Emma Rivers clutched her tote bag tighter as the elevator rose to the 25th floor of Torres & Co. The soft chime of each passing level was like a countdown in her chest.

It had been six years since she’d last seen him.

Six years since that golden afternoon in the schoolyard, when Jamie Torres smiled at her like the world paused.

Now, he was the CEO of one of the fastest-growing creative firms in the city. And she—well, she was about to become his secretary.

She didn’t mean for it to happen this way.

After quitting her job at a smaller agency, Claire, her best friend, had nudged her toward this one. “It’s professional, classy, high-paying,” she’d said. Emma hadn’t even noticed the CEO’s name until the interview was already scheduled.

“Floor twenty-five,” the elevator announced.

Emma inhaled.

The doors slid open.

The office was sleek and modern—glass walls, polished wood, and minimalist furniture. People buzzed like quiet bees, dressed in black and gray and navy. Everything was efficient. Controlled.

A woman in a pencil skirt greeted her. “You must be Emma Rivers. Mr. Torres is expecting you.”

She led Emma past rows of desks and into a private corner office.

And there he was.

Jamie Torres.

Older. Sharper. Broader. Dressed in a tailored suit, his dark hair still slightly messy like he couldn’t be bothered to tame it. His eyes lifted slowly from a file—and met hers.

Something flickered there.

Recognition.

A shadow of a smile.

Then nothing.

“Miss Rivers,” he said, standing. “Welcome to Torres & Co.”

His voice was deeper. Calm. Controlled.

“Mr. Torres,” she replied, her mouth dry.

He motioned toward the chair in front of his desk. “You’ll be assisting me directly. Calendar, communications, confidential files. My previous assistant took a role overseas, and I need someone I can rely on. Your record impressed me.”

Emma sat slowly. “I’m... honored to be considered.”

Jamie studied her, just a beat too long. “I trust we won’t have any... unfinished history to distract us?”

Her heart stuttered.

“No, sir.”

He nodded once, businesslike. “Good. You start tomorrow.”

And that was it.

No mention of the letter she wrote him in eighth grade.

No mention of the kiss behind the school.

No sign he’d ever even known her more than professionally.

She left his office in a daze.

Claire met her by the elevator. “How’d it go?”

Emma swallowed. “He remembers me.”

Claire blinked. “You know him?”

Emma forced a small smile. “I did. Once.”

As the elevator descended, Emma leaned against the mirrored wall and let herself breathe again.

She’d thought time would dull it—the flutter, the ache, the invisible string.

But standing across from Jamie Torres felt like standing in front of a storm she'd never truly left.

She wasn’t twelve anymore.

And neither was he.

Emma’s first official day at Torres & Co. began with coffee, silence, and too many glances she tried to ignore.

She arrived fifteen minutes early, wearing a sleek black blouse and fitted trousers—professional, sharp, invisible. That’s how she wanted to be: invisible.

Jamie didn’t make it easy.

“Miss Rivers,” he said as he walked past her desk outside his office, stopping only long enough to hand her his phone. “Can you sync my calendar to this? Remove all recurring calls except those with Madison and the board.”

Madison.

The name hit like a glass of cold water. She didn’t react—just nodded and took the phone.

He paused.

Then added, more softly, “You look well.”

Emma didn’t look up. “Thank you, sir.”

She thought she saw him smirk as he went inside.

Don’t fall for it, she told herself. Don’t mistake old familiarity for kindness.

But all day, she felt the tension. In the way he stood a little too close when giving instructions. In how his voice dipped low when they were alone. In the subtle pauses when he said her name.

“Emma,” he said once, calling her into his office.

Just her name. No ‘Miss Rivers.’ No title.

And it wasn’t accidental.

She stepped in, notebook in hand. “Yes?”

He leaned back in his chair, his tie loosened slightly. “How long are we going to pretend we don’t know each other?”

She froze.

He continued, voice slow. “You were twelve. I was thirteen. You wrote me a letter I never answered. But I kept it.”

Emma stared at him. “You kept it?”

Jamie opened a drawer. Pulled out a folded piece of lined paper. Her handwriting—still slanted, still young.

Her breath caught.

“You said,” he read quietly, “‘I think I love you, but I don’t know what that means yet. Maybe one day we’ll find out.’”

He set the paper down and looked up at her.

“Well, Emma. It's one day.”

Her heart raced.

She stepped back. “We work together now. That was... a lifetime ago.”

He rose from his chair. “Do you feel nothing?”

“I feel smart enough not to get involved with my boss,” she snapped, backing away. “That’s what I feel.”

He moved toward her. Not touching—just watching.

“You always had fire,” he said softly. “Even then.”

“Then you know I’ll walk away if I have to,” she said, holding his gaze.

A slow smile curved on his lips, but it wasn’t mocking.

It was hungry.

“I’m counting on you not to,” he said.

Emma turned and walked out of his office, head held high, heart pounding.

As the glass door closed behind her, Jamie sat down slowly.

She was stronger than he remembered.

And that only made him want her more.

By her third day at Torres & Co., Emma Rivers had memorized the rhythm of the place. It was like a well-oiled machine—quiet footsteps on polished floors, whispered hallway conversations, and the occasional echo of heels clicking against the tiles. Everyone knew where to be, what to say, and most importantly, how not to cross paths with the CEO unless absolutely necessary.

Except Emma. She had no choice but to see him every day.

Her desk sat just outside Jamie Torres’ glass-walled office. She could feel his presence even when the door was closed—like gravity pulling her in without warning.

He barely spoke unless it was work-related, but his eyes always lingered. Not long enough for anyone else to notice. Just long enough to make her chest ache with a memory she couldn’t afford to revisit.

At 11:42 AM, Jamie’s door creaked open. Emma looked up just as he stepped out, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He handed her a USB and a folder.

“I’ll be working from home tonight. I want you to bring the hard copy portfolio from the 2018 campaigns. Originals. Not scanned,” he said.

She blinked, hesitating. “I can send it by courier—”

“I want you to bring it.”

Her eyes flicked to his. There was something in his expression that was unreadable—flat, but not empty.

“Is that a problem?” he asked, voice dipping just slightly.

Emma’s throat tightened. “No, sir.”

He didn’t thank her. Just nodded and disappeared behind the door again.

She stared at the closed glass pane for several seconds.

Claire appeared at her desk a moment later, leaning over the divider with a knowing look. “You okay? You’ve been somewhere else all day.”

Emma didn’t answer at first. Then: “He asked me to bring a file to his condo tonight.”

Claire’s eyes widened. “Seriously? That’s not exactly standard protocol.”

“I know,” Emma said, already regretting every second of it. “But I don’t think he’s going to stop unless I face him.”

Claire softened. “Then face him. But don’t lose yourself in the process, okay?”

Emma gave her a tight nod. She wasn’t sure she believed herself either.

---

At 6:12 PM, Emma stood outside Jamie’s condo door with the folder clutched to her chest like a shield.

The building was elegant—glass walls, private elevators, and a quiet luxury that made her feel underdressed even in her cream blouse and fitted trousers.

She exhaled, then knocked.

The door opened almost instantly.

Jamie stood in front of her barefoot, wearing gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt. His hair was slightly messy, like he’d been running his hands through it. His entire presence was so at odds with the calculated CEO image that it made her freeze for a second.

“You came,” he said softly.

“I said I would,” she replied.

He stepped aside, letting her in without another word.

The condo was sleek and masculine—dark wood floors, minimalist furniture, cold lighting. It smelled faintly of cedarwood and mint, and a jazz record played quietly in the background, echoing through the open-plan space.

Emma stepped inside cautiously, not moving far from the entrance.

Jamie took the folder from her and placed it on the marble kitchen counter. “Drink?”

“No.”

“Hungry?”

“No.”

He turned and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re lying.”

Emma lifted her chin. “I’m cautious. There’s a difference.”

He studied her in the dim lighting, the shadows softening his usually sharp features. “Do you think I invited you here to seduce you?”

“I don’t know why you invited me here.”

He walked around the island slowly, pausing just a few steps in front of her. “You’ve been pretending, Emma. Every day, sitting outside my office, acting like we’re strangers.”

She swallowed hard. “We are strangers now.”

Jamie’s eyes searched hers. “I never forgot you.”

Emma’s chest tightened.

He continued. “After you moved away... I waited for a message, a call. Anything. But nothing came.”

Her voice was quiet. “Because I was fifteen and scared. You never answered my letter, Jamie. You disappeared.”

“I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t know what I felt.”

“And now?” she asked.

Jamie didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he took another step toward her, now only inches apart.

“I think about you more than I should,” he admitted. “I think about what would’ve happened if I’d kissed you that day behind the school. I think about what I would’ve said if I had the guts to write you back.”

Emma’s voice trembled. “You don’t get to come back into my life and act like time didn’t happen.”

“I’m not pretending time didn’t pass. I’m asking if it changed what we were.”

She looked away, but he caught her chin gently, turning her back to him.

“Did it change how you feel when I look at you?”

She didn’t speak.

So he leaned down.

And kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative.

It was years of silence breaking open.

It was youth reigniting in the most dangerous way.

Her hands rose without thinking, grabbing his shirt, clinging to something real. His arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her slightly as he pushed her gently against the kitchen island. Folders spilled onto the floor, pages fluttering like falling leaves, forgotten.

Emma gasped against his lips. “Jamie—”

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, brushing his mouth along her neck, his breath shaky.

She didn’t.

Because she didn’t want him to.

The kiss deepened. They were fire and memory and aching skin. Her blouse slipped off one shoulder. His hands moved to her hips, pulling her closer until they weren’t two people anymore—but one storm, finally unleashed.

They didn’t make it to the bedroom.

The marble kitchen counter became a silent witness.

Afterward, Emma sat curled up on the edge of the leather couch, wearing one of his hoodies. The room was still except for the slow jazz, still playing softly in the background.

Jamie stood by the window, staring out at the city skyline. The lights reflected across his face, half-shadowed, half-illuminated.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did she.

But something had changed. Something had shifted between them that couldn’t be undone.

Finally, he turned around and asked, “Was that a mistake?”

Emma hesitated. Her heart screamed yes, but her body still remembered the warmth of his touch, the way he’d looked at her like he’d been starving for years.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly.

He walked over and crouched in front of her. “I meant it, Emma. I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you.”

Her voice cracked. “Wanting someone doesn’t mean it’s right.”

He touched her hand. “But sometimes it means it’s real.”

She pulled away gently and stood, wrapping the hoodie around her tighter. “This can’t happen again.”

Jamie didn’t argue. He didn’t push.

He just watched her walk to the door.

But as she opened it, he said quietly, “You’re going to come back. Even if you don’t want to.”

Emma paused.

Then left without looking back.

Outside, the city buzzed with life, unaware of the chaos unraveling behind that penthouse door.

And inside her chest, Emma felt it: the slow, familiar ache of falling into something she wasn’t ready to survive.