Off Limits: The Billionaire's Forbidden Assistant

I can Handle It

Sofia

I storm into the apartment like a volcano finally deciding to erupt.

Mercifully, the press conference had ended early, and Romero dismissed everyone the second it wrapped, then left the building in a mood so foul I swear the elevator air went cold. I didn't wait around to find out where he went. I just left.

The front door slams hard enough to rattle the keys off their hook. My jacket goes flying onto the floor. My bag follows.

My rage, unfortunately, doesn't seem to be going anywhere.

Priya is sprawled across the couch, phone in hand, legs swung over the armrest like she's auditioning for a toothpaste commercial. She barely looks up.

"You're back early," she says, chewing gum like it personally owes her money. "Didn't expect that from the shiny new hire."

I don't answer. I start pacing, kicking off my heels one at a time, both clattering against the tile.

Priya watches, mildly delighted. "Sooo. Something happen at the Apex Palace of Corporate Despair?"

I spin around. "Something happen?" My laugh comes out sharp enough to cut. "You want to know what happened to me like hours ago? I found out that the guy I slept with two nights ago, the one Camila dared me to talk to, is my boss. Not just 'a' boss. The CEO. Of the entire company." F*ck.

Silence. Dead, pin-drop, someone-just-confessed-to-a-crime silence.

Priya sits up straight. "Wait. 'What?"

"Romero Hernandez." I cross my arms so tight I might crack a rib. "New CEO of Apex Corporation. Also, apparently, the man I slept with without knowing his last name. Or first name. Or any name. Damnit!"

Her jaw drops like a broken hinge. "You're telling me the guy from the bar is your 'boss?"

"Correct."

Camila looks up from her laptop across the room, eyes wide. "Sofia. Are you serious right now?"

"I really wish I wasn't."

Priya lets out a low whistle, then — because apparently she can't help herself — adds, "You do realize this is kind of on you, though. Right?"

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"I'm just saying. The dare was to flirt. Maybe get a number, a drink. Nobody said go get a room with a total stranger and find out later he signs your paycheck."

My jaw actually drops. "Are you blaming me for this?"

She holds her hands up, all faux-innocence. "I'm just saying — maybe next time, don't gamble your whole career on a one-night stand."

"It's not like it was written on his forehead, Priya."

"Exactly my point."

My hands curl into fists at my sides. "Your opinion isn't helping right now."

"Okay. Noted. Touchy."

I turn away before I say something I can't take back, chest tight, the room suddenly ten degrees too warm. My eyes land on Camila, who's stayed quiet through all of it.

"Camila? Nothing to add?"

She studies me for a long moment, like she's watching a slow-motion collision and deciding where to stand.

"I'm thinking," she says finally.

"About what?"

"About how to fix this. Instead of blaming you for it."

Something in my throat goes tight. For a second I forget how to breathe properly.

Priya's phone rings. She answers it and disappears into her room, still smug, still chewing.

Then it's just me and Camila, and a silence that finally feels safe instead of suffocating.

I drop onto the couch, elbows on my knees. "She's right, though. This is on me. I feel like the biggest i***t in Las Vegas."

"You're not," Camila says immediately, no hesitation.

"I let him touch me. I let myself feel — God, I don't even know what I felt. And now he looks at me like I'm something stuck to the bottom of his shoe."

She doesn't say much else. She just reaches over, takes my hand, and squeezes. Somehow, that's enough.

---

Later, we end up on the rooftop. It's quiet up there — the kind of quiet that lets you hear your own thoughts, which is dangerous, because mine haven't been kind company lately.

I lie back and watch the stars try to fight through the city haze. Camila settles beside me, hoodie pulled tight, a blanket over both our legs.

"How many stars?" she asks eventually.

"Fourteen and a half," I say, deadpan.

"How do you count half a star?"

"One's hiding behind a cloud. I'm giving it partial credit."

She laughs softly. Then, quieter: "Do you want to quit?"

I sit up and stare at her. "The job?"

She nods.

I laugh for real this time, kinda wild, a little unhinged around the edges. "Camila, I clawed my way toward this job for two years. I ate rice out of the pot for a week just to make August's rent. I am not letting one man — 'that' man, of all men — chase me out."

She studies me in the dim light. "Even if he keeps treating you like that?"

I square my shoulders. "Then I'll treat him like he doesn't matter. Professionally, obviously."

She doesn't argue. Just nods slowly, leans back, and goes back to counting stars beside me. For a moment, I actually believe I can handle it.

I cannot handle it.

---

The next morning starts with hope and ends in humiliation.

I bring Romero coffee — a peace offering, my personal 'please-don't-fire-me-I've-seen-you-shirtless' bribe. I check the order three times before I even leave the café downstairs.

He takes one sip and scowls like I've handed him poison. "This isn't what I asked for."

"It's dark roast, oat milk, one sugar—"

"Then you weren't listening." Flat. Final. "Try again. Use your ears this time."

I swallow the retort trying to claw its way up my throat, go back down, and order again — different roast, extra shot, triple-checked. I carry it back like it's something explosive.

He doesn't touch it either.

"No. Not what I want. I suppose I'll be making my own coffee from now on, since apparently that's beyond my secretary's skill set."

Please do. The machine's right there, three feet from your desk. It's not a museum piece.

I don't say it. I smile through gritted teeth, later I beg a coworker for the actual formula, burn myself twice, and hide in the bathroom for one full shaky breath before trying a third time.

By the time I get it right, he doesn't even look up. "Meeting. Come."

"I thought I was staying outside for—"

"You're coming." Already walking.

I follow, spine straight, my dignity in tatters.

---

The restaurant is absurdly fancy. He tells the hostess, "Private room, Hernandez," and I'm left to wait outside like furniture.

I'm admiring the gold fixtures when a voice booms across the lobby.

"SOFIA MENDEZ?"

I turn. It's Tyler — Priya's fifth ex, tall, loud, grinning like he owns happiness. We hug, we catch up, we joke about bad tequila from the nights he tagged along as Priya's plus-one. For the first time in two days, I feel almost normal.

"So what have you been up to?" I ask, eyeing his very upgraded outfit.

"Honestly, just—"

"Inside."

I freeze. That voice — low, clipped, sharp, Romero, standing directly behind me.

"What?" I ask, stupidly.

Thirty-some hours in his employ and I already know one thing: he doesn't repeat himself.

He nods once toward the private room.

"You said I should wait outside during meetings."

"I changed my mind." His eyes flick to Tyler for exactly one second — one — and something ticks in his jaw.

Tyler's easy grin dims into something more guarded.

"Sorry," I murmur to him. "Boss." I follow Romero inside, quick and quiet, and for the life of me, I cannot figure out what just happened to his mood or why it looks a lot like something I don't have a name for yet.