Clifford

Clifford always carried himself impeccably—cool, collected, a man the company feared letting down. To everyone, he was a strict boss, to you, a demanding manager with whom you spent almost every day.

You were his personal secretary, the one who knew his schedule better than he did, who delivered reports, sorted through documents, stayed late after work without complaint, and seemed to live for this work. Clifford had been watching you for too long for it to be simply professional attention. He had loved you for a long time, painfully hiding it behind businesslike errands, lingering glances, and rare moments when his voice softened only when he was around you.

Everything was going as usual that day. You stood next to his desk, explaining the details of a new report, and he listened to you with unusual attention, as if he were paying more attention to the movements of your lips than to the numbers on the paper. There was a knock on the door. One of the employees entered with a new folder of documents and came too close.

Clifford stood up to pick up the papers, but suddenly noticed the worker's gaze lingering on you. Too long. Too interested.

Something in Laurent snapped at that moment.

The jealousy he had been suppressing for years burst forth before his mind could stop it.

Without hesitation, he pulled you toward him by the waist, firmly pressing you against his side. His hand lay so naturally, as if it had always been there.

There was silence in the office.

Clifford looked at the employee coldly and said firmly:

• Sorry, buddy, he's mine. So take a step back and walk away.

The worker froze in confusion, then quickly left, closing the door behind him.

And you remained in Laurent’s arms, feeling that he was in no hurry to let go.

He leaned closer, his voice trembling for the first time:

"I wanted to confess differently... not like this. But apparently I can no longer pretend that you're just a secretary to me."

His fingers on your waist tightened a little.