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.

Lyla's POV

I sit at my desk pretending to focus on my screen. In reality, I’m watching people hang a giant silver banner that says GOODBYE OLD YEAR! but the “D” in GOODBYE keeps falling off, turning it into GOO BYE. Honestly, it feels appropriate for the way my life is going.

The whole office looks like it overdosed on caffeine and confetti. Everywhere I turn, someone is stringing up lights, blowing up balloons, or arguing about which playlist screams “New Year’s Eve corporate fun” without sounding like a bad wedding DJ.

“Stop frowning,” Hazel says, sliding into the chair beside mine with a bounce of glossy hair and cinnamon perfume. “Your face is going to stick that way.”

I didn’t hear her walk up. Hazel always moves like she’s floating, light and confident, smiling at everyone like she owns the place.

“I’m not frowning,” I lie.

“You’re absolutely frowning.” She nudges my arm. “This party is supposed to be fun, Lyla. Fun. You remember what that is, right?”

“Vaguely.”

She snorts. “Then tonight, we revive the concept. You’re going to relax, eat, drink, socialize, and dance. Pretend you’re not drowning in deadlines.”

“And wedding plans,” I add.

Her smile tightens for a split second… so fast I almost miss it. But I notice.

Hazel smiles too much for me not to see the slip.

“Well,” she says lightly, “you deserve a night off from all that too.”

She tucks a strand of her honey-brown hair behind her ear. I stare at her for a moment, searching for… something. Maybe reassurance. Maybe the friend she was before things started feeling weird between us recently.

“Hazel,” I begin, “can I ask…”

A sharp voice cuts through the hum of the office.

“Anderson.”

I freeze.

Of course… Alexander.

He stands at the end of the aisle of cubicles… black suit, sleeves rolled up, expression sharp enough to cut glass.

The worst part? The second his eyes land on me, my whole body reacts like I just got plugged into an outlet.

“Can I see you for a moment?” he says.

Hazel wiggles her eyebrows at me. “Ooh, your scary boss beckons.”

“Please shut up,” I whisper.

“I can’t. It’s a medical condition.”

I shoot her a look before walking toward him. He moves aside to let me pass into his office. I step inside, arms crossed for self-preservation.

“You need something?” I ask.

He closes the door. “The proposal draft.”

“It’s on your desk. I sent the digital copy too.”

He nods but doesn’t look away from me. For a moment it feels like he’s studying me, like he notices the tiny tremor in my hands or the way I can’t quite lift my chin today.

“You look tired,” he says quietly.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

My breath hitches. “You’re imagining things.”

He steps closer… then stops himself, jaw clenching faintly. “Just… pace yourself tonight. Don’t take on extra tasks.”

“It’s a party, Mr. Sterling. Not a project.”

“That’s debatable.”

I almost smile. Almost.

But I can’t let myself settle into the strange comfort of his concern. Not when I’m already slipping.

“I’ll be fine,” I repeat and walk out before he can reply.

~

By six, the office transforms into something unrecognizable: dim lights, shimmering decorations, a huge catering table, and a DJ booth in the corner.

People are laughing, clinking glasses, and dancing near their cubicles like it’s the best night of their lives.

Hazel appears again, holding two glasses of champagne.

“One for you,” she says.

“I’m not sure…”

“You’re drinking it,” she insists. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Since when are you a doctor?”

“Since you became impossible to babysit.” She bumps her glass against mine. “Cheers, bride-to-be.”

Something lurches in my chest.

Bride-to-be.

Some days those words feel like a warm hug. But today they feel like a weight.

We clink lightly and drink.

As I swallow, Hazel leans against me. “Just… have fun tonight, Lyla. Don’t overthink everything. Don’t run yourself into the ground. Just be here.”

Her voice is soft. Too soft.

I look at her, wondering suddenly, violently, what she would look like if she were hiding something.

She smiles at me again, perfectly and effortlessly. I ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach.

~

As the night deepens, laughter gets louder, music gets stronger, and I drift through the room with polite smiles and meaningless conversations.

Ryan texts me once:

`Hope the party’s fun. Don’t stay too late.`

No heart.

No “miss you.”

Just a schedule reminder.

Hazel hooks her arm through mine and pulls me toward the break area. “Secret Santa’s starting!”

“Great,” I mutter. “Corporate bonding.”

“Stop being grumpy,” she laughs.

But my chest feels tight.

I could feel something coming.

I don’t know what exactly, but the air feels heavy with it.

And as people gather around the table piled with wrapped gifts, I scan the room instinctively.

My pulse jumps as my eyes land on Alexander.

He is here, leaning against the wall, one hand in his pocket, looking like he owns every molecule of oxygen.

He’s not smiling, nor is he mingling. He’s just watching the room… watching the employees… watching…

Me.

I turn away quickly.

Tonight, I’m avoiding him.

Tonight, I need to breathe.

“Lyla,” Hazel says, pressing a gift bag into my hands, “this is yours.”

I stare at it.

It’s small and light, wrapped in matte black paper with a red ribbon.

My stomach drops.

I glance at Hazel.

She shrugs. “Open it!”

My breath stops as I lift the tissue paper.

Inside is… lingerie.

Not just lingerie. It's expensive, delicate, red lace lingerie.

A cold wave of confusion slams into me so hard I actually step back.

“What the hell…” I whisper.

My hands tremble. I shove the tissue paper deeper, as if hiding it makes it less real.

Hazel laughs lightly. “Ooh, someone thinks you’re spicy!”

“I… I don’t… this can’t…”

“Who’s your Secret Santa?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I choke out.

But someone does.

Someone very specific.

Slowly… too slowly… I sense a presence behind me. Then suddenly, a hand grabs me, yanking me into a dark, enclosed space.

I could feel the air shift. The tiny hairs on my arms rise.

Then a warm breath hits the side of my neck.

“Bunny,” a deep voice murmurs, “put on my New Year’s gift.”

My heart slams into my ribs. I spin around too fast.

It’s him.

Alexander!.

Standing close enough that I can see shadows in his eyes.

Close enough that I can smell the faint cedar and winter spice of his cologne.

“A… Alexander…” My voice breaks.

His gaze lowers to the gift bag in my hands. He smirks, slow and dangerous, like he enjoys the way I’m falling apart.

“Fits you,” he says quietly.

My entire body floods with heat… panic, humiliation, anger, and fear, all tangled into one unstoppable rush.

“I… I don’t… This isn’t funny,” I stammer.

“I wasn’t joking.”

That’s it.

That’s the final crack.

I shake my head and shove past him, heart pounding so loud it swallows the music.

“I have to… I need…” I can’t even form words.

I flee.

I hear footsteps behind me, heavy, controlled, and familiar.

Alexander is following.

My lungs tighten as I move faster down the hall, practically sprinting. I reach the staircase and grip the railing.

For a moment… just one… there’s silence.

Then I hear him stop behind me.

I don’t turn around.

I can’t.

If I do, I’ll break open completely.

His voice is low and strained, nothing like the confident whisper from seconds ago.

“Go,” he says. “Just… go home.”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

He doesn’t move.

He doesn’t come closer.

And somehow, that hurts more than everything else.

I walk down the stairs, legs shaking, heart in my throat.

Behind me, I hear nothing but the muffled echo of the party continuing… and the sound of Alexander letting me go.