YOUR ICE-QUEEN BOSS OFFERED YOU “THE MOST PRECIOUS THING SHE HAS” IF YOU PRETENDED TO BE HER BOYFRIEND… BUT THE REAL PRICE SHOWED UP IN A DESIGNER SUIT
MY ICE-COLD BOSS CORNERED ME AT A PARTY AND WHISPERED: “PRETEND YOU’RE MY BOYFRIEND… AND I’LL GIVE YOU THE MOST PRECIOUS THING I OWN.” I THOUGHT SHE MEANT A PROMOTION. I WAS WRONG.
To her, I was background noise.
Not even that, really.
I was the guy who made sure her sugar-free coffee hit her desk at 8:00 a.m. sharp, the ghost who fixed her calendar, polished her slides, confirmed her reservations, and quietly disappeared before anyone could remember my name.
And I was fine with that.
Invisible is safe.
Until one night, in a sweltering company loft packed with loud laughter and louder music, my boss looked at me like she’d finally decided I existed.
Her name was Elise Carón.
Thirty-five. Impeccable. Untouchable.
The kind of woman who could walk into a room and raise the temperature without changing her expression. Perfect hair. Sharp suits. Heels that sounded like a countdown. A watch that probably cost more than my rent.
At the office, she was pure precision. People respected her. Nobody loved her.
She didn’t do warmth.
She didn’t do small talk.
She didn’t do smiles.
And she definitely didn’t do me.
I’m Julián Lambert, 24, personal assistant at a consulting firm in Bilbao, the kind of title that sounds impressive until you realize it means: professional problem-solver for someone who never says thank you.
My desk lived in the noisy open-plan chaos on the second floor.
Elise ruled from a corner office on the fifth, all glass, steel, and a view that made you feel poor just by existing.
Between us were three floors… and an entire class system.
She came from old-money Bilbao. Elite schools. Clean lines. Perfect network.
I came from a working-class neighborhood, an MBA from a public university, and a tiny apartment I shared with a roommate who played electric guitar at midnight like sleep was optional.
Our worlds didn’t overlap.
Not really.
And then came that Friday night in June.
The firm was hosting a cocktail party to celebrate landing a major German client. The event was in a trendy loft with designer couches no one sat on, an open bar no one deserved, and a DJ blasting house music that made my brain feel like it was being microwaved.
I didn’t want to go.
But “strongly encouraged” in corporate language means mandatory.
So I wore my only decent shirt, black trousers, and rode the metro squeezed between tourists and tired locals, already counting the minutes until I could escape.
The loft was a heat trap. Bodies, perfume, clinking glasses, laughter too loud to be real.
I stayed near the edge, playing the role I’d mastered: present but not seen.
And that’s when I noticed her.
Elise.
Not in her usual armor of boardroom coldness.
Still flawless, yes, but her eyes were scanning the room like she was searching for something… or someone.
She looked tense.
Then, suddenly, her gaze locked onto me.
Me.
My stomach dropped like I’d missed a deadline.
She walked straight over, cutting through executives and consultants like they were furniture.
When she reached me, she didn’t greet me.
She leaned in close enough that her perfume hit first, sharp and expensive.
And she whispered, urgent:
“I need your help. Right now.”
I blinked. “Ms. Carón, what—”
She didn’t let me finish.
“Pretend you’re my boyfriend,” she said.
I actually thought I misheard her because the music was so loud.
“What?”
Her green eyes didn’t soften. They sharpened.
“Now,” she repeated. “Smile. Put your hand on my waist. And whatever happens… don’t let him pull you away.”
My heartbeat slammed against my ribs.
“Who is him?”
Elise’s jaw tightened.
Then she said the sentence that flipped my entire world upside down:
“Do this… and I’ll give you the most precious thing I have.”
I froze.
In my head, my brain scrambled through the only “precious things” rich, powerful people hand out.
A promotion.
A recommendation.
A bonus.
A seat at the table.
Something career-changing.
Something money-shaped.
But Elise’s voice wasn’t promising money.
It sounded like she was bargaining with something personal.
Something she didn’t want to give away… but would if she had no other choice.
Before I could ask another question, her fingers gripped my wrist.
Not gentle.
Not flirtatious.
Desperate.
She turned her body slightly, angling us toward the entrance like she was bracing for impact.
And then I saw him.
A man stepping through the crowd with a smile too confident and eyes too hungry.
He wore a tailored suit and the expression of someone who believed he owned whatever he looked at.
Elise’s breath caught.
That’s when I understood this wasn’t a game.
This wasn’t office drama.
This was fear.
She leaned toward my ear again, voice barely audible over the music.
“That man thinks I belong to him,” she whispered. “And tonight… he’s here to collect.”
My mouth went dry.
I looked at Elise Carón, the woman who never needed anyone… holding onto me like I was her only exit.
And I realized something terrifying:
I wasn’t her assistant anymore.
I was her shield.
And whatever was about to happen in that loft…
was going to change my life permanently.