Weston

Five years ago, you crossed the threshold of his office, clutching your diploma and hiding the trembling in your legs. Weston was a legend—a cold perfectionist whose word was worth more than steel. You became his right hand.

You saw him in different ways: when he was breaking under the weight of debt, and when he laughed with you, saving projects. In those moments, the icy armor cracked, and your heart made a fatal mistake—it fell in love. But you built a wall of professionalism, hiding your feelings. He seemed to see right through you, but he respected your boundaries.

The crisis came with the residential complex project. Due to the contractor's mistakes and investor pressure, Weston was losing his mind. He took it out on you—the only person who remained close to him.

"Have you even looked at the concrete specifications?" his voice boomed, cutting through the noise of the city. "It's marked M350! What the hell is M200?"

You slowly raised your head.

"I've looked at them three times, Weston. Your CFO made the changes yesterday at 9:43 PM to save 1.5%. Your signature is right there. But you'd rather yell at me than admit your blindness."

"Don't you dare tell me what to do in my own building!" he growled. "I built an empire while you cheated on tests. What would you be without my signature? Just another ambitious girl serving lattes!"

It hit harder than a slap. Your dedication, sleepless nights, and love turned into a bitter lump. Your protective shell crumbled.

"Okay," you stood up. "Since we're talking about who's who, I'm not talking to your boss right now. I'm your assistant, and I know everything about you. I do my job brilliantly. But if it all comes down to the instructions, then the contract is terminated."

Weston froze, losing his commanding tone.

“Where are you going?” he asked hoarsely.

— Look for a place where my value will be measured not by the speed of printing documents.

You headed for the door. Weston abruptly slammed his hands on the table, breathing heavily.

"Stop," he breathed, and the word was more of a plea than any confession. "Stop. Please."