My boss got his heart broken. Gleefully, I took a screenshot to send to my best friend. Except, I accidentally sent it to him. A slow, deliberate question mark appeared in our chat. You’re here to laugh at me too? In a desperate bid to save my job, I typed with trembling fingers: No! I was just... worried. The drinking, the smoking… it’s so bad for you. It hurts me to see you like this. His reply came back. Sorry. I’m not a homewrecker. Then: You should give up now. Ten minutes passed. That said... wanna see my abs? Just finished a workout. 1 It was Valentine's Day. To celebrate, I’d posted a photoshopped picture of myself with my celebrity crush. "Our third year together," I captioned it. Less than half an hour later, the main company group chat exploded. A new rule had just been announced: no one was allowed to take leave on Valentine's Day. The collective groan was almost audible. We all scurried over to our private group chat. Mark the secretary said it was a last-minute decision from the boss. Rumor has it, the boss got dumped. A guy like Richard Cohan can get dumped? Seriously? You know, thinking about a guy with a face like Richard’s being miserable over love makes my own romantic failures feel a little less tragic. Work was forgotten. Everyone was buzzing, trying to figure out who this mystery woman was—the one who had dared to break the heart of our office’s resident ice king, Richard Cohan. Someone tagged me: @Lily, don't you have the boss on your personal chat? Check his feed! I played it cool. Can't see anything. He probably has me blocked or something. In reality, my fingers were already flying, tapping open Richard’s profile. He had posted a single, devastating line: "Why does she still love that other man? It’s true. I’m just not enough for her." His location tag was a downtown cocktail lounge. So, it was true. He really had been dumped. My gossip-loving heart couldn't resist. I screenshotted the post to send to my best friend for a proper dissection. The moment I hit send, my supervisor dropped a file on my desk, needing my immediate attention. I shoved my phone away, putting on my best "diligent employee" face. When she finally left, a notification lit up my screen. My smile vanished. I had sent the screenshot to Richard himself. Richard Cohan: ??? Richard Cohan: They’re all laughing at me. Richard Cohan: You’re here to laugh at me too? His words were dripping with a raw, wounded vulnerability. My blood ran cold. Richard Cohan: Lily. What exactly is the meaning of this? It was over. I was so fired. Scrambling to save my job, I hammered out a reply: No! I was just... worried. The drinking, the smoking… it’s so bad for you. It hurts me to see you like this. I added another for good measure: You have to take care of yourself, Mr. Cohan! Because who else is going to give me this dream job with its six-figure salary, 10-to-5 hours, triple overtime, and weekends off? The "typing..." bubble appeared and disappeared. I held my breath. Richard Cohan: I’m sorry, I don’t get involved with taken women. Richard Cohan: You should give up now. I stared at the screen, utterly baffled. Had the breakup fried his brain? Was he mixing me up with his ex-girlfriend? Ten minutes crawled by. Richard Cohan: That said... wanna see my abs? Just finished a workout. The phone felt like it was burning a hole in my hand. A coworker walked by, and I guiltily shoved it into my pocket, my heart pounding. 2 It wasn't until I got home that I realized my phone screen had never locked. In my pocket, my leg had accidentally sent Richard Cohan about eight hundred "I want you" stickers from my spiciest collection. At first, his replies were professionally horrified. Lily, I am your boss. I expect you to respect our professional boundaries. I would like to keep our relationship strictly work-related. But after the relentless digital assault of winking emojis and suggestive memes, he seemed to have surrendered. Fine. Whatever makes you happy. But I don't want a third person knowing about... this. My dignity is on the line here. Half an hour had passed since his last message. He was waiting for my response. I was crouched by the elevator in my apartment building, trying to formulate a reply that wouldn't get me fired or committed. My next-door neighbor appeared, walking his dog. "Late night, Lily?" I nodded mournfully. Another night of overtime. The pay was great, but that didn't mean I had to like it. "You work so hard, and the pay's good, right?" he said with a cheerful smile. "You must have a nice little nest egg saved up." I… His Golden Retriever, still buzzing with post-walk energy, chose that exact moment to barrel into me. I stumbled, and my phone went flying. Before I could react, the dog snatched it up in his mouth, and the chase was on. An hour later, I finally wrestled the slobber-covered, thoroughly chewed device from the jaws of the furry demon. My neighbor was mortified. "My boy is a menace! I'm so sorry, Lily, let me pay for the damages. Double!" Well, if he insisted. I "tearfully" accepted the money transfer. The good news: the phone still turned on. The bad news: it had developed a mind of its own. It was possessed. When I wanted it to go left, it veered right with a vengeance. Meanwhile, Richard had been waiting. He nudged me again. Lily, do you agree or not? I've been thinking, and this whole situation is completely ridiculous. It’s beneath my station. If anyone found out, what would they think of me? Can you imagine? ... This is... my first time. ... If you're not going to agree, just say so. To be honest, I'm not that into the idea anyway. I'm not that kind of person. ... Why are you leaving me on read? I can see you're typing! ... Fine, if you don't agree, that's okay. But you can't tell anyone! Promise me! I tried to type "I DON'T AGREE." But the cursed phone had other plans. It clattered out a response of its own accord. Sent: I agree. Oh, hell no. I frantically mashed the "unsend" button. The possessed device responded by firing off a volley of kissy-face emojis. A full minute passed before Richard sent a cool, detached, "Okay." My phone wasn't finished. It sent another barrage. Richard Cohan: ...It's only the first day. Are you sure about this? I'm a very traditional person. I don't want to move this fast. I've never really dated before. What's the first step? Then, in a moment of pure, unadulterated horror, I watched as my phone automatically sent him a sticker of a cartoon character suggestively wiggling its eyebrows with the caption: "Wanna do it?" Richard seemed genuinely stunned into silence. Finally, a pained message appeared: You’re so thirsty, Lily. That was it. In a fit of rage, I chucked the phone straight into the water-filled bathroom sink. If I’m going down, you’re coming with me! 3 The next morning, I crept into the office like a wanted fugitive. "Hey, did they cancel the morning meeting?" I asked a coworker, feigning casual curiosity. "Yeah," she said. "The boss called in sick." A wave of relief so profound it nearly buckled my knees washed over me. Perfect. I could play dumb for another day. My phone was at the repair shop, and the tech had promised it would be fixed by the evening, so I hadn't bothered buying a new one. I had no idea what Richard's final messages might have been. Just then, my supervisor appeared. "Lily, I need you to run this file over to the hospital for Mr. Cohan to sign. It's urgent." My carefully constructed calm shattered. I stood outside his hospital room, my hand hovering over the door, unable to bring myself to knock. "Lily?" It was Mark, Richard's secretary, holding a container of what looked like porridge. My expression was a mess of panic and guilt, but an idea sparked. "Mark! I'm just here to get a signature from Mr. Cohan. Since you're here—" "—Perfect!" Mark cut me off, practically shoving the porridge into my hands. "I just got called away on an emergency. Can you give this to him for me?" He moved with the speed of a man escaping a burning building. Before vanishing down the hall, he helpfully knocked on the door. "Mr. Cohan! Lily's here to see you!" A cool, flat voice drifted from inside. "Oh." I took a deep breath and pushed the door open, my steps hesitant and small. The man in the hospital bed turned his head, and his gaze was like ice. "Good morning, Mr. Cohan," I squeaked. Richard’s expression was a mask of pure accusation. "It's not good at all." I froze. After a long, tense silence, he spoke again, his voice laced with melodrama. "Are you just going to stand there and let me starve to death... girlfriend?" My hand trembled as I offered him the porridge. "Mr. Cohan, about last night... I need about ten minutes to explain everything." Richard was genuinely hungry. He focused on the food, not even looking up. "Go on," he said between spoonfuls. "Let's hear your tall tale." Ten minutes later, I finished my frantic explanation. "…and that's what happened. I didn't send any of those things," I concluded, sitting ramrod straight, cautiously watching his expression. A strange, unreadable smile flickered across his lips. "So you don't have a boyfriend?" I shook my head vigorously. "That picture was of an indie singer I've been a fan of for years. He's not famous, so people get the wrong idea all the time." Realizing I was getting sidetracked, I leaned forward earnestly. "The point is, Mr. Cohan, I wasn't screenshotting your post to make fun of you! I swear, my loyalty to you is unshakable!" Richard slowly, deliberately wiped his hands with a napkin. "So, let me get this straight. You just happened to screenshot my post and send it to me. Then, under duress, you said all those things. Then, a dog just happened to steal your phone, which just happened to break in a way that just happened to send me a confession of love?" My eyes were wide and sincere. I nodded firmly. "Exactly, Mr. Cohan. That's precisely what happened." The misunderstanding was cleared. Just as I was about to breathe a sigh of relief, he let out a cold laugh. "Lily, do I look like an idiot?" Tears of frustration welled in my eyes as I shook my head. He then launched into a one-sided tirade. "Do you have any idea how long I waited outside your apartment building last night?" My voice was a whisper. "Why… why didn't you just come up?" He shot me a glare. "In what capacity? Was I supposed to announce myself as your accidental, digitally-coerced... whatever I am?" He had a point. "And do you know how cold it got? The temperature dropped! It was freezing!" Richard was genuinely upset now. "Do you even have a heart?" I glanced at him, a stupid internet meme popping into my head. "So... can I buy you a beer?" 4 I was kicked out of the room. Richard said he needed to be alone. He told me to go stand in a corner somewhere. That evening, I got my phone back and immediately opened our chat history. Richard's initial reactions to the "Wanna do it?" sticker were exactly as prim and proper as I'd expected. Lily, I must insist you conduct yourself with some decorum. I am not that kind of person. That was definitely him. I remembered when he first started, his regular secretary wasn't available, so I filled in for a while. I handed him a cup of coffee once, and our fingers brushed for a split second. He blushed to the roots of his hair. "My apologies," he’d stammered. Another time, I noticed his shirt cuff was unbuttoned. Out of habit, I reached over to fix it. He snatched his arm back as if he’d been burned. "I… I can get it," he said, not meeting my eyes. And then there was the time he had a late-night work dinner and his driver had an emergency. I was sent to pick him up. I found him squatting by the curb, looking dazed. He just stared at me for a long time. The next day, he issued a formal memo: "For safety reasons, female employees should not be assigned to late-night pick-ups." Richard Cohan was a true gentleman, with the patience of a saint. Which didn't stop him from being incredibly demanding when it came to work. Because of this, many of us had become immune to his handsome face. Myself included. A while back, at a company retreat, with Richard thankfully absent, things got a little wild. The questions were all about him. "Lily," someone asked me, "if you went on a blind date and it turned out to be the boss, what would you do?" "Run," I said without hesitation. "Run for the hills." "He's a great guy, but he's my boss," I continued, warming up to my topic. "Who in their right mind develops feelings for their boss? I mean, am I that desperate for a man? It's never going to happen. Not in this lifetime. Even if he were a literal angel descended from heaven." I was on a roll, completely oblivious to the fact that the subject of my rant was standing right behind me, having heard every single word. As he walked away, he paused and asked, his voice quiet, "Am I really that repulsive to you?" The memory made me cringe. I shook my head, trying to clear it, and continued scrolling through our chat. The further I went, the more my jaw tightened. Richard's last message was from 1:00 AM. Come downstairs. I’ll let you have one kiss. But that's it. We are not sleeping together. And I… I had been sound asleep, leaving him out in the cold all night. My heart sank. I carefully typed and re-typed my message. Mr. Cohan, please rest assured that our... situation... will remain a complete secret. So, could we please just pretend none of this ever happened? He didn't reply directly. Instead, a new post appeared on his feed. It was a photo of his hand, an IV drip taped to the back of it. The caption: "In the end, I bear it all alone." A pang of guilt hit me. I quickly sent another message: Please take care of yourself. I'll come visit you again soon... He replied instantly. When is soon? You know I’m a very busy man. Never mind. I have a business meeting near your place anyway. I suppose I can spare a few minutes to wait for you. Come downstairs. … And that is how I found myself, clad in my fluffiest ten-dollar pajamas, sneaking into a ridiculously luxurious Rolls-Royce parked on my street corner. The moment I got in, I was struck by Richard's face. He was dressed in a bespoke suit, his shoes polished to a mirror shine. From head to toe, he radiated an aura of refined elegance. No wonder those romance novel heroes were always saying, "You can't even compare to a single strand of her hair." I suddenly felt incredibly underdressed. "Why are you staring at me like that?" Richard was still clearly sick, ducking his head to cough a few times. The effort sent a flush of color to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. I felt a little bad for him. "You look handsome even when you're sick, Mr. Cohan," I said, my honesty tinged with a bit of exaggeration. "It's like a romance novel hero walked right off the page." A flicker of shyness crossed his eyes. "Oh? What kind of novels do you read?" My brain outpaced my mouth. "The gay kind." Richard… was speechless. 6 The next day at work, Mark, the secretary, called in sick. The boss needed a temporary replacement. My coworkers' hands shot up around me. I pretended to be deaf, dumb, and blind. Then, in the act of swatting at a fly, my arm shot up, and my supervisor’s eyes locked onto me. "Lily! So eager! The job is yours." I… what? Later, she explained. "You've assisted Mr. Cohan before, so you're familiar with his work style. You're the best fit." My main issue was the fresh layer of awkwardness between Richard and me. Then my supervisor added, "I hear it comes with a five-thousand-dollar monthly bonus." I grabbed her hand. "You have absolutely chosen the right person for the job!" That afternoon, I moved my things to the office adjacent to the boss's. Being his direct report felt… kind of awesome. While he was out, I took the opportunity to slack off. I saw Mark had updated his social media. It was a nine-photo grid of stunning ocean views. "The feeling of a triple-paid vacation is just unbeatable! I'm voting for Richard Cohan for chairman for life!" Confused, I commented: Mark, are you feeling better? A second later, the post vanished. A private message from Mark popped up: You saw wrong. That was a picture from the hospital. I'm finding joy in my sorrow. It's, you know, abstract art. I couldn't really argue with that. Well, take care of yourself, I replied. Mark: Lily, you have to be good to the boss. He’s really been through a lot! 7 Richard had been hospitalized for a severe case of the flu. He only stayed one day before throwing himself back into work, still clearly unwell. He stood by the window in his overcoat, occasionally coughing into his fist. The back of his hand was still bruised from the IV. He looked fragile, windswept, and tragically beautiful. My guilt intensified when I saw the gossip flying in the private group chat: I heard the boss stood outside his ex-girlfriend's apartment all night trying to win her back. That’s how he got so sick. I heard he was a sickly child, basically grew up on medication. A simple cold could take years off his life. I heard a psychic told his family he wouldn't live past twenty-five. So that's what Mark meant by "he's been through a lot." I was overcome with a mixture of guilt and pity. That evening, my attitude was one of extreme solicitude. After parking the car, I grabbed the new scarf I'd bought and an umbrella. I practically sprinted to his side. Richard looked pleasantly surprised, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. "What are you doing here?" "I'm worried you'll get colder," I said, instructing him to lower his head. He complied obediently. As he leaned down, I caught the faint, clean scent of antiseptic. "Mark's sick, so I've been assigned as his temporary replacement." "Oh, by the way, Mr. Cohan, what's wrong with Mark? It sounds pretty serious." I mean, they wouldn't have me fill in for a whole month otherwise. Richard averted his gaze, stammering slightly. "I'm not sure. A broken bone, I think. Somewhere." I didn't press it. Richard's house wasn't far. During the thirty-minute drive, I tried my best to make conversation, carefully avoiding the topic of his love life. "Mr. Cohan, what made you decide to come manage this branch office?" This was just one of many subsidiaries of the Cohan Corporation. When news broke that the heir apparent was coming to take over, everyone was shocked. I was shocked for another reason entirely—his name was identical to a person from my past. He was reading a document but looked up at my question. "Fate, I suppose." "Well, it's a wonderful fate," I said sincerely. "I love this fate." If Richard hadn't come and completely overhauled the company's benefits package, I would have quit long ago.
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