I was barely halfway through the lobby doors of my office building when I heard a sharp voice call out, "Miss Isabella! You’re late!"
I froze mid-step, my coffee cup sloshing dangerously as I turned to see my manager, Mr. Whitaker, standing by the reception desk. He had that perpetually annoyed look on his face, the one that made you feel like you were already in trouble even if you hadn’t done anything wrong yet.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, trying to keep my tone respectful while fighting the urge to roll my eyes.
But he wasn’t having it. He strode toward me, his polished shoes clicking against the marble floor with the kind of authority that made you want to shrink. “Being engaged to the CEO doesn’t entitle you to stroll in whenever you feel like it,” he snapped.
I nearly choked on my co
