle this,” said in the same tone someone would ask Alexa to play music.

What Ethan did not know, what he genuinely never noticed, was that underneath the hideous beige cardigan and thick-framed glasses, there was something that would make men stop in the middle of the street if anyone paid attention.

But Mia had grown up being the girl who was good at math and terrible at socializing. She had never had a boyfriend. She had never gone to prom. So she assumed she was plain and dressed for comfort. Her hair stayed pulled into a tight bun because it could not get in the way. Her lack of awareness of her own potential was genuine.

Monday started like always, with Mia arriving at 7:15 to have the coffee ready when Ethan walked in at 7:30. She wore a beige cardigan over a shapeless white blouse, gray pants too baggy for her frame, and her hair pulled back so tightly it looked painful. Every strand was tamed into submission.

Ethan walked in right on time, blue eyes sliding over her the way they would slide over a chair.

“Brooks, is the Japanese investors report ready?”

“On your desk since 7:00, sir,” Mia replied without looking up, her fingers continuing to type. “I also reorganized your schedule because the New York flight got moved up. I shifted the legal meeting to Wednesday and canceled lunch with Microsoft, but I already rescheduled it for Thursday next week.”

Ethan grabbed the coffee without thanking her, took a sip, and Mia waited.

“It’s lukewarm.”

Steam was visibly rising from the cup, but she had already learned that picking battles was essential.

“I’ll make another one, sir.”

“Leave it.”

He was already walking to his office, dismissing the entire interaction.

At 10:00 in the morning, 2 directors passed Mia’s desk on their way to Ethan’s office, and 1 of them stopped with a kind smile.

“Good morning, Mia. How are you? The report you prepared yesterday was excellent.”

She blinked, genuinely surprised because people rarely spoke to her beyond delegating tasks, and murmured a hesitant, “Thank you.”

When they entered Ethan’s office, she heard through the cracked door, “Your assistant is always so efficient. You’re lucky.”

Ethan’s response cut something in her chest.

“She’s competent, yeah. I don’t know. Never really noticed. I guess she’s kind of plain, but she gets the job done.”

Mia kept typing without missing a beat because that was what she did. She absorbed comments and moved on.

Kind of plain.

3 years, and that was all he had to say.

Like she was beige wallpaper in a dentist’s office.

It was almost 3:00 in the afternoon when Natalie Sterling stormed into the office with hurricane energy, her designer bag swinging.

“Mia!”

She hugged Mia with an affection that still made Mia stiffen slightly because she had never gotten used to casual physical touch. Over the last 6 months, they had developed a genuine friendship, and Natalie was 1 of the few people who made Mia relax.

“What brings you here?” Mia asked. “You avoid the office like the plague.”

“Because my brother turns any space into a toxic zone,” Natalie said loudly enough for Ethan to hear.

Mia saw Ethan raise his middle finger without looking.

“Yours,” Natalie continued, “but I came on a mission. My charity pool party is Saturday, and you’re going. I won’t take no for an answer.”

Mia’s stomach sank because social situations made her anxious.

“Nat, it’s not my kind of thing. Too many people. I don’t know anyone. Parties aren’t my habitat. You know me.”

“And you need a social life beyond organizing my idiot brother’s schedule.”

Natalie sat on the desk with familiarity.

“You deserve to have fun instead of living in hermit mode.”

Ethan’s voice cut through the office before Mia could respond.

“Brooks isn’t going. She probably has more exciting plans, like reorganizing the pantry or alphabetizing that spice collection.”

Dense silence followed, and Mia felt something dangerous coil up her spine. A whisper telling her that maybe just this once she did not have to swallow the comment.

Natalie was watching with poorly disguised expectation, and Mia’s voice came out drier and sharper than anything she had ever directed at him.

“Actually, Mr. Sterling, my plan was to binge documentaries on medieval architecture while organizing spices in alphabetical order because my life is as exciting as watching paint dry. But I’ll accept Natalie’s invitation and interact with real human beings. Imagine that.”
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