Lyla's POV
(The following week)
I sometimes think wedding planning should come with hazard pay, or at least a warning label: Side effects may include stress eating, emotional exhaustion, chronic eye-twitching, and the sudden urge to elope.
Working full-time under the world's coldest, most annoyingly perfect boss isn't helping at all.
Staring at two nearly identical shades of beige wedding invitations as I stand in my small but cozy apartment just outside Boston, I’m pretty sure I’m losing my mind.
My phone is placed between my shoulder and ear as my wedding planner, Erica, continues her passionate rant.
“Lyla, sweetheart, linen beige is not the same as champagne beige,” she insists for the third… no, fourth… time.
“They look identical,” I mumble, holding both samples up to the morning light coming through my window.
“They’re not. Linen beige is warmer, and champagne is more sophisticated.”
“They’re beige.” I let out a long sigh. “People are going to take them, read them, and throw them out. No one will examine the undertones.”
“People judge wedding invitations, trust me.”
I rub my forehead. It’s only 7:12 AM, and I already feel older.
“Okay,” I say. “Whichever one you think works best.
“That’s not how this works,” Erica snaps gently. “Ryan should weigh in too.”
My stomach twists.
Ryan, my fiancé.
The man I love. The man I want to marry.
And the man who hasn’t attended a single planning meeting in over a month.
“I’ll ask him,” I lie. “Today.”
“You said that yesterday.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I’ll really do it today.”
“You do that,” she says firmly. “Call me after work.”
When the call ends, I drop both invitation samples onto my bed with a dramatic flop.
I still haven’t eaten, and my mascara is barely dry. My hair is doing a weird curly thing on the left side. And of course, I can’t be late today, because Alexander Sterling does not tolerate lateness.
Ever!.
And after the humiliating lingerie-picture accident last week, where I accidentally texted him a photo meant for Ryan… I am doing everything possible to avoid interacting with him more than necessary.
The universe, however, hates me.
I know it does.
I grab my tote bag, shove my laptop inside, and rush out the door.
~
Getting to my workplace, every surface shines as always. The lobby is modern, sleek, and intimidating, just like Alexander.
Every employee walks faster than the last. Every scent smells expensive.
I hurry toward the elevators, silently praying I don’t see…
“Anderson.”
… him.
I swear the universe does this on purpose.
I halt as I see Alexander Sterling standing near the elevator, tall, sharply dressed in a charcoal suit, eyes cool and unreadable.
His entire presence screams money, control, and devastating attractiveness that I refuse to acknowledge out loud.
“Good morning, Mr. Sterling,” I say, trying to sound normal.
His gaze flicks to the time on his Rolex. “Two minutes early.”
“That’s… good, right?”
“Yes.” His voice is flat but not unkind. “Better than the alternative.”
I’m eighty percent sure he means better than you being late again.
We step inside the empty elevator. The doors close.
Silence settles between us, thick, awkward, and suffocating.
Ever since that picture, I’ve avoided eye contact, avoided conversation, and avoided breathing in his direction.
He hasn’t addressed it again, thank God. But sometimes I catch him giving me these unreadable glances that make my skin tingle with confusion.
I hope he deleted it immediately.
I hope he didn’t zoom.
I hope he wasn’t traumatized.
He clears his throat. “Did you finish the quarterly summary?”
“Yes, it’s on your desk.”
“And the updated projections?”
“Finalized.”
“And the investor briefing?”
My throat tightens. “Completed last night.”
He gives a small nod. “Very well.”
The elevator dings, and we walk out to the executive floor.
I hurry to my desk, grateful for the escape.
Behind me, Alexander pauses before entering his office.
“And Anderson?”
I freeze.
“Yes?”
“You look… distracted.” His eyes skim my face briefly. “Fix that before the ten o’clock meeting.”
“Are you saying I look messy?”
“Distracted,” he corrects. “Not the same thing.”
“It feels like the same thing,” I mutter.
He disappears into his office without comment.
~
I only drop my pen twice during the meeting, and Alexander only sighs once, which is a new personal record.
Afterward, I sit at my desk, trying to catch up on emails.
My phone buzzes seconds later. A text from Ryan:
`Sorry babe, I need to cancel dinner again tonight. Something came up at the lab`
My heart sinks.
We were supposed to finalize the guest list tonight.
I text back:
`Okay. Let me know when you're free.`
Ryan replies a second later:
`You’re the best. Love you.`
I stare at the text, feeling something inside me cave in a little. I wave it off and concentrate on my system.
Not long after … or so it seems. The alarm dings, signifying lunchtime.
I sit still at my desk, eating the chicken wrap I got lucky to grab on my way this morning while editing a proposal, when one of my co-workers and friends, Jamie, walks over.
“Bride of the year, how’s the preparation?” She teases, sitting on the edge of my desk.
“Falling apart,” I say with my mouth full.
“Wedding stress?”
“Wedding everything.”
“And fiancé stress?”
I throw her a look. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re saying it with your eyebrows.”
She laughs. “Well, if you’re doing all the work alone…”
“He’s busy,” I defend weakly.
Jamie gives me a knowing look but doesn’t push. She opens her mouth to say something else, then her eyes widen mischievously.
“So… did Alexander see the picture?”
I choke on my wrap. Literally choke.
“I’m just asking!” she says, patting my back.
“I don’t know!” I hiss. “I’m not asking him!”
“Why not?”
“Because I value my life.”
She snorts. “Relax. He probably deleted it instantly. He’s too robotic to react.”
Robot or not, the thought that he saw it still makes my cheeks heat.
~
By mid-afternoon, I’m drowning in tasks. Investor documents… Procurement updates… Emails… Scheduling… and more emails.
And wedding messages lighting up my phone like a Christmas tree.
Erica:
`Did Ryan choose the cake flavor?`
Florist:
`Final bouquet design needed by tomorrow.`
Bridesmaids Group Chat:
`Dress fitting is next weekend, right??`
My mom:
`Call me. Emergency.`
It’s never an emergency. It’s usually decor-related.
I’m trying to breathe when…
“Anderson.”
I almost jumped out of my skin as I heard Alexander's voice.
Alexander stands at the edge of my cubicle, watching me with a rare look on his face… concern. Or the Sterling version of it: controlled, subtle, but unmistakable.
“You seem… out of sorts.”
“I’m fine,” I say too quickly.
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
“You’re typing at half your usual speed,” he says. “And you only type slowly when you’re overwhelmed.”
I stare at him. “You track my typing speed?”
“No.” His tone is dry. “I observe.”
“That’s creepier.”
“I’ll take that as under advicement.” He steps back. “My office. Now.”
My heart trips. “Am I in trouble?”
“Not yet.”
I follow him, my pulse racing. Once inside, he closes the door.
“Sit.”
I obey.
He stands in front of me, arms crossed, eyes narrowed slightly… not angrily, just assessing.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Try again.”
My eyes unexpectedly prick with tears. Yeah, fantastic. Crying in front of my billionaire boss. New achievement unlocked.
“It’s wedding planning,” I whisper. “And work, and everything. I’m… exhausted.”
His jaw tightens just a fraction. “And your fiancé?”
“Ryan’s busy,” I say. “Really busy.”
“So he’s not helping.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is,” Alexander says calmly. “You’re carrying the entire load alone. That’s unsustainable.”
My throat tightens. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” he says quietly. “And you don’t have to pretend with me.”
The softness in his tone disarms me. Completely.
He moves around his desk and sits on the edge, closer but not intrusively close.
“You’re overwhelmed,” he says again. “You need to delegate.”
“To whom? You want to plan my wedding?”
His lips almost… almost… curve. “No. God no.”
A tiny laugh escapes me. I didn’t mean to laugh, but it happens.
“Take fifteen minutes,” he says. “Then finish the procurement list. I’ll handle the investor emails.”
I blink. “You’ll… what?”
“You’re buried, Anderson. And I need my senior assistant functional.”
“Oh. So this is about productivity.”
“Partially.” His voice dips lower. “The rest is… something else.”
I look up sharply. “Something else?”
His eyes hold mine for a heartbeat too long.
Then he stands abruptly, composure snapping back into place. “Break, Anderson. Now.”
I scramble up, grateful and confused and buzzing all at once.
Before I reach the door, he adds, “And Anderson… ask for help when you need it.”
I nod and escape before I can embarrass myself.
