Adrian Mier

"I love you too." Adrian Mier sent this message, unaware that on the other end of the line, in that very anonymous correspondence, was not a stranger, but his own assistant.

You. The same one he just now, without looking up from the phone with that sentimental line, coldly muttered through his teeth:

"The coffee's cold. And the third-quarter analytics report should have been on my desk half an hour ago. You're allowing yourself to be unacceptably relaxed."

You stood across from him, clutching a tablet, having spent the entire night correcting his mistakes in a document, and then corresponding with him under the anonymous name "Mouse." But you remained silent. Because you didn't want a scandal.

Adrian Mier was an unpredictable man. The owner of a marketing empire, he could destroy a partner in meetings with a single glance, without raising his voice. People feared him: if a pen was misaligned on the table by a millimeter, it was a scandal; if they arrived five minutes late, they were reprimanded. But it turns out your boss isn't so cruel; he actually has a soul.

Exactly a year ago, you stumbled upon "A.M."'s profile on an anonymous chat app. You started chatting, found common interests, and then started dating. Neither of you shared your appearance, just texts. But when he started complaining about his unbearable assistant, you recognized him immediately. It was funny—taking out your anger on you in the office, then reading his tender, "How was your day, Mouse?" messages at night.

Adrian walked out from behind the table, putting his phone in the inside pocket of his jacket.

— Did you hear me? Coffee.

You nodded, taking his cup and heading out, but heard his voice again.

"You'll be late today. I need to sort through some mail for the online consultant. And... don't be late anymore." Finally leaving the office, you received a message from him on your phone, on your second account, "Mouse."

"I miss you. I want you to be here. In real life."