I lasted exactly eleven minutes before finding an excuse to go upstairs.

Not because of Sophia Bennett.

Obviously.

I needed Alexander’s signature on the revised press schedule.

That was all.

At least, that was what I told myself until the elevator doors opened and I saw Sophia leaving his office.

She was smiling.

Alexander stood behind her.

And one of those two damn espressos was in his hand.

“Dinner tonight?” Sophia asked.

Alexander glanced up.

He saw me.

Our eyes met.

Then he answered her.

“Seven.”

My stomach dropped.

Sophia followed his gaze and smiled politely.

“Emily, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you.”

That surprised me.

“From whom?”

Sophia looked at Alexander.

He immediately interrupted.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

She laughed.

“I see.”

See what?

Before I could ask, Sophia walked toward the elevator.

As she passed me, she whispered:

“Good luck.”

I stared after her.

What did that mean?

I entered Alexander’s office and dropped the documents onto his desk.

“Sign.”

He looked at them.

Then at me.

“Good morning to you too.”

“We already had our good morning.”

His jaw tightened.

Apparently he remembered exactly how that morning had gone.

He picked up his pen.

“Why are you angry?”

“I’m not.”

“You slammed the papers down.”

“My hand slipped.”

“You’re glaring at my coffee.”

“I hate espresso.”

“You drink Americano.”

“Exactly.”

He leaned back.

Then, infuriatingly, the corner of his mouth lifted.

“Are you jealous?”

I laughed.

Too loudly.

“Of Sophia?”

“You remembered her name.”

“She announced it to the entire reception desk.”

Alexander stood.

I immediately stepped backward.

He noticed.

His amusement disappeared.

“Emily.”

“Sign the schedule.”

He did.

I grabbed it and turned away.

“Who is Daniel?”

I stopped.

Slowly, I looked back.

“My university friend.”

“You’re having dinner with him.”

“That generally happens when someone invites you to dinner and you say yes.”

“What does he want?”

I almost smiled.

“You’re asking a lot of questions for a man who believes last night was just physical attraction.”

Alexander’s face became unreadable.

I walked out.

For the rest of the day, he became unbearable.

He rejected three interview questions I had already approved.

He changed the press release twice.

Then he summoned me because the flowers in the conference room were “distracting.”

At six, I finally understood.

He was trying to make me late.

So at exactly 6:05, I walked into his office wearing my coat.

“I’m leaving.”

“We still have work.”

“No. You have work.”

His eyes dropped to my clothes.

“You changed.”

“Yes.”

“For him?”

I smiled.

“Good night, Mr. Grant.”

Daniel was waiting at the restaurant.

Seeing him felt like opening a window after spending months inside a locked room.

He hugged me.

“You look exactly the same.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

He laughed.

For two hours, I almost forgot Alexander existed.

Almost.

Because at 8:17, my phone vibrated.

Alexander Grant: Where is the Morrison contract?

I replied:

Shared drive. Folder 4.

Two minutes later:

Which version?

Final_v7.

Then:

Why are there seven final versions?

I stared at the screen.

Daniel laughed.

“Your boss?”

“Unfortunately.”

I silenced my phone.

When Daniel walked me outside, rain had begun falling.

He took off his jacket and placed it over my shoulders.

Then a black car stopped beside us.

I knew that car.

The window lowered.

Alexander.

Of course.

His expression was terrifyingly calm.

“Get in.”

Daniel looked at me.

“Is everything okay?”

“Perfect.”

Alexander’s eyes moved to Daniel’s jacket around my shoulders.

“Emily.”

I crossed my arms.

“I can get home myself.”

“I know.”

“Then leave.”

Daniel glanced between us.

“Emily, is this the famous boss?”

Alexander opened the car door.

“Yes.”

He stepped out.

“No,” I whispered.

The two men shook hands.

Daniel smiled.

“Daniel Ross.”

“Alexander Grant.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Alexander looked at me.

“Interesting. I haven’t heard anything about you.”

I wanted the pavement to swallow me.

Eventually Daniel left after I promised to text him.

The second his taxi disappeared, I turned on Alexander.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was nearby.”

“At the exact restaurant where I’m having dinner?”

“Yes.”

“At nine at night?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

He looked at Daniel’s jacket.

“Take that off.”

I stared at him.

“What?”

“It’s wet.”

“So am I.”

“I’ll give you mine.”

I actually laughed.

“No.”

His expression darkened.

“You’re being childish.”

“And you’re being jealous.”

Silence.

I stepped closer.

“Say it.”

“Say what?”

“That you didn’t like seeing me with Daniel.”

Alexander’s jaw flexed.

Then he said:

“I don’t like people touching what’s mine.”

Everything inside me went still.

“What’s yours?”

He realized his mistake immediately.

I removed Daniel’s jacket and pushed it into Alexander’s hands.

“I’m not yours.”

“Emily—”

“You made that very clear this morning.”

I walked away.

He didn’t follow.

The next day, I submitted my resignation.

Alexander read it twice.

“No.”

I blinked.

“No?”

“I’m rejecting it.”

“That’s not how resignations work.”

“It does here.”

I almost laughed.

“I received another offer.”

That got his attention.

“From whom?”

“Daniel’s company.”

The temperature in the room seemed to fall.

“You’re leaving Grant Entertainment to work for him?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“This isn’t about money.”

“Then I’ll double it.”

“No.”

“Triple.”

“Alexander.”

He stood.

“What do you want?”

The question hurt because once, the answer had been embarrassingly simple.

You.

Now I shook my head.

“Nothing you can give me.”

For the first time, Alexander Grant had no answer.

I worked my notice.

He stopped making sarcastic comments.

Stopped finding excuses to call me into his office.

Stopped offering rides.

He became exactly what he had pretended to be that morning.

My CEO.

Nothing more.

And somehow, that hurt too.

On my final day, Sophia appeared again.

This time, she carried only one coffee.

She found me packing my desk.

“You’re really leaving?”

“Yes.”

She frowned.

“Alexander didn’t tell me.”

“Why would he?”

Sophia stared at me.

Then suddenly laughed.

“Oh, that idiot.”

I stiffened.

“What?”

“You think I’m sleeping with him.”

My face burned.

“I don’t care who—”

“I’m his sister.”

I stopped breathing.

“What?”

“Half-sister, technically.”

She showed me her phone.

A photograph.

Alexander, much younger, standing beside Sophia and an older man.

Their father.

I sat down slowly.

“The coffees?”

“He hates the office machine.”

“And dinner?”

“Our father’s birthday.”

I closed my eyes.

Of course.

Of course.

Sophia sat on the edge of my desk.

“He’s in love with you, you know.”

“No.”

“He is.”

“He told me it was just desire.”

Sophia’s expression changed.

“Did he?”

“Yes.”

“That explains why he’s been acting like someone died.”

I swallowed.

“Why would he say that?”

She hesitated.

Then asked:

“Did Alexander ever tell you what happened to his mother?”

Before I could answer, the elevator doors opened.

Alexander stepped out.

He saw Sophia.

Then me.

And then the photograph in my hand.

His face changed.

“Sophia.”

She stood.

“No. You created this disaster. Fix it yourself.”

She walked away.

Alexander and I were alone.

I placed the photograph down.

“My train leaves in an hour.”

“I know.”

“You knew?”

“I know everything about your resignation.”

“Except how to stop it.”

He came closer.

“I could stop it.”

“How?”

“By telling you the truth.”

I waited.

For once, Alexander looked uncertain.

“My father loved my mother,” he said. “At least, that’s what he told her.”

I said nothing.

“He promised her marriage. Then when she became pregnant, he called what happened between them a mistake.”

Suddenly I understood.

Alexander continued quietly.

“I spent my entire childhood watching her wait for a man who kept giving her just enough hope not to leave.”

His eyes met mine.

“So when I realized what I felt for you, I panicked.”

“And your solution was to hurt me first?”

“Yes.”

The honesty stunned me.

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“I know.”

He reached into his jacket.

“I also lied about something else.”

He placed an envelope on my desk.

Inside was my resignation letter.

Across the bottom he had written:

Accepted.

I looked up.

“You accepted it?”

“You should never have to stay because I’m your boss.”

Then he handed me another envelope.

“What’s this?”

“A contract.”

My stomach sank.

“Alexander—”

“Not employment.”

I opened it.

It was an offer transferring management of my biggest artist account to an independent agency—with me as the exclusive representative.

It was enough to launch my own company.

I stared at him.

“Why?”

“Because if I ask you to stay now, I’ll never know whether you stayed because you wanted me or because you needed the job.”

My throat tightened.

“So you’re letting me leave?”

“No.”

His voice became quieter.

“I’m removing every reason you might have to stay except one.”

“And what is that?”

“Me.”

Before I could answer, my phone rang.

Daniel.

Alexander glanced at the screen.

This time, there was no jealousy.

No command.

No cold remark.

He stepped backward.

“The car is downstairs. It’ll take you to the station.”

I stared at him.

“You’re not going to ask me not to go?”

His eyes were red.

But he smiled.

“No.”

Then he said the one thing I had wanted from him from the beginning.

“I want you to choose freely.”

I picked up my suitcase.

Walked toward the elevator.

And left.

Three months later, my new agency opened.

At nine that morning, my assistant entered carrying flowers.

“No card,” she said.

I smiled.

I knew who they were from.

Alexander had kept his distance.

No pressure.

No late-night calls.

Just flowers every Monday.

Until that morning.

Because underneath the flowers was something else.

Two coffees.

One Americano.

One espresso.

And a note.

Dinner tonight? No contracts. No excuses. No boss. Just Alexander.

I stared at it for a long time.

Then I took out my phone.

And for the first time, I wasn’t answering my CEO.

I was answering a man who had finally learned that love wasn’t possession.

It was choice.

I typed:

Seven. Don’t be late.

His reply arrived almost instantly.

I’ll be there at six fifty-nine.

I laughed.

And this time, when hope returned, I didn’t call myself an idiot.

Because Alexander had finally stopped asking me to belong to him.

And had started giving me reasons to choose him.