“Be My Boyfriend or Lose Your Job”

I still remember the exact words she whispered that night in the supermarket.
“Be my boyfriend… or lose your job.”

For a second, I thought I’d misheard. I stood frozen between the fruit aisle and the frozen section, a carton of milk sweating in my hand like it could somehow shield me. But her voice came again, low and trembling this time.

“Please, Ethan. Just do it.”

Amanda Rose — my CEO, my boss, my personal nightmare and secret fascination — was gripping my wrist so tightly it almost hurt. The same woman who commanded boardrooms full of billionaires now looked… terrified.

I’d never seen her like that before.
And I had no idea that one word from her would change the rest of my life.

The Ice Queen

I’m Ethan Cole. Twenty-eight. =” analyst. One of those guys who works too late, lives alone, and forgets to buy coffee filters. For two years I’d worked at Rose & Co. Consulting, a gleaming tower in downtown Chicago built on discipline and fear — the kind of place where smiles were optional and mistakes were fatal.

Amanda Rose ran that tower like a monarch.
Sharp as glass, beautiful as winter. People whispered when she passed — “the Ice Queen.” No one got close. Not emotionally. Not professionally.

Until that night.

The Supermarket Incident

She tugged at my arm. “Don’t look,” she whispered. “Just hold my hand. Smile.”

Confused, I obeyed. Her fingers were trembling.

That’s when I saw him — a tall man pushing a cart, laughing with a younger woman hanging off his arm. Amanda’s ex-husband, I realized. The man who’d left her for someone half her age.

And suddenly everything made sense.
She didn’t want to look weak. Not to him. Not ever.

So I smiled.
Slipped my arm around her waist like I’d done it a hundred times.

“Hey, sweetheart,” I murmured. “Did you find the wine you like?”

Her eyes flicked to mine, startled, then softened. “I… I did,” she said quietly.

The ex slowed as he passed, smirking. Amanda straightened, chin high, pressing closer to me like the act itself could erase her pain. Her perfume — jasmine and rain — surrounded me.

For the first time, the Ice Queen looked human.

We walked past them together. She leaned lightly on my shoulder. I could feel her heart hammering through the sleeve of her coat. And even though I knew it was pretend, part of me didn’t want it to end.

When we reached the parking lot, she exhaled shakily. “You did well, Ethan.”

“So you’re… not firing me?”

She laughed — not her usual corporate laugh, but something warm and real. “Not tonight.”

There was a strange silence between us. Her eyes lingered on mine as if she wanted to say something more. Then she looked away.

“Forget tonight ever happened. See you at work, Mr. Cole.”

And she walked off, heels clicking through the rain.
I stood there under the streetlights, realizing that for the first time in years, I’d felt something real.

The Morning After

The next morning, everything looked the same — except me.

Amanda passed my desk like nothing had happened. No eye contact. No smile. Just the same perfect armor. But I couldn’t stop replaying her trembling hand in mine.

Around noon, an email popped up:
“My office. Now.”

My pulse spiked.

When I entered, she was standing by the window overlooking Chicago, arms crossed. The skyline glowed behind her — cold, magnificent, untouchable.

“You handled yourself well last night,” she said without turning. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I said carefully. “Though I’m still not sure what exactly happened.”

She turned, eyes sharp again — but softer than usual. “You helped me avoid something humiliating. Let’s just say my ex doesn’t need to know I’m still single.”

“So it was about him?”

Her brow arched. “You ask a lot of questions for someone I could fire with one email.”

I nearly laughed — but then she smirked. “Relax, you’re safe. For now.”

Then came the twist:
“The company gala’s next week,” she said. “PR insists I bring someone. After last night… you’ll do.”

“You want me to pretend again?”

“Yes. One night. Dinner, photos, polite conversation. You’ll look charming; I’ll look human. Everyone wins.”

“And if I say no?”

She leaned on her desk, voice low. “You won’t.”

She was right. I didn’t.

The Gala

The week before the gala blurred by in a haze of tailored suits, rehearsed smiles, and moments that felt too easy. Somewhere between late-night emails and shared coffee breaks, I began to see pieces of the real Amanda — the woman who checked the weather for her drivers before they left, who smiled at stray dogs, who hummed quietly when she thought no one was listening.

The night of the event, she appeared at the top of the hotel staircase in a deep emerald gown that stole the air from my lungs. I’d seen her powerful. I’d seen her cold. But that night, she looked… fragile.

“Don’t stare,” she murmured as she approached. “You’ll make it obvious.”

“Too late,” I whispered.

Her hand brushed my arm, sending a spark up my spine.

We entered together. Cameras flashed. To everyone else, we were perfection — the ruthless CEO and her charming young boyfriend. But under the chandeliers and champagne laughter, it felt like something real had slipped through the cracks.

When the music slowed, she leaned in to whisper something. Her breath warmed my ear. I didn’t hear the words — just the sound of her voice, softer than I’d ever known it.

Later, as I walked her to her car, she turned to me.
“Remember what I said about not getting attached?”

“Yeah.”

“Forget it,” she said quietly. “For tonight, anyway.”

And then she kissed me.
Quick. Unplanned. Real.

By the time I opened my eyes, she was gone.

The Confession

The next morning, she didn’t come to work. Her assistant said she was working remotely.

All day I replayed that kiss. By evening, my phone buzzed with a message:
“Dinner. 8 p.m. Same hotel.”

When I arrived, she was already seated — no armor, no mask, just Amanda. Her hair down, a black dress, no makeup except for the faint shadow beneath her eyes.

“You came,” she said softly.

“You told me to.”

She smiled faintly. “I suppose I did.”

We talked about safe things — work, weather, anything but what we were both thinking. Until she said quietly, “Do you ever feel like you built your life so strong it became a cage?”

“All the time,” I admitted.

“I thought control meant safety,” she whispered. “Now I’m not so sure.”

After dinner, she invited me upstairs for a drink. The city outside her window shimmered under the rain.

She poured wine, then looked at me across the glass table.
“About last night,” she began.
“The kiss?” I interrupted. “You don’t need to explain.”

“But I do,” she said. “It wasn’t part of the act.”

My heart stopped.
“Then what was it?”

She looked straight at me. “A mistake I don’t regret.”

She stepped closer. “This can’t happen. You work for me.”

“Then why are you standing so close?” I asked.

Her answer was a whisper.
“Because I’m tired of pretending.”

Her hand brushed my cheek. I didn’t move away.

The Exposure

The following week felt like a dream balanced on a knife’s edge.
Our glances lingered too long. Our voices softened when no one else was around. We were reckless, and someone noticed.

One night, as we left the office, a camera flash exploded outside. I turned — Mark, a jealous coworker, grinned as he lowered his phone.

The next morning, the office buzzed with whispers.
By noon, HR summoned me.
Amanda was already there — composed, emotionless.

“Ethan,” the HR director began, “due to recent events, the company has decided to place you on leave pending review.”

I stared at Amanda. “You could have said something.”

Her voice trembled. “They were going to fire you regardless. I had to make a choice.”

“And you chose your career.”

“No,” she whispered. “I chose to keep you out of the fire.”

That night, I packed my things. The city felt colder than ever.

Fallout

Weeks passed. No word from Amanda.
I took odd jobs, anything to stay busy, but she haunted every quiet moment.

Then one afternoon, I stopped by a café near the old office. Laya, the barista, gave me a knowing look.
“You heard?” she asked.

“Heard what?”

“She fought for you. The board wanted you gone permanently. She threatened to resign.”

“She… did that?”

“She walked out yesterday,” Laya said softly. “Left everything.”

I sat there in stunned silence. The woman who built her empire from nothing had just burned it all down — for me.

The Return

Months passed. Four, to be exact.
I got a new job at a small tech startup — humble, honest work. But even in peace, I felt unfinished.

Then one rainy evening, fate came full circle.

I stopped at the supermarket for milk. Same aisles. Same soft music. Same hum of refrigerators.

And there she was.

Amanda stood in the wine section, holding the same bottle she’d chosen the night this all began. Her hair was loose, her clothes simple — jeans, cream sweater, sneakers. No armor left.

She turned, sensing me before she saw me. When our eyes met, time stopped.

“Took you long enough,” she said softly.

“You left without saying goodbye.”

“I didn’t know how,” she admitted. “Everything I touched turned into a headline. I thought disappearing was the only way to protect what was left of us.”

“There was something left of us?” I asked.

She stepped closer. “There still is.”

For a moment, the world outside disappeared — just rain on glass and two people who’d survived their own destruction.

“What happened after you left?” I asked.

“I took time,” she said. “Traveled. Remembered who I was before I became someone people feared. Turns out I missed being human.”

I smiled. “You always were.”

“Now it’s your turn,” she said softly.

“For what?”

“To tell me what you’ve been holding back.”

I took a breath. “I hated you,” I said. “For choosing your career over me. For not fighting harder. But now I know you did fight — just in your own way. And I hated myself for not seeing it sooner.”

She didn’t move.
“The truth is,” I continued, “I never stopped loving you. Not for a single day.”

Her eyes shimmered, but she smiled. “You always were too honest.”

“I learned from the best.”

She laughed — that warm, human sound I’d missed for months — and reached for my hand. The same hand she’d once held out of fear.
This time, it was out of love.

“No more pretending,” she whispered.

“Never again,” I promised.

Epilogue

We stood there in the middle of the supermarket aisle — the place where everything had begun — as the world hummed quietly around us. She leaned in, resting her forehead against mine. No drama, no cameras, no fear. Just us.

When our lips met, it felt like finally exhaling after years of holding our breath.

As we walked outside, the rain had stopped.
The city shimmered clean beneath the streetlights.

“So what now?” I asked.

Amanda smiled. “Now we start over. No titles. No rules. Just us.”

She paused, looking around with a soft laugh. “Funny. The first time I saw you here, I told you to pretend.”

“And now?” I asked.

“Now,” she said, sliding her arm through mine, “we don’t have to.”

As we drove away together through the quiet, rain-washed streets, I realized something simple and true:

Sometimes the universe breaks you just enough to make space for what’s real.

What began as a lie…
ended as the only truth that ever mattered.

I didn’t lose my job that night in the supermarket.
I found my heart.

~ THE END ~