Oops, He's My Boss

Chapter 2

"Okay then… shall we begin?"

— Stephen —

He hadn't planned on attending the interview himself.

But then Mr. Cole had slid the candidate files across his desk twenty minutes before, and Stephen had flipped through them the way he always did — fast, unbothered, already halfway checked out — until he turned a page and stopped.

Angelina Vega.

He stared at the photo on the resume for a moment longer than necessary. Then, quietly, like something long buried deciding to resurface, it hit him.

A crowded college hallway. Noise everywhere. And in the middle of it all — her. Head thrown back, laughing at something like it was the funniest thing that had ever happened in the history of the world. Completely unbothered. Completely unaware of anything around her. Including him.

He had never forgotten that laugh.

He hadn't been able to explain why — not then, not now.

Stephen closed the file. Straightened his jacket. And told Mr. Cole he'd be sitting in.

— Angelina —

His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that meant he had absolutely zero stress in his body while I was internally combusting.

I sat up straight, fixed my face, and told myself: you do not know this man. You have never seen this man. You definitely did not assault this man in a bar three weeks ago.

You are a professional. Act like it.

Stephen — because apparently God thought my life needed a plot twist — leaned back in his chair and looked at each of us like we were mildly interesting puzzles he hadn't decided whether to solve yet.

The hiring manager, Mr. Cole, cleared his throat. "We'll start with a brief introduction from each candidate, then move into the formal questions."

The guy to my left went first. Confident. Rehearsed. Boring. The woman next to him was sharp but stiff. Then it was my turn.

"Angelina Vega," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Five years in executive support. I'm organized, I'm fast, and I don't panic under pressure." I paused. "Much."

A few polite smiles. Stephen didn't smile. He just watched me. Arms folded, expression unreadable, like he was waiting for something I hadn't said yet.

Stop looking at me like that.

"Ms. Vega," Stephen said, his pen tapping the folder in front of him. "Walk me through how you'd manage a CEO's schedule when three high-priority meetings land on the same time slot."

"I'd assess urgency and stakeholder weight," I said, "reschedule the lowest-impact one with a same-day alternative, and prep a brief for anything the CEO can't attend personally."

"And if the CEO disagrees with your call?"

"Then I'd explain my reasoning. If he still disagrees, I adjust. I'm his assistant, not his life coach."

Mr. Cole nodded, clearly pleased. Stephen tilted his head.

"What if the CEO is notoriously difficult to work with?" he asked. His tone was even. His eyes were not.

I met his gaze without flinching. "Then I'd consider it a personal challenge. I actually work better when things are… complicated."

The faintest ghost of something crossed his face. Not quite a smile. Not quite not a smile.

"Tell me about a time you failed at a task," Stephen said, switching lanes so fast I nearly got whiplash.

"Once, I misread a calendar and booked a flight for the wrong Tuesday," I said. "Fixed it within forty minutes, no trip missed. I now triple-check everything."

"Only one failure in five years?"

"Only one worth mentioning in a job interview."

The other candidates shifted uncomfortably. Stephen leaned forward slightly. "How do you handle confidential information?"

"It stays confidential. That's kind of the whole point."

"Even if it's information that could personally benefit you?"

I blinked. "Are you asking if I'm corrupt?"

"I'm asking about your integrity."

"Then the answer is yes. I have it."

Dead silence. Then Mr. Cole quickly jumped in with the next question, steering the ship before it sank completely. The rest of the interview moved fast — logistics, communication style, software proficiency. I answered everything cleanly. Stephen threw in an extra angle every single time I spoke, like he was personally assigned to stress-test me and was absolutely enjoying it.

I didn't c***k. Not once.

When it was over, Mr. Cole thanked everyone and the other candidates stood, gathering their things, making their exits with polite nods and relieved exhales.

I was almost at the door.

"Ms. Vega."

Of course.

I stopped. Turned around slowly, like maybe if I moved at glacier speed this moment would not be real.

Stephen was standing now, jacket buttoned, hands in his pockets, looking entirely too comfortable for a man who should feel at least a little awkward right now.

"Could you stay back for a moment?"

Mr. Cole glanced between us, then quietly slipped out and closed the door. Just like that, it was the two of us.

I squared my shoulders. "Mr…"

"Varon. Stephen Varon." He said it like I didn't already know. "But I have a feeling this isn't exactly our first time meeting."

"I meet a lot of people," I said pleasantly. "Hard to keep track."

"Mmm." He walked slowly to the edge of the table and leaned against it, arms folded. "Dark bar. Three weeks ago. Whiskey neat. Ring any bells?"

"Nope."

"You slapped me."

"Lots of people get slapped. Not my business."

"Then you kneed me."

"I have a very active imagination but none of this is sounding familiar."

"And then," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching, "you backhanded me hard enough to rearrange my vision."

"Sir, I think you might be confusing me with—"

"You were wearing a black dress," he said. "You smelled like whiskey and rage. You said, and I quote, 'This is what happens when you interrupt a woman who just freed herself from seven years of—'"

"Okay!" I cut him off. "Okay. Fine. That… may have been me."

He looked way too satisfied. "May have."

"Look, I was going through something and you approached me at the wrong time and I—"

"You assaulted me."

"That's a very dramatic word for—"

"Assaulted. Me." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, holding it out between two fingers like it was a receipt from hell.

I took it. Unfolded it. Read it.

Medical bill. Itemized. Very, very itemized.

"Fifteen thousand dollars?!" The words flew out before I could stop them. "HOW? You didn't even bleed!"

"MRI, physical therapy consult, pain and suffering—"

"Pain and SUFFERING? I barely touched you!"

"You kneed me in the groin, Ms. Vega."

"Okay but fifteen thousand—" I stared at the paper again, hoping the number would change. It did not. "A whole car costs less than this."

"Not a good car," he said simply.

I looked up at him. He was watching me with this unbothered, slightly amused expression that made me want to commit another crime.

"So here's what I'm thinking," he said. "Option one — you pay the fifteen thousand right now, today, and we never speak of this again."

I laughed. Not because it was funny. Because the alternative was crying. "And option two?"

"You work for me. Do the job you just interviewed for. Follow my instructions. No complaints."

I stared at him. "You're using a medical bill to blackmail me into being your assistant."

"I'm offering you a structured repayment plan," he said, completely deadpan. "Very generous, really."

I looked at the bill again. Fifteen thousand dollars I absolutely did not have.

"I don't even know if I got the job," I finally said.

He smiled then. Fully. For the first time. And honestly? I wished he hadn't, because it was deeply unfair.

"We'll see about that," he said.

And somehow, that felt like the most terrifying thing he'd said all day.

***

Across town, in a cozy apartment that smelled like vanilla candles and bad decisions, Dana was having the worst kind of visitor.

Adam sat on her couch — her couch, the audacity — looking like a man who had rehearsed a whole speech and was very proud of it.

"She just completely lost it on me," he was saying, shaking his head. "Like I was the bad guy. I just wanted something new, you know? I feel like Angie never really appreciated—"

"Mmhm," Dana said, stirring her tea, staring at the wall, willing herself not to throw the mug at his head.

"I always cared about her. I gave her everything."

You cheated on her for seven years straight, Dana thought. But okay.

"She's honestly better off without me," Adam continued, nodding like he was being noble. "And I think deep down you know that too, Dana. You've always been the smart one between you two. You actually get it. You're more… my speed."

Dana's stirring slowed.

"I've actually always thought you were…" He leaned forward, dropping his voice. "...really something. Like genuinely. I've had my eye on you for a while now."

The spoon stopped moving entirely.

He reached over and touched her hand.

Big mistake.

Dana's fist connected with his nose so fast he didn't even see it coming. The c***k was clean. Immediate.

"WHAT THE—"

"Get OUT," Dana said, her voice scarily calm as blood started dripping. "You sat on MY couch, talked trash about MY best friend, and then had the actual nerve to shoot your shot with me? YOU?"

"My nose—"

"Will heal!" She grabbed him by the collar, hauled him off the couch, and marched him straight to the front door.

"Dana, I think it's broken—"

"Good!"

She shoved him out into the hallway. He stumbled, pressing his hand to his face, staring at her in genuine shock.

"Don't come back," she said sweetly. "And next time you feel like running your mouth about Angelina? Remember that she carried you for seven years and you still came out useless. Bye."

The door slammed.

Dana stood in the middle of her living room, breathing hard, knuckles tingling. She looked down at her hand, flexed her fingers. Picked up her tea. Took a long, unbothered sip.

Should I tell Ange?

She thought about it. Thought about Angelina, who was finally sleeping properly, finally building something new, finally breathing again.

…Nah. I'll keep this one.

***

I got home, dropped my bag by the door, kicked off my shoes somewhere near the hallway, and face-planted directly onto my bed without even pulling back the covers.

Fifteen thousand dollars. A blackmail deal disguised as employment. A boss who already knew exactly how to get under my skin — and we hadn't even officially started yet.

I closed my eyes. I was asleep before I could finish the thought.

The next morning, sunlight hit my face and my phone buzzed on the nightstand. I grabbed it, squinting at the screen.

One new email. Varon Group.

I sat up so fast my head spun.

Subject: Offer of Employment — Senior Personal Assistant to the CEO.

Dear Ms. Vega, we are pleased to inform you that following your interview, you have been selected for the position…

I read it three times. Scrolled back up. Read it again just to make sure my eyes weren't playing tricks on me.

Then I sat there in my wrinkled interview clothes from the day before, shoes still somewhere in the hallway, hair a complete mess, holding my phone in total silence.

I got the job.

Of course I got the job.

We'll see about that, he'd said.

Yeah. I'd walked right into that one.

I fell back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling for a long, dramatic moment.

"Okay, Angelina," I whispered to myself. "New job. New boss. New start. Totally normal, completely fine situation."

Absolutely nothing about this is normal.