Romance-Con

If the Reyes family was going for the All souls who enter this domain will be trapped in Hell forever, look, when they designed the Sunny Reyes Loans building, they had definitely nailed it: The building's exterior sported bars that could have easily doubled as prison cell grilles—rumor had it these were installed not for security, but to prevent desperate employees from hurling themselves to freedom. Meanwhile, the interior décor offered no respite: a sprawling wall of fired employees adorned the lobby, each photo framed like an Old West wanted poster, as if the management was simultaneously warning newcomers and celebrating past escapes. The employees were, without exception, exquisitely trained. They typed with the precision of concert pianists, smiled with the reflexive terror of hostages negotiating for their lives, and could recite the company’s 92-page NDA in their sleep (and often did, during stress dreams). Their collective fear had a single source: Chairwoman Dylan Reyes. Dylan didn’t rule by charisma or charm—she ruled by the kind of force that made lesser executives duck into supply closets at the sound of her Louboutin heels clicking down the corridor. All employees, that is, except for one: Zoë Sawyer. Zoë was Reyes Industries’ newest—and bravest—hire. Young, fresh-faced, and with an androgynous beauty that made HR’s paperwork a nightmare. With a single sigh, Zoë could drive both men and women in the office to wild, melodramatic fantasies. There were whispered jokes about employees dreaming of romantic double suicides involving Zoë, preferably carried out on the copy room floor beneath the soft glow of the emergency exit sign—clothes askew, limbs entwined, with nothing but each other (and a dozen scandalized cleaning staff) as witnesses to their tragic, beautiful end. Flowers would mysteriously appear on Zoë’s desk, usually accompanied by cryptic poetry or, in one memorable incident, a brave soul had left a pair of red silk handcuffs on Zoë’s desk, which were graciously re-gifted to the loss prevention office. And through it all, Zoë remained adorably oblivious to every heart-eyed advance—always greeting office flirtations with a polite nod or a cheerful, “Nice tie!” to the third attempt at a love confession, and no idea that every polite smile left a trail of broken hearts in his wake. Zoë had landed the job of Dylan’s secretary after the previous one had vanished under circumstances described as “an unfortunate HR incident” (the less said about the office paper shredder, the better). But before he had set foot in Sunny Reyes Loans, Zoë had racked up an impressive roster of degrees—a Bachelor’s in Accounting, a Master’s in Business Law. However, while His résumé sparkled with academic accolades, it was his student loan statement that truly shone: a towering, blood-curdling sum, the kind of number that made bank tellers weep and debt consolidation agents cross themselves. If Dante had written a tenth circle of Hell for the over-educated and underemployed, Zoë would have been its patron saint. Which made it all the more surreal when, just a few days after sending out what he assumed was a thoroughly unimpressive résumé (accompanied by a cover letter that could only be described as desperate with a hint of sarcasm) to a company that sounded like a celestial payday—Sunny Reyes Loans—Zoë found himself abducted mid-sip from his chipped World’s Okayest Grad mug. Two men in black suits materialized in his apartment, radiating the kind of government-adjacent menace usually reserved for tax audits and alien abductions. In a blur of caffeine withdrawal and existential dread, he was hustled into a windowless van, and subjected to a rapid-fire interrogation that covered everything from his educational background, drinking habits (tequila regretfully, never again), s*x life (tragic, and none of your business), to his friends (see: s*x life). By the next sunrise, Zoë had confessed all his sins, been handed a dossier on one Dylan Reyes (complete with warning labels and crime scene photos), and his comfy gray sweat set had been replaced by a pressed suit, complete with an employee badge in the shape of a celtic sun. And before his coffee even had a chance to go cold, Zoë had become Dylan Reyes’s secretary. Now, in a place where others cowered, Zoë was thriving. He had, in a matter of two months, mastered the sacred rites of espresso machine operation, crafting Dylan’s coffee as she liked it—black, like her soul (a comparison Zoë wisely kept to himself). He could scrub a crime scene to a forensic shine before the police dogs even sniffed the parking lot, organize a hostile takeover before breakfast, and placate Dylan’s legendary temper—all before her 12:00 p.m. lunch reservation at Le Viper, where the maître d’ knew to seat Dylan with her back to the wall. Still, the bets on Zoë’s survival grew by the day. Coworkers swapped theories in the break room, betting whether Zoë was secretly a corporate assassin or just a fresh-faced fool marching to his doom. Some thought he was gunning for Dylan’s inner circle, blissfully unaware that the only time anyone was summoned to her side was for their final walk—escorted not to glory, but to the FIRED wall, immortalized in the grainy Polaroids, as cautionary tales, their faces haunting the lobby like vengeful saints: eyes wide with the kind of terror that made you want to take the stairs instead of the elevator. The truth was, though, that for all of Zoë’s uncanny competence, Dylan Reyes hadn’t actually registered Zoë’s existence yet. She barked orders into the ether, and Zoë, knowing her routines and preferences better than her own reflection, fulfilled them before she even realized she’d asked. It was a symphony of invisibility—he was the shadow behind Dylan’s empire. But that delicate balance shattered one crisp Monday morning when Dylan’s voice crackled through the building’s aging PA system like the wrath of some ethereal deity: “SAWYER! NOW!” The words rolled down the halls, scattering interns like frightened pigeons. For the first time, Zoë’s usual mask slipped, revealing a spectacular combination of dread would his body ever be found?; shock: when did she finally learn his name? and a begrudging flicker of admiration: what a set of lungs. Every eye in the office swiveled to Zoë. The room was suddenly silent, the kind of hush that falls over a crowded city square when someone’s about to be publicly executed. Some gazes burned with the envy of gladiators forced to watch another take their place in the arena. Others radiated the solemn pity of mourners at a funeral—except here, the dearly departed was still above ground, clutching a coffee cup and a handful of quarterly reports. For a long, suspended heartbeat, Zoë stood frozen under the harsh fluorescence—caught like a deer-in-headlights. His coffee sloshed perilously, papers drifted to the floor like surrender flags, and with the shambling grace of a newborn fawn, he staggered upright, leaving a trail of spilled coffee, scattered paperwork, and a single, strangled “Oh, God” in his wake. The journey to the elevator felt like a pilgrimage through the ruins of employees past, every step echoing with the judgment of a thousand doomed souls. All eyes followed Zoë, hungry for spectacle, as he made his way toward the elevator—the slow, humming chariot to the underworld, carrying him inevitably toward the devil herself.