My Ex’s Uncle My Boss and My Lover

Wrong File,Right Man

By the start of the second week, I’m ready to chase real goals again. I didn’t study real estate just to spend my life waiting tables or folding jeans at retail shops.

So I dress up neatly pressed pants, low heels, a soft blue blouse and start applying. But company after company gives me the same dull speech:

“No prior experience?”

I force a smile. “No, but I’m a fast learner…”

Rejection stings differently when you actually try. My legs ache, my shoes are dust-stained, and my last interview ended with a forced smile and the dreaded words: “We’ll get back to you.”

They won’t.

We both know they won’t.

I step into the nearest café not because I’m hungry, but because if I stand in the sun for another second, I might just scream. The air inside is cool, the scent of roasted coffee beans and cinnamon pastries making my stomach grumble in betrayal.

I find a small table by the window and drop into the chair like my bones are too tired to hold me up. My CV file rests on the table in front of me, creased at the corners. I smooth it out, even though I know the paper inside can’t change the fact that no one wants a girl with zero experience.

The barista calls out my name and I go grab my iced mocha. I just need a few minutes to regroup before heading out again.

That’s when the door swings open.

And he walks in.

I don’t notice him at first. Not until the lady two tables away gasps under her breath like she’s seen a ghost with a six-pack. Then I look up.

He’s tall, dressed in a navy-blue suit that looks expensive but not loud. Clean-cut jaw, perfectly styled hair, black laptop bag in hand. The kind of man you don’t just look at—you feel him when he enters the room.

And apparently, so does every other woman in here.

He walks past my table, and for a second, our eyes meet.

Brief. Distant. Unbothered.

He settles into the chair beside mine, unpacks a sleek silver laptop, and orders an espresso without lifting his gaze from the screen. His fingers move fast over the keyboard. Efficient. Sharp. Like a man who always knows exactly what he’s doing.

There was something about him that went beyond the perfect suit and sharp jawline. He carried himself like the world bent slightly to make space for him—and somehow, it worked. Just being in his orbit made me want to sit straighter, to act like I wasn’t some lost girl living out of borrowed courage.

“He is perfect,” I muttered to myself.

I sip my drink, pretending I’m not side-eyeing him every five seconds. But let’s be honest—I am. A little. Okay, maybe a lot.

And not only me—all the females there are eyeing him.

Eventually, I shake myself out of it. He’s clearly out of my league and more importantly, out of my life. I finish the last sip of my mocha, stuff my phone into my bag, and head to the counter to pay.

He stands too, maybe finished with whatever high-stakes thing he could be doing in cafés. We don’t speak. Just stand near each other, both waiting to pay. His card flashes. Quick. Smooth. The barista even smiles extra hard at him.

After I finish paying, I take my file I left on the table and leave.

When I step outside, the sun is brutal again. I flag a taxi, hop in, and sink into the backseat with a sigh.

“Maple Avenue, number 16,” I tell the driver.

I pull the envelope out of my bag to review my CV, just to mentally prepare myself for the next rejection.

But the moment I open it, my stomach flips.

This isn’t my CV.

These are not job applications. These are… legal contracts? Financial statements? One has a gold-lettered logo on it: J.P. Holdings.

Oh no. No, no, no.

I scramble to check the label on the file. It’s not mine. It’s his.

My mind flashes back to the café table. I must’ve picked up the wrong file when I stood. His was on the next table, just like mine. Same color. Same size. Instead of taking what’s on my table, I took the one on his.

I groan. “Turn around,” I tell the driver. “Please. Back to Beans & Brews Café. Fast.”

By the time I return to the café, the seat is empty. He’s gone.

Panic twists in my stomach. What if this was important? What if I’ve just screwed up someone’s million-dollar deal? What if it belongs to his boss, and by now, he’s already being fired or getting scolded by his boss?

I run to the counter. “The man who sat here—tall, navy suit—do you know if he left any contact info?”

The barista blinks. “Oh, the espresso guy? Hope there is no problem?” she asked, looking at me suspiciously, like I’m here to steal his info.

I quickly read the air and said, “There is a mix-up. I took his file instead of mine, and I’m sure he must have taken mine also.” I showed her the file.

She scanned me for some minutes before saying, “He comes here often. I think he works at that big office two blocks down. J.P. Holdings or something.”

“Thanks,” I said as I rushed towards J.P. Holdings.

Five minutes later, I’m standing in the glassy lobby of J.P. Holdings. Marble floors. People in suits. A water feature that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe.

I feel like a misplaced puzzle piece, holding the file like a guilty intern.

“Can I help you, miss?” the receptionist asks.

“I, um… need to return this. To one of your workers here. I think his name is… I don’t know. He was just at the café. Tall. Handsome. Dark hair. Kinda rude looking.”

The woman doesn’t even blink. “There are many handsome men here, but that kinda rude looking could only be—”

The receptionist is about to say his name when the glass doors behind her slide open with a soft whoosh.

And then…

He walks in.

Only this time, he doesn’t just enter—he arrives. He looks even more handsome than when I saw him earlier. It’s just like he gets more handsome every minute.

His suit jacket flares behind him like it’s caught in a cinematic breeze. His long strides are smooth, commanding, like the floor parts for him on purpose. His dark hair looks freshly tousled, like he just ran his hands through it—or like the universe styled it for him.

And speak of the devil, his hand comes up… fingers combing through his hair in one slick motion that makes my insides melt. He shakes his head like maybe for swear, but it was just like he shook my heart. Effortless. Arrogant. Perfect.

My breath catches.

Up close, he’s even more devastating. Clean jawline. Thick brows. Eyes sharp enough to cut glass. His shirt clings in all the right places. He looks like he belongs on the cover of a billionaire romance novel—one I’d secretly read under the covers and deny ever enjoying.

And just like that, my imagination betrays me.

I picture him walking toward me. Smiling. Maybe reaching for my hand.

Suddenly, we’re married. We have two kids—a boy and a girl, obviously. A modern duplex in the heart of the city. He kisses me goodbye every morning before heading off to close million-dollar deals.

In my head, I’m already pregnant with our third child.

Just when I’m already far in my sweet imagination, the receptionist’s voice yanks me back to Earth like a slap to the face.

“Is that who you’re looking for?” she asks casually, like I wasn’t just living an entire lifetime with this man in my mind.

I clear my throat, my cheeks hot. “Uh… yeah. That’s him,” I manage, though my voice comes out thinner than I want.