Yes,I proposed to my Boss

I woke up before my alarm, which was honestly insulting. Not because I’m a morning person—God forbid—but because my brain apparently decided sleep was optional today. I lay there for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling like it had answers to my life choices, then rolled out of bed with the kind of discipline only exhaustion can teach. Today was going to be long. I could feel it. I showered, got dressed, and stood in front of my mirror like I was preparing for battle instead of accounting work. Black baggy corporate trousers. White short-sleeved shirt. Black vest, left open. Low heels. My mother would’ve called it “confusing.” I call it functional. By the time I tied my short hair back and slipped on my glasses, I already knew the first complaint of the day was coming. And I was right. “Reece!” My mother’s voice cut through the house the moment I stepped out of my room. I didn’t even try to avoid her. I just walked down the stairs slowly, like I had all the time in the world—even though I absolutely didn’t. She was waiting at the bottom like she had been practicing this conversation overnight. Her eyes scanned me immediately. It was always the same look. Like she was hoping I’d magically transform into someone who wore skirts and smiled at random men on the street. “You’re going to work like this again?” she asked, already disappointed. “Yes, Mom.” “You look like you’re competing with men instead of attracting them,” she said, folding her arms. “No man will even look at you if you keep dressing like this. You should wear a dress. Something soft. Feminine.” I paused for a second, just to make sure I heard her properly. Then I looked down at myself. “Mom,” I said slowly, “does it look like I have a huge bum men are lining up for?” She blinked. I continued, already grabbing my bag. “And even if I did, I’m not dressing for attention. I’m dressing for comfort and sanity.” Her mouth opened, probably to argue again. I didn’t give her the chance. “And yes,” I added, turning slightly toward the door, “I am competing with men. I just happen to style my s**t better.” I walked out before she could recover. Her voice followed me anyway, something about stubbornness and future regret, but I had already tuned it out. I had work. And work did not care about my mother’s fashion opinions. The office was already awake when I got in. Too awake. Phones ringing. People rushing. Someone arguing about a file they clearly didn’t read properly. The usual chaos pretending to be productivity. I walked straight into my office like I owned the building—because in my head, at least for accounting purposes, I kind of did. And then I saw it. Files. Stacks of them. Waiting for me like they had personally chosen violence. I exhaled through my nose. Of course. I hadn’t even dropped my bag before one of my juniors appeared at the door with that nervous smile people use when they know they’re about to ruin your day. “Ma’am… the month-end reports are urgent.” “Everything is urgent,” I replied flatly, sitting down. Another person stepped in. “And the cashbook reconciliation—” “I see it,” I cut in, already flipping open the first file. Another voice. “And payroll adjustments—” I stopped. Slowly looked up. “Are you all trying to kill me?” Silence. I leaned back in my chair. “I just walked in. I haven’t even had water. And you’re handing me financial trauma like it’s a breakfast menu.” They shifted uncomfortably. I sighed and waved a hand. “Drop everything. I’ll handle it. Just… leave my office before I change my mind and start assigning you all spreadsheets as punishment.” That did it. They left quickly. The door clicked shut. Peace. Beautiful, temporary peace. I put on my glasses properly, adjusted my watch, and got to work. Numbers. Errors. Corrections. Patterns. Fixes. This was my language. My world. My control. Hours passed without me noticing. That’s the thing about accounting—you don’t feel time until it’s already gone. By late afternoon, the office started to change. Energy shifted. Laptops closing. Chairs rolling. People laughing a little louder. The soft relief of survival. I didn’t notice at first. I was too deep in a reconciliation sheet that clearly hated me. Then someone tapped my desk. “Ma’am…” I didn’t look up. “Not now.” “It’s almost closing time.” That made me pause. I finally glanced at the clock. 6:42 p.m. I blinked. Already? I looked back down immediately. “Closing time is a suggestion,” I muttered. Another voice. “Ma’am, you’ve been here since morning.” “And I’ve been winning since morning,” I replied. Silence. Then— A chair scraped. Then another. I frowned. “What are you—” My office door opened. Not politely. Seven of them walked in like a coordinated betrayal. I slowly leaned back. “…No.” One of them smiled. “Ma’am, you’re done for the day.” “I’m not.” “You are.” “I still have work.” “You’ve had work since before sunrise.” I stared at them. “This is not a discussion.” “It is,” one of them said, already reaching for my files. I stood up immediately. “Don’t touch those.” Too late. They were already moving. I narrowed my eyes. “I want it noted that I did not approve this kidnapping.” “It’s not kidnapping,” someone said cheerfully. “It’s intervention.” “Intervention for what?” “For your health.” I scoffed. “My health is perfectly fine.” “You say that while surviving on stress and spite.” I opened my mouth. Closed it. Because unfortunately, that was not entirely inaccurate. Before I could argue further, they were already pulling me gently—too gently—to the door. I resisted for exactly three seconds. Then sighed. “Thirty minutes,” I warned. Someone grinned. “We’ll take it.” “I hate all of you.” “No you don’t.” “…I’m reconsidering.” They laughed. And just like that, I was being escorted out of my office—still holding onto my professionalism by a very thin thread—while the building slowly emptied around us. And somehow, I had a feeling this was the part of my day I was going to regret the least. Even though I definitely should’ve stayed at my desk.