My CEO Ex: The Job I Never Wanted

The rain was beating the windows of Sterling Tower like it had a personal vendetta. I stood across the street, clutching my CV to my chest like it was the last piece of bread in Lagos. My thrifted heels were soaked through. Water was dripping down my ankles. My phone battery was at 3%. And my rent was due in 4 days. “Last interview, Sandra,” I whispered to myself, pushing wet hair from my face. “If this one fails, I’m selling gala on the road.” Sterling Enterprises. Owned by Alfred Sterling. 32 years old. Billionaire. Cold. Ruthless. And the man who broke my heart 3 years ago. I didn’t know he was the CEO when I applied. The job post on LinkedIn just said: “Personal Assistant Needed. Discretion Required. High Pay. No experience needed.” High pay was all I saw. $4,000 a month. For being an assistant? I clicked apply before my brain could catch up. The receptionist at the 50th floor looked me up and down. My umbrella was dripping on her marble floor. My blouse was see-through from the rain. “Name?” she asked, not unkindly. “Sandra Okafor. 2pm interview.” She typed. Her face changed. “Miss Okafor… Mr. Sterling will see you himself.” My stomach dropped all the way to my wet shoes. Of all the people in this 50-floor building… why him? The elevator was all glass. Cold. It smelled like money and expensive cologne. The kind that makes you forget your problems for 5 seconds. Floor 50. His office. The doors dinged open. And there he was. Alfred. He was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, hands in his pockets, looking out at the city. The rain made the skyline look blurry. He looked exactly the same, but sharper. Taller. The suit he wore probably cost more than my family’s yearly rent. He didn’t turn when I walked in. “Miss Okafor,” his voice hit me. Low. Deeper than I remembered. It used to whisper my name at 2am. Now it sounded like a court order. “You’re late. By 2 minutes.” “I… the rain the bus” He finally turned. And his eyes met mine. Dark brown. Intense. The same eyes that once looked at me like I was the only girl in the world. Now they looked at me like I was a problem on his spreadsheet. For half a second, I saw it. Surprise. His jaw tightened. Then it was gone. Replaced with ice. “Sandra,” he said my name. Just my name. But it did things to me I hated. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said. “Didn’t expect to see you either,” I lied. My voice shook and I hated it. He walked to his desk. Black. Minimal. No pictures. No warmth. He sat and leaned back, steepling his fingers. Didn’t offer me a seat. “I read your CV,” he said. “University dropout. 3 jobs in 2 years. Eviction notice last month.” He looked up. “Desperate people make good assistants. They don’t ask questions. They just do.” Heat rose to my face. “I’m not desperate—” “Are you not?” He cut me off. “Because the last time you were desperate, you left me. No call. No text. Just gone. One morning your room was empty.” My chest tightened. That wasn’t what happened. He was the one who called me a “distraction.” He was the one who said “We come from two different worlds, Sandra. Don’t make this messy.” But I wasn’t going to cry here. Not in front of him. Not in this office that smelled like power. “I need this job, Mr. Sterling,” I said, lifting my chin. “If you’re going to throw the past in my face, then don’t hire me. Hire someone else.” He studied me. Long. Like he was trying to see if I was still the 20-year-old girl who used to fall asleep on his chest. Then he picked up a Mont Blanc pen and signed something. “You start Monday. 7am sharp,” he said. “My schedule, my coffee, my meetings, my life. You mess up once, you’re fired. You talk about us to anyone, you’re fired. You look at me the way you used to, you’re fired.” The last line hit me like a slap. He slid a brown envelope across the desk. “Signing bonus. $2,000. Don’t spend it all on rent.” I took it. My hands were trembling. $2,000. That was 4 months rent. That was my mom’s hospital bills. “Anything else?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper. He stood and walked to me. Too close. I could smell him. Tom Ford. Oud. That same scent from 3 years ago that still showed up in my dreams. “One rule, Sandra.” His voice dropped. Only for me. “We keep this professional. The past stays in the past. You’re my assistant. Nothing more.” His eyes dropped to my lips for half a second. Just half. Before going back to my eyes. “Understood?” I nodded. Because if I spoke, my voice would crack. If I spoke, I’d ask him why he looked at me like that. “Good,” he said. “Monday. Don’t be late.” --- The elevator ride down felt longer than the ride up. My phone buzzed in my bag. Bank alert: `$2,000 CREDITED TO YOUR ACCOUNT` I almost cried right there. Then another buzz. Unknown number. _“Monday. 7am. Don’t be late. - A”_ I should have deleted it. I should have run. But rent was due. And the man who broke me was now the only person who could save me. --- *That night* My apartment was one room in Surulere. Peeling paint. One bulb. My mom was on the mat, coughing. “Did you get it?” she asked, eyes hopeful. I pulled out the envelope. Showed her the alert. Her eyes filled with tears. “Thank God, Sandra. Thank God.” I smiled. But my stomach was twisting. Because Monday, I was walking back into the arms of the man who taught me how heartbreak feels. --- *Flashback: 3 Years Ago* Campus. Final year. Alfred was a guest lecturer. 29 and already running his father’s company. I was 20, broke, serving food at the cafeteria to pay fees. He came in one day. Ordered jollof. Tipped me $100. “Why are you working here?” he asked. “Because I have to,” I said. Two weeks later he offered me an internship. Two months later I was in his apartment. Three months later he said “I can’t do this, Sandra. My family— they expect someone from our class.” He didn’t shout. He just said it calmly. Like he was ending a business meeting. And I packed my things at 3am and left. --- *Back to Present: Sunday Night* I laid out my clothes. Black skirt. White shirt. Blazer. Professional. No makeup. Don’t look pretty. Don’t look like the girl he used to kiss. At 6:40am Monday I was at Sterling Tower. His assistant showed me to my desk. Right outside his office. Glass walls. “Mr. Sterling wants his coffee. Black. No sugar. At 7:05 exactly,” she whispered. 7:00am. The door opened. Alfred walked in. Suit. No tie. Hair still wet from shower. He saw me. Paused. “Morning,” he said. Professional. Cold. “Morning, Mr. Sterling. Coffee?” “Black. No sugar. 7:05.” I nodded and rushed to the pantry. When I came back, he was on a call. “No, tell the board we’re not selling that division. I don’t care what my father says.” His eyes met mine over his laptop. I put the coffee down. Our fingers brushed. Electricity. He didn’t flinch. But his jaw ticked. “Thank you, Sandra,” he said, when the call ended. “That will be all.” All day it was like that. Orders. Emails. Meetings. “Book me a flight.” “Cancel my 3pm.” “Don’t let anyone in.” At 6pm, everyone left. Except me. “Stay,” he said from his office. “I have work.” 8pm. 9pm. 10pm. “You don’t have to stay this late,” I said, gathering my things. “I didn’t ask you to leave,” he replied, not looking up. At 10:30, the power in the building flickered. Then went out. Emergency lights came on. “Generator will take 10 minutes,” he said. Then he looked at me. Really looked. “You hungry?” “I’m fine.” He sighed. Opened his drawer. Brought out two packs of noodles. “You still eat Indomie?” The question broke me. “Alfred—” “Don’t,” he said quickly. “Professional.” We ate in silence. In the dark. With only the city lights outside. “You didn’t have to take this job,” he said suddenly. “You didn’t have to hire me.” “I needed someone I could trust.” I laughed bitterly. “You don’t trust me.” “I trust you to be good at your job,” he said. “That’s different.” The generator hummed to life. Lights came back. He stood. “Go home, Sandra.” I stood too. But my heel caught on the carpet. I stumbled. He caught me. One arm around my waist. My hands on his chest. His scent. His warmth. His heartbeat. For 3 seconds we didn’t move. Then he let go. Stepped back. “Go home,” he said again. Voice rough. I grabbed my bag and ran. At home, another text from the unknown number: _“You did good today. See you tomorrow. And underneath it, a second text I didn’t expect: “P.S. You still spill coffee when you’re nervous.” I stared at my phone until the screen went black. The man who said the past was in the past… was remembering how I drink coffee. This was going to be a problem.