Lyla’s POV

17 unread messages?.

My chest tightens. That’s not normal. Not unless something is wrong.

I blink hard. Most of the notifications are from work, emails, reminders, calendar alerts, and one message blinking at the top… from Alexander Sterling.

I freeze.

Why would my cold, terrifying, impeccably dressed boss be messaging me before 7 a.m.?

A prickle creeps down my spine. Something’s off.

I swipe the notification open.

Alexander:

`Ms. Anderson… we need to speak this morning. Please come directly to my office before the team meeting.`

My stomach drops through the mattress.

“What? Why?” I whisper to myself.

Did I mess something up yesterday? Did I forget to send the quarterly file? I’m exhausted enough that I could’ve.

I toss the blanket aside and sit up, rubbing my temples.

That’s when I notice the message I had sent last night… one I barely remember sending because I’d been half-asleep, too tired to take off the red lingerie under my robe after taking pictures for Ryan.

My own message sits right beneath Alexander’s name in the chat.

No.

No.

No.

My thumb shakes as I click it open.

And there it is… my worst fear.

Me.

Red lace.

Half-pose.

Stupid, sleepy smile.

I gasp, a sharp, strangled sound that echoes in the room.

“Oh my God… NO!”

My heart slams in my chest so loud it hurts. My hands fly to my face.

“No, no, no, no, no…”

I scroll up, praying for a miracle, like maybe the universe decided to spare me embarrassment for once.

Nope.

The message clearly shows ‘Delivered’ to ‘Alexander Sterling.’

Not Ryan.

I fling myself face-first into my pillow and scream.

I want the earth to swallow me whole. How much I'd love to have a time machine to go back and slap last-night me for trusting her sleepy brain with anything more complicated than breathing.

I sit up again, heart pounding, brain spiraling.

He saw it.

He totally saw it.

He’s definitely firing me.

Or worse… he’ll make me talk about it.

A violent wave of mortification crashes over me. I jump off the bed, pacing in frantic circles.

“Okay, Lyla. Think. You have to fix this. Something… Anything.”

But how do you fix accidentally sexting your boss? The man who runs an entire corporation? The man who wears suits worth more than my rent?

The man who calls me ‘Ms. Anderson’ even in emails addressed solely to me?

I check the time.

6:52 a.m.

I have thirty-eight minutes to make myself look like a functioning adult, get to the office, and somehow face Alexander Sterling without dying on the spot.

Fantastic.

~

I rush through my morning routine like someone lit a fire under me: shower, hair, makeup, and half-burnt toast clenched between my teeth.

The entire time, my mind keeps replaying the image like a cruel loop.

Red lace.

His name.

Delivered.

I nearly choke on the toast as I pull on my coat.

What must he be thinking?

What if he thinks it was intentional?

What if he thinks I’m some unprofessional mess who hits on her boss?

“Oh my God, this is so bad…”

I grab my bag, sprint out of my apartment, and start speed-walking down the street like the sidewalk insulted my mother.

The morning air is cold and sharp, waking me up more brutally than caffeine ever could. But it doesn’t calm me. My anxiety only gets worse the closer I get to Sterling Innovation.

By the time I get to the lobby, walking straight into the elevator, my palms are sweating.

The air feels different as the elevator's door opens on the executive floor.

Thicker… Tighter.

Or maybe that’s just me slowly suffocating from shame.

I step outside, smoothing down my blouse, trying to appear composed. I run into Hazel, one of my coworkers and my best friend, as I enter the office.

“The Ice King is waiting for you. Do whatever it takes to survive today, as always, Lyla,” he whispers, glancing toward Alexander’s office.

I force a nod. “Thanks.”

My heart pounds in my ears as I walk toward his office door. My fingers tremble as I knock.

“Come in,” Alexander’s voice says, deep and controlled.

I inhale sharply and push the door open.

He’s standing behind his desk.

Perfect posture, suit immaculate, and expression unreadable.

Not unusual; he always looks like that.

Except right now, something is… tighter. More deliberate.

“Good morning, Ms. Anderson,” he says.

His voice is steady. Too steady and practiced.

“Morning,” I squeak.

He gestures to the chair. “Sit, please.”

I do, mostly because my legs feel like jelly, and sitting is safer than collapsing dramatically on his rug.

Alexander circles his desk and sits across from me. He takes a measured breath.

“I won’t take much of your time.”

His tone is clipped, formal, and… thank God, not even remotely flirty. He looks like a man trying very, VERY hard to pretend nothing happened.

“I received… a message from you last night.” The pause is tiny, but it slices the air. “A message I believe was not intended for me.”

Heat rushes up my neck so fast I swear steam might explode out of my ears.

“I… I’m so sorry, sir,” I blurt. “It was a complete mistake. I didn’t mean… I wasn’t… I was half-asleep and exhausted, and I meant to send it to my fiancé, but I didn’t check the contact, and I swear I wasn’t trying to be inappropriate…”

He lifts a hand gently.

“Ms. Anderson. It’s alright.”

I shut my mouth so fast my teeth click.

Alexander clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable.

“I understand that mistakes happen,” he says. “Especially when one is tired.” His jaw flexes just a little. “And for the sake of professionalism, we will not discuss the contents of that message.”

Relief floods me so intensely I sag in the chair.

“Yes. Yes, please. Thank you,” I breathe out.

He nods once. “Good. I would appreciate it,” he continues carefully, every word chosen like he’s defusing a bomb, “if such… personal images… are double-checked before sending in the future.”

“Oh God… absolutely,” I say quickly. “Triple-checked. Hundred-checked. I’m deleting every shortcut on my phone.”

A flicker… a tiny one, touches the corner of his mouth. Not a smile, just something softer. Almost amused.

Almost.

“Very well,” he says, clearing his throat again as if forcing himself back into CEO mode. “Now, regarding today’s meeting…”

“Wait.” The word slips out.

He looks up, brows raised.

“I just… I wanted to say thank you,” I murmur. “For not… making this weird.”

He pauses.

“I’m your employer, Ms. Anderson,” he says quietly. “It is my responsibility to maintain a professional environment. You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Oh, but I do.

I absolutely do.

Still… hearing him say that steadies me in a way I didn’t expect.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“You’re welcome.”

He shifts the conversation instantly as if determined to yank us both away from the dangerous territory.

“Now,” he says briskly, “let’s go over the quarterly figures before the department arrives.”

Just like that, we’re back to business.

For the next twenty minutes, we talk about budgets, deadlines, and reports. And Alexander is… impeccably professional. Focused and neutral.

Not one hint of last night nor one accidental glance.

I keep nodding like a bobblehead, praying my cheeks stop burning before I leave his office.

When the meeting ends, he closes his laptop.

“That will be all. And Ms. Anderson?”

“Yes?”

“If you need a lighter workload this week, let me know.”

I blink. “I… I’m fine.”

He nods once. “Good. You’re dismissed.”

I stand, gather my things, and walk to the door.

As I walk back to my desk, Hazel sends a text:

`ARE U FIRED???`

Me:

`No. Somehow not.`

Hazel:

`Omg tell me everything`

Me:

`Later. Still trying not to pass out.`

Hazel sends a row of laughing emojis.

I drop into my chair, bury my face in my hands, and groan.

I survived.

Barely.

But the worst part?

Alexander didn’t mention the picture again.

He didn’t look weird. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease.

He was perfect. Controlled. Calm.

Which somehow… makes me even more aware of what he saw.

And no matter how hard I try to shake the thought…

God. This is going to haunt me forever.

Lyla's POV

(The following week)

I sometimes think wedding planning should come with hazard pay, or at least a warning label: Side effects may include stress eating, emotional exhaustion, chronic eye-twitching, and the sudden urge to elope.

Working full-time under the world's coldest, most annoyingly perfect boss isn't helping at all.

Staring at two nearly identical shades of beige wedding invitations as I stand in my small but cozy apartment just outside Boston, I’m pretty sure I’m losing my mind.

My phone is placed between my shoulder and ear as my wedding planner, Erica, continues her passionate rant.

“Lyla, sweetheart, linen beige is not the same as champagne beige,” she insists for the third… no, fourth… time.

“They look identical,” I mumble, holding both samples up to the morning light coming through my window.

“They’re not. Linen beige is warmer, and champagne is more sophisticated.”

“They’re beige.” I let out a long sigh. “People are going to take them, read them, and throw them out. No one will examine the undertones.”

“People judge wedding invitations, trust me.”

I rub my forehead. It’s only 7:12 AM, and I already feel older.

“Okay,” I say. “Whichever one you think works best.

“That’s not how this works,” Erica snaps gently. “Ryan should weigh in too.”

My stomach twists.

Ryan, my fiancé.

The man I love. The man I want to marry.

And the man who hasn’t attended a single planning meeting in over a month.

“I’ll ask him,” I lie. “Today.”

“You said that yesterday.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “I’ll really do it today.”

“You do that,” she says firmly. “Call me after work.”

When the call ends, I drop both invitation samples onto my bed with a dramatic flop.

I still haven’t eaten, and my mascara is barely dry. My hair is doing a weird curly thing on the left side. And of course, I can’t be late today, because Alexander Sterling does not tolerate lateness.

Ever!.

And after the humiliating lingerie-picture accident last week, where I accidentally texted him a photo meant for Ryan… I am doing everything possible to avoid interacting with him more than necessary.

The universe, however, hates me.

I know it does.

I grab my tote bag, shove my laptop inside, and rush out the door.

~

Getting to my workplace, every surface shines as always. The lobby is modern, sleek, and intimidating, just like Alexander.

Every employee walks faster than the last. Every scent smells expensive.

I hurry toward the elevators, silently praying I don’t see…

“Anderson.”

… him.

I swear the universe does this on purpose.

I halt as I see Alexander Sterling standing near the elevator, tall, sharply dressed in a charcoal suit, eyes cool and unreadable.

His entire presence screams money, control, and devastating attractiveness that I refuse to acknowledge out loud.

“Good morning, Mr. Sterling,” I say, trying to sound normal.

His gaze flicks to the time on his Rolex. “Two minutes early.”

“That’s… good, right?”

“Yes.” His voice is flat but not unkind. “Better than the alternative.”

I’m eighty percent sure he means better than you being late again.

We step inside the empty elevator. The doors close.

Silence settles between us, thick, awkward, and suffocating.

Ever since that picture, I’ve avoided eye contact, avoided conversation, and avoided breathing in his direction.

He hasn’t addressed it again, thank God. But sometimes I catch him giving me these unreadable glances that make my skin tingle with confusion.

I hope he deleted it immediately.

I hope he didn’t zoom.

I hope he wasn’t traumatized.

He clears his throat. “Did you finish the quarterly summary?”

“Yes, it’s on your desk.”

“And the updated projections?”

“Finalized.”

“And the investor briefing?”

My throat tightens. “Completed last night.”

He gives a small nod. “Very well.”

The elevator dings, and we walk out to the executive floor.

I hurry to my desk, grateful for the escape.

Behind me, Alexander pauses before entering his office.

“And Anderson?”

I freeze.

“Yes?”

“You look… distracted.” His eyes skim my face briefly. “Fix that before the ten o’clock meeting.”

“Are you saying I look messy?”

“Distracted,” he corrects. “Not the same thing.”

“It feels like the same thing,” I mutter.

He disappears into his office without comment.

~

I only drop my pen twice during the meeting, and Alexander only sighs once, which is a new personal record.

Afterward, I sit at my desk, trying to catch up on emails.

My phone buzzes seconds later. A text from Ryan:

`Sorry babe, I need to cancel dinner again tonight. Something came up at the lab`

My heart sinks.

We were supposed to finalize the guest list tonight.

I text back:

`Okay. Let me know when you're free.`

Ryan replies a second later:

`You’re the best. Love you.`

I stare at the text, feeling something inside me cave in a little. I wave it off and concentrate on my system.

Not long after … or so it seems. The alarm dings, signifying lunchtime.

I sit still at my desk, eating the chicken wrap I got lucky to grab on my way this morning while editing a proposal, when one of my co-workers and friends, Jamie, walks over.

“Bride of the year, how’s the preparation?” She teases, sitting on the edge of my desk.

“Falling apart,” I say with my mouth full.

“Wedding stress?”

“Wedding everything.”

“And fiancé stress?”

I throw her a look. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re saying it with your eyebrows.”

She laughs. “Well, if you’re doing all the work alone…”

“He’s busy,” I defend weakly.

Jamie gives me a knowing look but doesn’t push. She opens her mouth to say something else, then her eyes widen mischievously.

“So… did Alexander see the picture?”

I choke on my wrap. Literally choke.

“I’m just asking!” she says, patting my back.

“I don’t know!” I hiss. “I’m not asking him!”

“Why not?”

“Because I value my life.”

She snorts. “Relax. He probably deleted it instantly. He’s too robotic to react.”

Robot or not, the thought that he saw it still makes my cheeks heat.

~

By mid-afternoon, I’m drowning in tasks. Investor documents… Procurement updates… Emails… Scheduling… and more emails.

And wedding messages lighting up my phone like a Christmas tree.

Erica:

`Did Ryan choose the cake flavor?`

Florist:

`Final bouquet design needed by tomorrow.`

Bridesmaids Group Chat:

`Dress fitting is next weekend, right??`

My mom:

`Call me. Emergency.`

It’s never an emergency. It’s usually decor-related.

I’m trying to breathe when…

“Anderson.”

I almost jumped out of my skin as I heard Alexander's voice.

Alexander stands at the edge of my cubicle, watching me with a rare look on his face… concern. Or the Sterling version of it: controlled, subtle, but unmistakable.

“You seem… out of sorts.”

“I’m fine,” I say too quickly.

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“You’re typing at half your usual speed,” he says. “And you only type slowly when you’re overwhelmed.”

I stare at him. “You track my typing speed?”

“No.” His tone is dry. “I observe.”

“That’s creepier.”

“I’ll take that as under advicement.” He steps back. “My office. Now.”

My heart trips. “Am I in trouble?”

“Not yet.”

I follow him, my pulse racing. Once inside, he closes the door.

“Sit.”

I obey.

He stands in front of me, arms crossed, eyes narrowed slightly… not angrily, just assessing.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Try again.”

My eyes unexpectedly prick with tears. Yeah, fantastic. Crying in front of my billionaire boss. New achievement unlocked.

“It’s wedding planning,” I whisper. “And work, and everything. I’m… exhausted.”

His jaw tightens just a fraction. “And your fiancé?”

“Ryan’s busy,” I say. “Really busy.”

“So he’s not helping.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” Alexander says calmly. “You’re carrying the entire load alone. That’s unsustainable.”

My throat tightens. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” he says quietly. “And you don’t have to pretend with me.”

The softness in his tone disarms me. Completely.

He moves around his desk and sits on the edge, closer but not intrusively close.

“You’re overwhelmed,” he says again. “You need to delegate.”

“To whom? You want to plan my wedding?”

His lips almost… almost… curve. “No. God no.”

A tiny laugh escapes me. I didn’t mean to laugh, but it happens.

“Take fifteen minutes,” he says. “Then finish the procurement list. I’ll handle the investor emails.”

I blink. “You’ll… what?”

“You’re buried, Anderson. And I need my senior assistant functional.”

“Oh. So this is about productivity.”

“Partially.” His voice dips lower. “The rest is… something else.”

I look up sharply. “Something else?”

His eyes hold mine for a heartbeat too long.

Then he stands abruptly, composure snapping back into place. “Break, Anderson. Now.”

I scramble up, grateful and confused and buzzing all at once.

Before I reach the door, he adds, “And Anderson… ask for help when you need it.”

I nod and escape before I can embarrass myself.

Lyla’s POV

The next morning starts with a headache so sharp I swear someone is squeezing my skull like a stress ball.

I groan and push myself off the bed, squinting at the faint glow of Boston’s winter sun peeking through my blinds.

I don’t even remember falling asleep. The last thing I recall was staring at the ceiling and replaying yesterday’s conversation with Alexander on an endless loop.

You’re overwhelmed.

You don’t have to pretend with me.

The rest is… something else.

What is something else? Why say it like that? Why look at me like that?

Great!. Now my headache is worse.

I drag myself into the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and pull my hair into a presentable bun.

As I stare at my reflection, mascara wand in hand, a tiny voice whispers, “Why does he notice things Ryan doesn’t?”

I shut the thought down immediately.

Nope, not going there.

By the time I’m grabbing my coat and locking the door behind me, I’ve mentally rehearsed a pep talk.

Focus on work. Focus on the wedding. Ignore your confusing boss. Everything is fine.

~

The moment I step through the glass doors, I sense something is off.

People gather in groups whispering, side-eyeing, and tapping each other’s shoulders like something interesting is happening.

My stomach drops.

“Please don’t let it be me,” I mumble.

Hazel, my co-worker and my best friend, meets me halfway across the lobby, wild-eyed. “Oh my God, Lyla. There you are.”

“What now?” I whisper, bracing myself.

“You need to breathe. Just… inhale something, oxygen. Anything.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

She grabs my arm and pulls me toward the hallway. “Alexander’s in rare form today. Like, frostbite-level mood. Something happened this morning. No one knows what, but he’s pacing and glaring. Breathing like he’s plotting world domination.”

I blink. “He breathes like he’s plotting world domination every day.”

“Yes, but today he’s doing it louder.”

We reach my desk, and Hazel lowers her voice. “Just be careful. If he snaps, you’ll be in the first blast radius.”

My pulse kicks up.

Perfect… Exactly what I need.

My boss is in meltdown mode while I’m hanging by a thread.

“Thanks for the warning,” I mutter.

She squeezes my shoulder and heads off.

I barely sit before I hear it.

“Anderson.”

His voice is sharp enough to cut steel.

I stand instantly. “Yes, Mr. Sterling?”

Alexander stands outside his office, expression carved from granite. But his eyes… His eyes dart over my face for a split second, checking me. Relief flickers there briefly, which makes zero sense.

“Inside,” he says.

I follow him, heart pounding. He shuts the door, but instead of launching into instructions, he pauses behind his desk, hands flat against the surface.

His jaw flexes. His shoulders are tight. He is controlling something. Hard.

“Is everything okay?” I ask carefully.

“No.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

I wait, unsure if speaking again will get me fired.

Finally, he exhales slowly. “There’s an issue with the Zurich branch. Delays. Miscommunication. And of course, it's happening the week before our major review.”

His tone is cold and clipped, but beneath it… he sounds tired. Human. Frustrated.

“Can I help?” I ask.

“You already are.” He gestures to a stack of documents. “I need you to reorganize these reports. Prioritize everything marked in red. Then…”

His voice catches. Just slightly.

I look up sharply.

“Are you… alright?” The question escapes before I can stop it.

His eyes lift to mine. Something flickers there… something raw, quickly buried. “I didn’t sleep.”

“Work?”

He hesitates. “Partially.”

“And the other part?”

He looks at me longer than he should. “Nothing that concerns you.”

It stings, even though it shouldn’t.

“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll get started.”

I turn to leave, but his voice stops me.

“Anderson.”

I look back.

His expression softens, just barely. “Thank you.”

Two simple words. But from him, it feels like a revelation.

I nod, unable to speak, and leave his office.

~

I drop the paperwork on my table with a sigh.

Hazel immediately leans in, and Jamie follows and asks, “Did he burn you alive? Do you need a medic?”

“No. He’s just… on edge.”

“Like an angry edge or brooding edge?” Hazel questions.

“Uh… somewhere between volcanic and emotionally repressed.”

“So… normal.” Hazel replies.

Jamie lowers her voice. “You okay, though? You look pale.”

“I’m fine. Just stressed.”

“Wedding?”

“Wedding. Work. Ryan.” I exhale. “Everything.”

She tilts her head. “Are you and Ryan doing alright?”

“Yeah.” The lie tastes metallic. “Just busy.”

“Mhm.” Her eyebrows do the judgment thing again. “Well… if you need to talk…”

“I know.”

But I don’t talk. Not to Jamie. Not to Ryan. Not to Hazel or anyone. Because the more I talk, the more real everything becomes.

~

(In the afternoon)

I sit alone at the small café across the street, stirring a soup I’m not eating.

My phone buzzes with a text from Ryan:

`Will call you later. Crazy morning.`

I type "Okay," but I don’t send it. Instead, I stare at the blinking cursor.

He hasn’t asked about the invitations.

He hasn’t asked about my day.

He hasn’t asked if I’m sleeping or eating or losing my mind.

When did he stop noticing me?

I’m still staring at the unsent message when someone says quietly, “May I sit?”

I look up and see Alexander Sterling standing beside my table.

My soul leaves my body.

“Um… sure,” I manage.

He sits across from me, not stiffly, surprisingly. More like someone who needs a moment away from people.

For a minute, we say nothing.

He studies me, eyes gentle in a way that makes my chest ache. “You’re not eating.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You skipped breakfast.”

My head snaps up. “How do you know that?”

“You looked faint this morning.” He says it matter-of-factly, like observing my nutritional habits is normal boss behavior.

“Well, I had water,” I mumble.

He stares. “Water is not food.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then eat.”

Is he… bossing my stomach?

I pick up my spoon and eat one bite. Just to prove a point.

“Better?” he asks.

“A little.”

He nods, but he doesn’t leave. He just sits there, silent, almost thoughtful.

“Why are you here?” I ask softly.

“Because you looked like you needed someone to sit with.”

The words hit me harder than they should.

I look down at my soup, blinking away the sudden burn in my eyes.

“You don’t have to… do that,” I whisper.

“I know.” His voice warms. “But I also know that pretending you’re fine doesn’t make anything better.”

My throat tightens.

He sees too much.

He sees me.

And that scares me more than anything.

I force a small breath. “I’m just stressed. That’s all.”

“That’s not all.”

His certainty is dangerous.

“Lyla.”

My head snaps up. He rarely uses my first name.

“You’re carrying too much,” he says quietly. “And no one should do that alone.”

Emotions swell in my chest… fear, relief, and confusion, mixing until they’re indistinguishable.

Before I can reply, his phone buzzes. He checks the screen, jaw tightening.

“I need to go,” he murmurs. “But… eat.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he stands and walks away, coat sweeping behind him.

I sit there, spoon in hand, heart hammering against my ribs.

This is getting dangerous. Not because of anything he said.

But because of how it made me feel.

~

By the time the workday ends, I’m already mentally exhausted.

Ryan texted me , `How’s your day?`, hours ago. I told him it was fine. I didn’t say anything real.

He didn’t answer anyway.

When I get home, the apartment is empty as always. I drop my bag on the couch, kick off my shoes, and sink down beside them.

The silence is suffocating.

I pull my legs up and rest my forehead on my knees. I don’t cry, exactly, but something inside me aches so deeply it might as well be crying.

My phone buzzes again. I pick it up instinctively, hoping it’s Ryan, even though I don’t know what I’d say if it was.

But it’s not Ryan.

It’s Alexander.

ALEXANDER STERLING:

`Don’t forget the early draft.`

That’s it.

A reminder.

Cold. Professional. Detached.

But somehow… somehow it hits me harder than it should.

I type out a polite `Got it` but don’t send it.

Instead, I stare at the unsent message and whisper into the empty apartment:

“What is happening to me?”

I don’t have the answer.

But the crack in the seam, the one between my job and my wedding, between Ryan and Alexander, between who I am and who I’m pretending to be… It's growing.

And I can feel it.

Slowly.

Dangerously.

One tug away from tearing open completely.