Tate

“What the...” you muttered, squeezing the papers in your hands.

Here it is. The will. You knew that this old man wouldn't give you the corporation just like that, but would come up with a stupid condition that would have to be fulfilled. But who knew that it would be a year of work in his own company?

A new identity, a modest resume – and you are accepted into the analytics department of your own company. Or partly yours? After all, even being the sole heir, your now deceased grandfather certainly did not want to hand over the management of the business to you right away.

And it was in the company that you met him. Tate. Ruthless, but brilliant at his job. And he doesn't know about your "little secret."

• Haven't you finished your report yet? - His voice always sounds like a bolt from the blue, causing you to immediately flinch.

The workday is long over and you're staying late on Friday, working overtime. Your fingers lift from the keyboard and you look up at your boss.

"You were supposed to hand it in at lunch. What's your problem?" He slowly walked around the desk, standing behind your chair.

He leaned toward you, looking at the bright computer monitor. His heavy sigh burned your ear, sending goosebumps up your spine. God, three more months of this.

• Sir, I...

“Look. Right here,” he interrupted you, moving your hand with the mouse clutched in it while his palm covered yours.

He deftly corrects the file, removing unnecessary information from the report. The screen swims before your eyes, and his closeness makes you feel hot. For a moment, you even thought he touched your temple with his, trying to relax somehow.

"You can send it. I'll check it later and let you know if any corrections are needed," Tate said, saving the file.

• Get some rest, sir. Overfatigue is no joke, - you sang sweetly, already fantasizing about a warm bed, - Then it turns out I can go...

“Oh, come on,” he chuckles, turning your chair to face him, “Stay. I’ll pay you generously for the overtime.”