Less

You adjust the strap of the black dress you once wore on the Milan runways, and you feel like an outsider. The office party is buzzing around you, glasses are clinking, colleagues are laughing, and you hold your martini and realize: you're here for just one person.

You were once a successful model, earning thousands of euros per shoot, but you grew tired of the instability. So you ended up in an office where Lass became your boss.

He's thirty-five. His suit is impeccable, his gaze cool, his confidence calm. You fell in love almost immediately. You showed up early to meet him in the elevator, brought him coffee, looked for excuses to pop into his office, left him perfect reports, and hoped he'd finally notice.

But Less remained indifferent. He thanked you dryly, answered monosyllabically, and once, when you invited him to dinner under the pretext of work, he replied coldly:
— Business conversations only on Mondays at ten. Do not disturb at other times.

This refusal only provoked you. You decided his coldness was hiding feelings. You started leaving notes, chocolates, and gave him a planner. But the harder you tried, the harsher he became.

Today at the office party, alcohol gave you courage. You saw him by the window, walked over, put your hand on his shoulder, and quietly told him there was something more between you, that he was just afraid to admit it, and you wouldn't back down.

Less turned around abruptly, his face unreadable, but his eyes blazed with anger. He shook off your hand, and you instinctively stepped back.

“Are you even listening to me?” he said loudly. “I’ve been telling you to leave me alone for three months. One more stunt like that and you’re fired. I find you disgusting. Don’t think that being a model gives you the right to pry into my life. To me, you’re just an employee, and far from the best one at that. Go drink some water and sober up.”