Enemies To Lovers

I was already having a bad morning before his name was spoken. The copier jammed twice, my coffee went cold untouched, and my inbox was overflowing with emails marked urgent that absolutely were not. I was fixing my skirt and preparing the meeting room when my manager rushed past me, heels clicking too fast against the floor. “Everyone to the conference room,” she said. “The new CEO is arriving.” New CEO. I exhaled slowly. CEOs came and went. Faces changed, titles changed. It didn’t matter to me. I had learned how to keep my head down, how to do my job well and disappear into professionalism. That was the plan. It fell apart the second I saw him. The glass doors slid open, and the room seemed to shrink around me. Conversations faded into background noise, and my fingers tightened around the folder I was holding. Him. Taller than I remembered. Sharper, too. His suit fit him perfectly, dark and expensive, like he belonged at the top of everything he stepped into. His face was calm, controlled—but the familiarity hit me like a blow to the chest. I hadn’t seen him in three years. Three years since the last argument. Three years since I walked away. Three years since I promised myself I was done with him. And now he was here. Of all places, of all companies, he was standing ten feet away from me, introduced as the man who would now sign my paychecks. “This can’t be real,” I whispered to myself. “Everyone,” my manager said brightly, unaware of the silent disaster unfolding in my chest, “please welcome our new CEO.” Applause broke out. I didn’t clap. My eyes darted away immediately, focusing on the papers in my hands even though my vision had blurred. I could feel his presence, though—heavy, commanding, irritatingly familiar. I told myself to breathe. Professional. You are a professional. I felt it before I saw it—his attention shifting. When I looked up again, his eyes were on me. Dark. Focused. Unmistakably his. For a split second, something cracked through his composed expression. Recognition. Surprise. Then it was gone. The mask was back in place. “Miss?” he said. My heart skipped, then thudded painfully as every eye in the room turned toward me. “Yes, sir?” I replied, forcing my voice steady. Sir. The word felt wrong in my mouth. “Could you bring the files to the table?” His tone was polite. Neutral. Like we were strangers. Good. I walked forward, heels clicking too loudly against the floor, every step dragging memories I didn’t ask for behind it. I placed the folder on the table carefully, making sure not to touch him. Not even by accident. “Thank you,” he said. Our fingers brushed anyway. The contact was brief, barely there—but electricity shot up my arm, sharp and unwelcome. I pulled my hand back instantly. “I’ll take my seat,” I said, already turning away. “Wait.” I froze. “Yes?” I asked without looking at him. “You’re the secretary assigned to this floor?” “Yes.” “How long have you been with the company?” “Six months.” He nodded slowly, like he was filing the information away somewhere dangerous. “You’ve done well so far,” he said. It wasn’t praise. It wasn’t criticism. It was worse. “Thank you, sir,” I replied, my jaw tight. I returned to my seat and stared straight ahead as the meeting continued. Words washed over me—growth strategies, projections, restructuring—but none of it registered. My mind was too busy dragging me backward. The late nights. The laughter. The way we used to look at each other like the rest of the world didn’t exist. I clenched my fists under the table. That version of us was dead. When the meeting ended, people crowded around him, eager smiles plastered on their faces. I stayed seated, organizing papers that were already perfectly aligned. Avoidance was survival. “Miss.” My shoulders stiffened. I stood and turned to face him, schooling my expression into something cool and distant. “Yes, sir?” “I’ll need you in my office after lunch.” Of course he would. “Is there a problem with my work?” I asked. “No,” he replied calmly. “I just prefer efficiency.” There it was again—that unreadable look. The one that used to make me feel seen. Now it just made me defensive. “I’ll be there,” I said. Our eyes locked, and the tension between us thickened. It wasn’t anger alone. It wasn’t familiarity either. It was unfinished. “Good,” he said. “We have things to go over.” No, we didn’t. Whatever we had been before was over. Broken. Buried. I walked away before he could say anything else, my pulse racing despite my calm exterior. I told myself this was just work. That the past didn’t matter. That second chances were a lie people told themselves to sleep better at night. But as I sat back at my desk, staring at the glass wall of the CEO’s office— I knew this wasn’t over. Not even close.