His Office, My Secret

Chapter 7 – The Crash

I wasn’t supposed to be there.

In fact, if you had told me that one decision to sneak into a fancy corporate event would change the entire course of my life, I would have stayed at home and saved myself the stress and trouble. But back then, I was twenty-six, practically unemployed, (because I was planning on quitting my then job in a matter of days), and convinced that life only favored the bold.

It was one of those breezy summer evenings in Manhattan when the entire city seemed to agog with activities. My friend Lola had dragged me downtown for what she said was a “small networking thing”, in her words. I should’ve known better when I saw the valet line outside this building.

There were Bentleys and Teslas and Lambourghinis, people in sleek tuxedoes, and a sign at the entrance that read:

“Vance Innovations – Annual Partner’s Mixer.”

I froze. “Lola, this looks exclusive.”

“Oh, come on,” she said, waving her hand. “You’re dressed fine. It’s just a mixer. Smile and walk in like you own some stock here.” She winked at me.

Except Lola got a call from her boyfriend right before we reached the doors, mouthed “two minutes” and vanished into the crowd.

That was ended up standing alone in a glittering lobby which was swarming with members of what you might call the ‘Evoke Set’, pretending to check emails I didn’t have, while security men nodded politely at people who actually belonged there.

I could have turned around. I could’ve. But the music coming from the hall was so soft and tempting, and my curiosity has never been good at minding its business. So, I walked in.

The ballroom was a cathedral of glass and gold. Chandeliers sparkled, laughter drifted in the air and everyone carried a wineglass like it was part of their identity. I grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, mostly for courage and started nodding at random people like I knew them.

For about five minutes, it worked!

Then someone tapped my shoulder.

“Excuse me,” a woman in a black dress said. “Are you with the London delegation?”

“Uh…” I blinked. “Not exactly.”

“Oh,” she said, her eyebrows lifting. “Which division are you with then?”

I opened my mouth, blinking hard this time, realizing too late that I didn’t even know what divisions existed in a place like this.

Before I could embarrass myself further, a smooth voice came from behind me. “She’s with me.”

I turned and that was the first time I saw him.

Asher James.

He had that kind of smile that could melt glass; confident, easy and a little mischievous. His suit was sharp, tie loosened just enough to look comfortable. The woman seemed to recognize him immediately and smiled. “Oh, of course. Asher James from the Media Department, right? Good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” he said, and with a gentle hand on my shoulder, he guided me away before she could ask anything else.

When we were clear, I exhaled. “You just saved my life.’’

He grinned. “You’re welcome. Though technically, you were about five seconds away from being escorted out.”

“I figured.”

He studied me, amusement playing in his eyes. “Youn don’t work here, do you?”

I bit my lip. “Is it that obvious?”

“Well,” he said, glancing at my nameless wrist. It was then that I noticed that everyone else wore an ID badge on their wrists. “I would say the evidence is overwhelming.”

I laughed despite myself. “Alright, guilty. I thought this was a public event. My friend said it would be a great place to network. Then she ditched me, and now I’m an accidental gatecrasher.”

He chuckled. “An honest one, at least.”

There was a kindness in his tone that immediately disarmed me. He held out his hand. “Asher.”

“Naomi,” I said, taking his hands. He shook me gently and with warmth, the handshake almost lasting longer than supposed. But who was checking the time?

“Nice meeting you, Naomi-the-gatecrasher.”

He offered to get me another drink, something less intimidating than champagne. I followed him to the bar. He ordered a lemonade for me, something light for himself, and leaned against the counter like he had all the time in the world.

“So, what do you do when you’re not sneaking into high-profile mixers?” he asked.

“I try to convince employers that hiring me is the best decision they’ll ever make,” I said, half-joking. “I’m in PR. Or trying to be.”

“PR,” he repeated like he was turning the word over in his mind. “So, you’re good with words.”

“Sometimes. Other times, I just hope no one notices I’m winging it.”

He smiled and for a while we talked… about books, tech trends, the Grand Prix. He had this way of listening that made me feel interesting, like every little thing I said mattered.

Later, when the live jazz band started playing, he offered his hand.

“Dance with me.”

I hesitated. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Someone might recognize you. And me… well, I’m not sure I’m even supposed to be here.”

“Then it’s perfect. Two strangers in the wrong room, making the right kind of trouble.”

And maybe it was the champagne, or he music, or that look in his eyes. But I said yes.

We danced. Slowly. Laughing in between steps, bumping into people, not caring who watched. It felt light and unreal, like a scene from a movie I didn’t want to end.

When the song was over, he leaned close and said, “You should let me walk you out before anyone important starts asking names.”

Outside, the night breeze was cool against my face. He asked for my number, and for once, I didn’t overthink it.

“Promise you’ll use it?” I said, teasing.

He smiled. “You’ll have to answer first to find out.”

And that was it.

That was Asher James; charming, confident, impossible Asher slipped into my life.

At the time, I thought it was fate.

Now, looking back, I think it was just very convincing timing.