Thiago no longer knew what it was to sleep well. He had spent the previous night adjusting his resume on the computer borrowed from the Vila Rubi Lan House. He corrected commas, changed words, tried to seem more professional than he felt. But now he was there—in the cold reception of Ferraz Tech, holding a blue plastic folder as if it were his only armor against the world.

He wore the most neutral dress shirt he could find in a thrift store downtown. The shoes pinched, and the dress pants made it clear that he did not belong in that place of marble, glass, and corporate silence. But he had graduated. He fought for it. No one would take that from him.

"Next, Mr. Thiago Andrade," called the receptionist, without looking up.

His heart leaped. Personal assistant to the CEO. A position that no ordinary person could get. But it was the only vacancy for which they accepted recent graduates. And he had to try.

When he entered the interview room, he didn't expect to come face to face with him.

Gael Ferraz. In flesh, bone, and cruel perfection. Dark suit, piercing gaze, hands crossed on the table. And that air of someone who never had to ask for anything in life—only to command.

"I thought I'd be dealing with HR," Thiago said, without thinking.

Gael raised an eyebrow. "I prefer to look into the eyes of those who will be by my side. Saves time."

The tension filled the air like an invisible gas.

"Sit down," he ordered.

Thiago sat, but the chair seemed less comfortable than a concrete bench. He was sweating. But he kept his chin up. He wouldn't bow down. Not anymore.

"You graduated in administration from UFRB. You worked as a delivery man. You cleaned buildings at night. You've never had direct experience in the corporate world. Why should I hire you?"

Thiago took a deep breath. "Because those who come from below learn to pay attention to the details that you usually ignore."

Gael stared at him in silence for a few too long seconds. Then, he stood up, went to the window, and turned his back.

"Start tomorrow. If you can handle a week, we'll talk again."

Thiago blinked. "Are you serious?"

Gael turned around, finally smiling—a small smile, as if the challenge had just begun.

"Here, everything is serious."

The door closed behind Thiago with a dry click, and he descended the 32 floors as one who returns to gravity after floating for moments in something that seemed like a dream.

It was only when he stepped onto the street again that he felt the knot in his throat tighten.

The cell phone vibrated in his pocket.

"Your mother cried again because of you."

"You chose this dirty life, now bear the consequences."

"There's still time to repent, Thiago."

He deleted the messages before even finishing reading them. It was always like that. Every week, a new sermon. A new punishment without shouting, but full of guilt. His parents lived in an upper middle class neighborhood, had a good car, a house with a pool, and a respectable surname in the church. They had money—and shame for the gay son who decided to leave home at twenty-one with an old suitcase and patched-up dignity.

The truth was simple: he wasn't poor for lack of resources. He was poor because he chose to be free.

Thiago entered the small studio where he lived, in the Bras region, locking the door behind him. The place was cramped, poorly lit, and smelled of expired disinfectant, but it was his. There was no crucifix on the wall, no judging looks, no passive-aggressive silence at dinner. Only the noise of cars and the distant roar of the city that never slept.

He threw his backpack on the sofa and looked at himself in the cracked mirror on the wall.

His eyes were red, but alive.

Gael Ferraz. That man seemed more like a statue than a person. Cold, calculated, almost cruel. But there was something in that look that Thiago recognized. Loneliness perhaps. Tiredness of protecting himself too much.

He smiled wryly.

"If you think I'm weak, Gael... then wait for me."

Tomorrow began his first morning as personal assistant to the most feared CEO in Sao Paulo.

And he was ready for anything—except to fall in love.

Thiago wasn't ugly—he knew that.

But his beauty was never easy, never obvious. He had the kind of face that drew attention two blocks later, when visual memory finally understood what was there: dark eyes that seemed to hold too many secrets, a chiseled jaw, firm eyebrows, and an almost invisible scar on his left eyebrow, which gave him an involuntary charm.

He had 1.86m of silent presence. Broad shoulders, tanned skin from someone who grew up under real sun, and a body defined to the extent that his hectic routine allowed—not from the gym, but from deliveries, running, and exhaustion. He was handsome like someone who never had time to realize he was.

He wore a folded-sleeve white shirt, black dress pants, and newly polished shoes. The simple watch on his wrist contrasted with the Rolexes that passed around him in the elevator. But he was there. On the 32nd floor. Ready or not.

The elevator doors opened, and everything smelled of money. Tempered glass, marble floor, minimalist furniture in shades of gray and white. The silence there was its own language.

A blonde woman, with a tight bun and precise gait, came towards him.

"Are you the new assistant?" she asked, without smiling.

"Yes, I am. Thiago Andrade."

"I'm Clarissa, Dr. Ferraz's executive secretary. For now, you'll report to me. When he wants to talk to you, he'll make it clear."

Thiago nodded, but his stomach was already showing signs of anxiety.

Clarissa handed over a folder. "Here are your schedules, access codes, internal procedures. Dr. Ferraz likes sugar-free coffee, meetings lasting a maximum of 30 minutes, and almost surgical punctuality."

"Almost?"

She smiled, for the first time. "He's surgical. I only said 'almost' so you wouldn't faint from fear."

Before he could answer, a glass door opened at the end of the corridor.

And Gael Ferraz appeared.

Dark gray tailored suit, 1.92m of impeccable posture, unshaven beard, and a look that seemed to cut through time. He walked like someone who had the world at his feet. And, in a way, he did.

He stopped a few steps from Thiago, looking down at him with cold—but attentive—eyes.

"You came," he said, as if surprised.

"I came," Thiago replied, firmly.

"You have courage, at least. Let's see if you have competence."

And without waiting for an answer, he turned and entered his office.

Clarissa gave a look that seemed to say "good luck," but already knew the result.

Thiago took a deep breath. It was just the beginning. But he could already feel that this man was going to be the biggest challenge of his life.

And perhaps… the most dangerous too.

Gael Ferraz didn't hire on impulse.

Since he was 22, when he took control of Ferraz Tech after his father's early death, he learned to make decisions with his head—never with his heart. The corporate world left no room for feelings, doubts, or distractions. And he was good at it. Cold, fast, efficient.

That's why, when he saw Thiago enter the interview room the day before, his first reaction was disdain.

Cheap shirt, thrift store shoes, a hard look. He didn't look like any of the assistants he'd ever had—all molded, domesticated, trained. Thiago seemed… raw. Wild.

And yet, he hired him.

Now, sitting in the Italian leather chair in his office, Gael watched the young man through the mirrored glass wall as he received instructions from Clarissa.

"He's very tall," he muttered to himself, as if that explained something.

Almost his height. But that wasn't what caught his attention.

It was the way Thiago looked at him. Without flattery. Without apparent fear. As if he saw something beyond the CEO facade.

That bothered him.

Gael had been dating Helena for three years. A doctor, beautiful, intelligent, the ideal match for a man like him. They had plans, stability, showy dinners, a comfortable routine. He never had doubts about his sexual orientation—he never needed to. Women had always been his safe, predictable, controllable zone.

But Thiago…

There was something about that young man. It wasn't just beauty—although he was, in fact, strange to look at. Handsome, but in a way that defied standards. The kind of beauty that bothers you because it doesn't beg for approval. It was there, firm, silent, almost arrogant in its own authenticity.

Gael found himself staring at his reflection in the glass again. The way he walked. How he spoke little. How he seemed to carry a weight greater than his age allowed.

And that… attracted.

"You're tired, Gael," he thought. "It's just curiosity. Nothing more."

But the truth is that for the first time in a long time, he felt something he didn't know how to name. And that made him angry. Very.

He got up suddenly and left the room.

As he passed Thiago, he caught a glimpse of the curve of his jaw, his firm eyes, the way he held the folder—as if everything in life depended on it.

Why does he look like that?, he thought. As if he's challenging me without saying a word.

He returned to his desk, opened his notebook, and forced himself to sink into the numbers of the international market. He needed control. He needed order.

But Thiago Andrade had already settled into a part of his mind that didn't accept commands.

And Gael hated losing control.

The third day of work started at 7:42 AM, with Gael entering the room without greeting anyone, as he always did. He left his suit on the hanger, took off his watch, and extended his hand without looking.

"Coffee. No sugar. Now."

Thiago was already prepared. He handed over the cup even before the CEO finished the sentence. Still, he heard:

"It's too hot. Have you ever seen me burn my tongue with coffee? Do I look like an amateur?"

"You look human," Thiago muttered, unintentionally.

Gael stared at him with his usual expression: tense, irritable, somewhat bored. But there was something different at that moment. A spark. A small strangeness that shone through the usual coldness.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. I'll adjust the temperature."

It was always like that. Orders. Long silences. Cutting replies. Glances that seemed like a constant evaluation. And Gael, with his impeccable suit and his mouth dry of kindness, never thanked for anything.

But Thiago wasn't one to back down.

In the meeting room, Gael dictated and Thiago typed with speed. The pace was insane. Gael changed his tone of voice frequently, demanded precision, hated repetitions, and had an astonishing memory. Thiago, despite doing well, heard phrases like:

"This is crooked."

"Do you always breathe like that?"

"If you don't pay attention, you won't last the week."

It was exhausting. And fascinating.

Because, as much as he hated to admit it, Thiago felt something every time Gael approached. Something that started in his stomach, went down his legs, and tightened his chest. Something he didn't want to think of as desire. But it was.

It was when Gael passed behind him, very close. When, unintentionally, his hand touched his shoulder when picking up a document. When his perfume – woody, sophisticated, brutal – invaded the air without permission.

And the worst part: Thiago didn't know if he wanted to run away or sink deeper into it.

During the break, he went to the pantry to get some water. He was sweating, even with the air conditioning at full blast.

"You're crazy, Thiago. He's straight. He has a girlfriend. He's your boss. And he's a jerk."

Even so, when he returned to the room and saw Gael standing, with his tie slightly loosened and his shirt sleeves rolled up, something inside him trembled.

Something that wasn't respect.

Something that wasn't fear.

It was something else. Something that, if it grew, could ruin everything.

It was the fifth day. Almost a week.

Thiago thought he was starting to get the hang of it. He had already understood the schedules, the emails that Gael wanted answered in less than five minutes, the verbal codes that Clarissa used to avoid explosions. Everything was... under control.

Until he messed up.

It was a detail. A damn attachment in the wrong email. A contract that should have been sent to the European partner and, due to a slip, went to the internal group of directors.

Chaos erupted in minutes.

Gael appeared in the room with a tense face and his cell phone in hand.

"Have you gone crazy?" he asked, throwing the device on the table forcefully. "Do you have any idea what it means to leak a confidential contract?"

Thiago froze. He tried to explain. "I reviewed it three times. It must have been a wrong click, a window..."

"Do you think I'm interested in your windows?!" he shouted. "This isn't a public school where you can make mistakes and take a note home! Here, a mistake costs money, reputation, and my patience!"

Clarissa entered the room with a frightened expression. Gael made a brusque gesture and she left, closing the door.

"I should fire you now."

The silence fell like a punch.

Thiago didn't respond. He stood, eyes fixed on a point somewhere behind Gael. His hands were trembling. His throat was burning.

But he stayed.

Gael ran his hand through his hair, impatiently. The silence was now strange. He looked at Thiago – and saw.

The eyes full of tears.

There was no plea there. No cowardice. Just a wounded pride struggling not to collapse.

"I'm not going to apologize," Thiago said, voice hoarse. "But I'll do better tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow. And every other day."

Gael didn't respond. His chest rose and fell, and for a moment, something in his gaze softened. Just a centimeter.

But it went away quickly.

"Get out of my office," he said, lower, drier. "Now."

Thiago left.

He entered the pantry, locked the door, leaned against the cold tiled wall, and let the tears fall, silently. Without sobs. Without drama.

He cried out of anger. Out of frustration. Out of exhaustion.

But he didn't think about giving up for a second.

Because there was something inside him stronger than the pain: the certainty that he belonged in that place. Not for being perfect. But because no one had fought so hard to be there as he had.

And if Gael thought he could destroy him with words... then he was about to discover that Thiago Andrade was much harder to break than he thought.