You are my secret

Overtime

By 5:02 p.m., the office was in that quiet, end-of-day lull where most people had either gone home or were pretending to “wrap up emails” while really scrolling i********:.

I was standing by the copier, debating whether it was worth printing tomorrow’s reports now or risking the paper jam roulette in the morning, when my phone buzzed with an email from:

Kellen Ward – CEO

Subject: Now

The body of the email simply read: My office.

Not “please.” Not “when you get a chance.” Just… My office.

Apparently, he’d skipped the chapter in the CEO handbook about using polite language with subordinates.

I grabbed my notebook — mostly for something to hold so I didn’t walk in empty-handed like a lost intern — and made my way to the top floor.

When I stepped inside, Kellen was leaning back in his chair, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, looking like a million-dollar problem you shouldn’t want to solve.

“Miss Rivers,” he said without looking up from his laptop. “You’re staying late tonight.”

I froze. “I… am?”

“Yes. We have a pitch presentation tomorrow morning for a potential client. My original assistant called in sick, and I need someone to help organize the talking points and mock-ups.”

“Don’t you have… I don’t know… an entire team for that?” I asked before my brain caught up with my mouth.

His eyes flicked to mine, amused. “I could ask someone else. But I want you.”

My pulse did that thing again — the cardio workout it never asked for. “Right. Okay. Sure. I’ll… help.”

The next two hours were a crash course in Kellen Ward’s work style: fast, precise, and absolutely allergic to fluff. He dictated bullet points while pacing the room, occasionally tossing out questions like pop quizzes to see if I was following.

Somewhere between revising the slides for the fifth time and watching him reject an entire page because “the font looks lazy,” I realized two things:

1. He was terrifyingly good at his job.

2. He noticed everything.

At 7:43 p.m., he finally closed his laptop. “That’s it. We’re done.”

I slumped back in my chair, rubbing my eyes. “Good. Because my brain officially clocked out at 6:15.”

He smirked. “You did well.”

“Translation: I didn’t completely ruin your pitch?”

“Translation: you exceeded my expectations.”

It wasn’t just the words — it was the way he said them, like he’d been expecting me to crumble under the pressure but was pleasantly surprised when I didn’t.

As I packed my things, he added, “By the way, I’ll pick you up at 8:15 tomorrow. We’ll head to the meeting together.”

I blinked. “You’ll… pick me up?”

“Yes. Saves time.” He paused, then, with the faintest curve of his lips, added, “Unless you’re afraid people will talk.”

I opened my mouth to say “of course not,” but the truth was… they definitely would.

And for some reason, that didn’t feel as terrifying as it should have.