You feel a chill.
“How do we do that?” you ask.
Elise’s gaze holds yours.
“You act like you want me,” she says simply.
“And you act like you’re not afraid of him.”
Your pulse stutters at the word want.
You’ve wanted Elise in quiet ways you never admitted to yourself, because wanting your boss is like wanting the moon.
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change the tide. It just makes you feel foolish.
But now Elise is asking you to weaponize that feeling.
To make it visible.
You force a slow breath.
“Fine,” you say. “We do it.”
Then you add, “But you promised me the most precious thing you have.”
Elise’s eyes narrow.
“You’ll get it,” she says.
“Not later,” you reply softly.
“Tonight, you’ll at least tell me what it is.”
Elise holds your gaze.
Then, quietly: “My mother’s watch is the symbol. The real thing is… my trust.”
Her voice tightens. “I don’t give it away.”
Something in you steadies.
“Then don’t,” you say.
“Lend it to me for one night.”
You offer your arm.
Elise hooks hers through it like she’s done it a hundred times, and you walk back into the party like you belong at the center of it.
You feel eyes turn.
You feel whispers ignite.
And you feel Álvaro’s attention sharpen like a blade.
You approach Ernesto Varela with the kind of confident stride you’ve only ever practiced in mirrors.
Ernesto glances up, surprised to see Elise at your side, and more surprised to see her smiling.
Not a real smile, but the performance version.
“Elise,” Ernesto says. “And… Julián, right?”
“That’s me,” you reply, offering your hand.
Ernesto shakes it, distracted, because his attention is already on Elise.
“Elise,” Ernesto says, “the Germans were asking about you.”
Elise’s eyes flick to the German client team.
“Of course they were,” she says smoothly.
Then she tilts her head. “But first, I want you to meet someone.”
She gestures to you.
“My boyfriend,” she says, louder this time.
You feel your stomach flip.
Across the room, a few people turn fully now.
A boyfriend is gossip gold, especially when the woman in question is known for having ice in her veins.
Ernesto’s eyebrows lift.
“Well,” he says, amused, “that’s… new.”
“It’s not new,” Elise replies. “It’s just private.”
Your heart bangs against your ribs.
Now you have to deliver the second half of the play: prove you’re not an accessory.
You turn to Ernesto with a calm smile.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” you say.
“About the German contract.”
Ernesto’s expression shifts slightly.
“Oh?” he says.
You keep your tone friendly.
“The revised risk model,” you say, “the one that saved us from committing to the wrong deliverables.”
You let the sentence hang just long enough. “I built that. And I’d like to discuss how that kind of work is recognized.”
Elise’s fingers tighten on your arm.
Not warning.
Support.
Ernesto studies you, interest flickering.
“You’re bold tonight,” he says.
“I’m tired of being invisible,” you reply, and the words surprise even you because they’re true.
Then you glance at Elise as if she’s the reason you’re brave.
“And I’m in a mood to stop accepting crumbs.”
Ernesto smiles, intrigued.
“We’ll talk,” he says.
Then he glances at Elise. “Later.”
“Tonight,” Elise says politely, but firmly.
Ernesto laughs again, but you see he’s paying attention now.
You feel it shift: the balance of power.
Not fully.
But enough.
Then Álvaro appears at your shoulder like a shadow with cologne.
“Ernesto,” he says warmly, as if they’re friends, “I didn’t know you were still here.”
His gaze slides to you. “And I see the assistant has found a spotlight.”
You smile.
“I’m full of surprises,” you say.
Álvaro’s eyes narrow.
“Elise,” he says, ignoring you again. “A word.”
Elise’s posture stiffens, but you don’t give her the chance to move.
You lean in and kiss her.
It’s not soft.
It’s not hesitant.
It’s brief and decisive, like a statement rather than a question.
The party noise doesn’t stop, but in your little pocket of space everything goes silent.
You feel Elise freeze for half a beat, and then, shockingly, her hand slides up the back of your neck and holds you there.
When you pull away, Elise’s eyes are bright.
Not with romance.
With adrenaline.
Álvaro’s face changes.
It’s subtle, but you see it.
The moment he realizes this isn’t a rumor he can squash with a phone call.
This is a scene, and he hates being the one watching instead of directing.
“That,” Álvaro says, voice low, “was… theatrical.”
Elise smiles.
“Yes,” she says.
“And you hate theater you didn’t pay for.”
Ernesto clears his throat awkwardly and excuses himself, suddenly aware he’s standing inside a private conflict.
The German clients glance over and then look away, sensing danger like animals.
Your colleagues pretend not to watch while absolutely watching.
Álvaro leans closer to Elise, eyes sharp.
“You’re making a mistake,” he murmurs.
Elise lifts her chin.
“I’m making a choice,” she replies.
Álvaro’s gaze flicks to you.
“You,” he says softly, “have no idea what you’re stepping into.”
You keep your smile, but your blood turns cold.
Because the truth is, he might be right.
And you’re stepping anyway.
“I know enough,” you say.
“I know she said no.”
You pause. “And I know you didn’t hear it.”
Álvaro’s smile flashes, predatory.
“Careful,” he says. “Assistants are replaceable.”
You tilt your head.
“So are board members,” you reply calmly.
Álvaro’s eyes sharpen like you just slapped him in public.
Then he laughs, too loud, too bright.
“Elise,” he says, “if you insist on playing games, I’ll play too.”
He steps back. “Enjoy your party.”
He walks away, but you don’t feel relief.
You feel the opposite.
Because you can tell when someone has decided to win.
Elise’s hand is still on your arm.
It’s trembling now.
“You okay?” you murmur.
Elise’s voice is low.
“He’s going to do something,” she says.
Then she meets your eyes. “And if he does, you don’t get to run.”
You swallow.
“I’m not running,” you say.
And it’s not bravery. It’s stubbornness mixed with something that feels dangerously like loyalty.
Elise exhales.
“Come with me,” she says.
She leads you through a side hallway to a small balcony off the loft, where the air is cooler and the city sounds are distant.
For a moment, the noise is gone.
For a moment, Elise looks like a woman instead of a title.
She leans on the railing, staring down at the street.
“Álvaro was my father’s godson,” she says quietly.
“And when my mother died, he started showing up like he belonged in the spaces she left behind.”
Your chest tightens.
“Did you date him?” you ask.
