You step out of the metro in Malasaña with sweat already clinging to your collar like a bad decision.
The streets are loud, crowded, alive in that Madrid way that makes you feel both anonymous and observed.
You remind yourself you’re only here because “attendance is encouraged,” which in corporate language means your absence will be remembered forever.
So you follow the music to the loft and rehearse your plan: smile, nod, leave early, disappear.

The bouncer checks your name against a list that looks more expensive than your monthly groceries.
Inside, the air is thick with perfume, citrus cocktails, and the kind of confidence people buy on credit.
A DJ hammers out house music like he’s punishing the concept of silence.
You hover near a wall because walls don’t ask questions and they don’t expect you to sparkle.

You spot your colleagues first, clustered in self-congratulating circles, laughing too loudly at jokes that aren’t jokes.
Someone from finance flashes a watch that costs more than your entire degree.
Someone from strategy talks about “synergies” like it’s a religion.
You take a soda because you learned the hard way that an assistant holding a drink looks less interruptible.

Then you see her.

Elise Carón doesn’t walk into a room.
She arrives, and the room rearranges itself around the fact.
Her suit is charcoal, tailored like it was stitched onto her spine, and her heels hit the concrete floor with the calm authority of a verdict.
She doesn’t smile, but people still angle their bodies toward her, like plants turning toward light.

You’ve seen her a thousand times from your second-floor desk, but this is different.
At the office she’s contained by glass walls, calendars, and agendas.
Here, under warm loft lighting and too-loud music, she looks… exposed, in a way that makes you uncomfortable to notice.
She scans the crowd and her eyes pass over people like they’re furniture.

Then her gaze hits you.

It’s so sudden you almost look behind yourself to make sure she isn’t seeing someone else.
But there’s nobody behind you except a ficus in a designer pot and a bartender polishing a glass like he’s auditioning for a movie.
Elise’s green eyes lock on yours, and for the first time you understand what people mean when they say someone can “pin” you with a look.

She walks straight toward you.
Not drifting, not hesitating, not detouring to say hello to anyone important.
Straight to you, the assistant, the office ghost, the guy who knows how she takes her coffee and nothing else.

Your brain scrambles to decide if you forgot something.
A calendar invite. A client file. A crisis.
But the thing in her expression is not annoyance.

It’s urgency.

She steps close enough that you can smell her perfume, something clean and expensive with a sharp edge under it.
Then she leans in and speaks into the pocket of noise between your ear and the music.

“I need your help now,” she says.

You blink.
“Ms. Carón…?”

“Not here,” she murmurs, eyes flicking over your shoulder toward the crowd.
She takes your wrist lightly, like she’s steering you, and you feel the shocking heat of her touch.
“Listen carefully,” she says. “Pretend to be my boyfriend.”

You almost laugh because it’s absurd.
It’s the kind of request that belongs in a soap opera, not a consulting firm party.
But Elise’s grip tightens just enough to tell you it isn’t a joke.

“And I’ll give you the most precious thing I have,” she adds, voice low.
“Do it right, and… you’ll have him.”

You stare at her.
“Who is him?” you ask, but your question gets swallowed by the bass.

Elise’s jaw clenches.
She doesn’t answer immediately because she’s watching someone.

You follow her gaze and see a man crossing the loft like he owns oxygen.
He’s tall, dark suit, perfect hair, smile sharpened to a weapon.
People move aside for him instinctively, like they’ve been trained.

Elise’s body goes rigid.
That’s the first time you’ve ever seen her posture change without intention.

“He’s here,” she whispers.
“And he’s not supposed to be.”

The man’s eyes land on Elise and his smile widens like he’s been waiting for this exact scene.
He angles toward her with slow confidence, already lifting his hand in greeting.
Elise turns back to you, and for the first time her voice trembles.

“Please,” she says.
It’s one syllable, but it hits you harder than any order she’s ever given.

You should say no.
You should step away.
You should protect your job and your dignity and your sanity.

Instead, you hear yourself ask, “What’s the most precious thing you have?”

Elise’s eyes flash.
“My mother’s watch,” she says, so quick it sounds rehearsed.
Then she corrects herself, softer. “My freedom.”

Your throat goes dry.

The man is closer now, threading through bodies like a knife through fabric.
Elise doesn’t have time to explain, and you don’t have time to think.
All you have is a choice you make on instinct.

You step closer to Elise and place a hand at her waist like you’ve done it a hundred times.
Her breath catches, subtle but real.
Then you tilt your head, smile slightly, and let your body language say what words don’t.

Mine.

The man arrives.

“Elise,” he says warmly, as if the warmth is a gift he can revoke.
His eyes flick to your hand and then to your face, lingering a second too long.
“And who is this?”

Elise slides her arm through yours with practiced ease, but you feel how tense she is beneath the performance.
“This is Julián,” she says. “My boyfriend.”

Boyfriend.
The word hangs in the air, ridiculous and electric.

The man’s smile doesn’t falter.
“Boyfriend,” he repeats, tasting it.
Then he offers his hand to you. “Álvaro Ibarra.”

You shake his hand and immediately understand why Elise needed help.
Álvaro’s grip is firm, polished, and just slightly too tight, like dominance disguised as etiquette.
His eyes are the kind that weigh people.

“Nice to meet you,” you say.

Álvaro’s gaze flicks to Elise.
“You didn’t mention him,” he says lightly, and the lightness feels like a threat.
Elise’s smile is perfect. Too perfect.

“There’s a lot I don’t mention,” she replies.

Álvaro laughs.
“That’s what I adore about you.”
Then he looks at you again. “So, Julián… what do you do?”

You feel Elise’s muscles tighten, because this question isn’t curiosity.
It’s a test, and Álvaro is expecting you to fail it.
He’s expecting you to sound small.

“I keep Elise alive,” you say with a calm smile.
You tilt your head slightly. “And I make sure our clients don’t set themselves on fire.”

A couple of nearby colleagues glance over, surprised.
Álvaro’s eyes narrow just a fraction.

“Elise’s assistant,” he says, and you can hear the dismissal dressed up as description.

Elise’s hand squeezes your arm.
Not hard.
But enough to say: keep going.

You glance at Elise, then back at Álvaro.
“I’m also the guy who caught the discrepancy in the German client’s KPI deck before your team walked into that meeting,” you say.
You keep your tone casual, like it’s not a flex. “So if the contract got signed, you’re welcome.”

Álvaro’s smile freezes for half a second.
Then it returns, brighter, sharper.

“Well,” he says, “we’re lucky to have you.”

Elise’s laugh is quiet and controlled, but you feel her shoulders drop a millimeter.
You don’t know what game this is, only that you just made your first move.

Álvaro turns to Elise as if you’re no longer in the room.
“I came to speak with you,” he says.
“Privately.”

Elise lifts her chin.
“Anything you have to say, you can say in front of Julián.”

Álvaro studies her.
Then he smiles again, slow.
“Of course,” he says. “Because he’s… your boyfriend.”

He leans closer, voice lowering.
“It’s courageous of you,” he murmurs, “to debut a relationship at your own company party.”
His eyes flick to you. “Especially with someone who depends on you for a salary.”

Heat flares in your gut, but you keep your expression neutral.
This is how people like Álvaro fight.
Not with fists. With implications.

Elise’s voice turns colder.
“Be careful,” she says.

Álvaro lifts his hands slightly.
“I’m only concerned,” he replies. “You know I care about your reputation.”

You’re suddenly very aware of how many eyes are on Elise, and how many of them would love to see her stumble.
You’re aware of how quickly gossip turns into leverage in a firm like this.
And you’re aware of how Elise is standing still like a statue while the ground under her tries to shift.

Álvaro’s gaze returns to Elise, and he delivers his line like a closing argument.
“My offer stands,” he says. “Tonight. We talk. Then you come home with me.”

Elise’s lips part, but no sound comes out for a beat.
It’s the smallest crack you’ve ever seen in her armor.
Then she recovers.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she says.

Álvaro’s smile fades.
Not fully.
Just enough to show teeth.

“You always say that,” he murmurs.
“And you always end up doing what you must.”

He touches Elise’s elbow lightly, as if he owns the right.
Your body reacts before your mind does.

You shift, placing yourself between them with a polite smile.
“Hey,” you say, friendly enough to pass as casual. “Elise promised me a dance.”

Elise blinks.
It’s a fraction of a second where she looks genuinely startled, like she didn’t realize you had improvisation in you.
Then she plays along.

“Did I?” she says, lifting an eyebrow.

“You did,” you reply, leaning in slightly. “And I’m holding you to it.”

Álvaro watches you both, eyes narrowed.
“Enjoy,” he says, voice flat.

You lead Elise away before he can add another blade to the sentence.
Her hand is cool against your palm, but you feel a tremor in her fingers.
You guide her through the crowd, toward a quieter corner near a long window that overlooks the Madrid night.

Only when you’re out of immediate earshot does Elise exhale.
It sounds like someone surfacing after being held underwater.

“What was that?” you ask.

Elise stares out at the city for a moment.
Then she turns to you, and her eyes are not icy now.
They’re furious.

“He’s on the board,” she says.
“And he thinks he owns me because my father owes him a favor.”

Your chest tightens.
“Your father?” you repeat.

Elise’s jaw clenches again.
“My father built half of what people in Bilbao call ‘high society,’” she says.
“But he built it with debts disguised as friendships.”
She swallows once. “Álvaro bought those debts.”

You feel your skin prickle.
“So he’s… what, blackmailing you into… dating him?”

Elise’s laugh is bitter.
“Dating?” she repeats.
“No. He wants marriage.”
She looks back across the room toward Álvaro, who is now laughing with a partner like nothing happened. “He wants me as a trophy that signs documents.”

Your stomach turns.
And suddenly her earlier words make sense in a frightening way.

“Freedom,” you murmur.

Elise’s gaze snaps back to you.
“Exactly,” she says.
Then her expression shifts, and it’s almost… pleading.

“You have to stay close tonight,” she says.
“Not just for appearances.”
She pauses. “He’s not used to being told no. And when he doesn’t get what he wants, he punishes.”

You should ask why she didn’t go to HR, to legal, to the police.
But you can already guess the answers.
Because men like Álvaro don’t make threats you can report. They make offers you can’t refuse.

You glance down at her wrist.
That Swiss watch gleams in the light.

“That’s your mother’s?” you ask quietly.

Elise’s throat moves.
“Yes,” she says. “It’s the only thing I have that was hers.”
She looks away, and you see grief flash like lightning, brief but bright.

Your chest tightens with something unfamiliar.
Not pity.
Recognition.

Because you know what it feels like to have one precious thing and to hold it like it’s a lifeline.

You steady your voice.
“Okay,” you say. “I’ll play boyfriend.”
Then you add, “But you need to tell me what ‘you’ll have him’ means.”

Elise hesitates.
Then she reaches into her clutch and pulls out a small envelope.
It’s thick, cream-colored, sealed with a wax stamp that looks absurdly old-world.

“This is a partnership nomination letter,” she says.
Your breath catches.

“At ICE,” you repeat, stunned.
“That’s… that’s not something assistants get.”

“It’s not final,” Elise says.
“It needs one signature.”
Her eyes flick toward a man near the bar: the Senior Managing Partner, Ernesto Varela, laughing with the German clients like he’s auditioning for a magazine cover.

“That signature,” Elise says. “Is him.”

You stare.
“You’re offering me… partnership?” you whisper.

Elise’s eyes harden again, but there’s something else under it.
Desperation.

“I’m offering you the chance to stop being invisible,” she says.
“Because if Álvaro wins, he’ll control the board, he’ll control me, and he’ll control the firm.”
Her voice drops. “And you’ll be the first person he fires, because you’re useful to me.”

Your mouth goes dry.
This isn’t about a party.
This isn’t even about romance.

It’s war in a room full of cocktails.

“And what do you need me to do?” you ask.

Elise looks at you, and for the first time her voice is raw.
“Make him believe,” she says.
“Make him believe I chose someone he can’t intimidate.”
She swallows. “Make him back off long enough for me to get that signature and restructure the board.”

You glance across the room.
Álvaro is watching you both now, pretending he isn’t.
He lifts his glass slightly as if to toast.

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.

Elise’s laugh is harsh.
“No,” she says. “He decided we were inevitable. Like… like it was a merger.”
She swallows. “When my father’s health declined, Álvaro moved in with his ‘help.’ He made sure every debt my father owed was owed to him.”

You feel sick.
“And your father let him?”

Elise’s eyes flash with pain.
“My father is proud,” she says. “He didn’t want anyone to know he was vulnerable.”
Her voice breaks, barely. “Álvaro used that.”

You stand beside her, the city air cooling the heat of the party off your skin.
“Elise,” you say softly, “why me?”

She turns, and you see it: the real fear under her composure.
“Because he doesn’t respect you,” she says honestly.
“And that’s exactly why you’re dangerous.”

The words hit you strangely.
Not flattering.
Infuriating.

“So I’m your surprise weapon,” you mutter.

Elise’s gaze holds yours.
“Yes,” she says.
Then, quieter: “And because you’re the only person in that firm who looks at me like I’m human when you think I can’t see it.”

Your throat tightens.
You want to deny it, but you can’t.
You’ve watched her work herself into exhaustion, you’ve covered her mistakes when she was too proud to admit them, you’ve printed decks at 2 a.m. because she refused to let anyone know she needed help.

You’ve been invisible on purpose because being seen felt like risk.
And now Elise is looking at you like she’s asking you to hold the weight she can’t carry alone.

“What do you need from me next?” you ask.

Elise exhales.
“We need Ernesto’s signature tonight,” she says.
“And we need to keep Álvaro from getting me alone.”

You nod.
“Then we stay glued together,” you say.
“Like an HR nightmare.”

Elise’s mouth twitches.
It’s almost a smile.

You go back inside, and you do the work of being convincing.
You laugh at Elise’s dry comments.
You lean close when she speaks.
You touch her lower back when you guide her through the crowd, and every time you do you feel her flinch less.

People stare.
People whisper.
People message each other under the table like they’re live-tweeting a scandal.

You don’t care.
Because you can feel Álvaro watching from across the room, and you can feel the threat in his patience.

An hour passes.
Then another.

Ernesto finally approaches again, drink in hand, expression thoughtful.
“Julián,” he says, “walk with me.”

Elise’s fingers tighten on yours under the pretense of casual touch.
You squeeze back once, letting her know you’re not leaving her.

Ernesto leads you to a quieter corner.
“I’m going to be blunt,” he says.

You nod.
“I’d expect nothing less.”

Ernesto studies you.
“You’ve been underestimated,” he says.
“And you’ve let it happen.”
He tilts his head. “Why change now?”

You glance toward Elise, who is pretending to laugh with colleagues while keeping her eyes on you like a lifeline.
You swallow.

“Because I’m tired,” you say.
“Tired of doing partner-level work while being treated like furniture.”
You pause. “And because I care what happens to this firm.”

Ernesto’s eyes narrow.
“Do you care,” he says, “because of Elise?”

You don’t flinch.
“Yes,” you say simply.
“Because she’s trying to keep this place from being sold to people who will gut it.”

Ernesto’s expression softens slightly, then turns serious again.
“Álvaro has been pushing,” he admits.
“He wants influence.”
He looks at Elise, then back at you. “And Elise wants… escape.”

“Freedom,” you say quietly.

Ernesto studies you for a long moment.
Then he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a pen.

“You’re asking for something that doesn’t exist on paper,” he says.
“But I believe you’ve earned it.”
He pauses. “And if Elise is truly choosing you, that tells me something about her judgment.”

Your heart slams against your ribs.
He takes the envelope Elise gave you, breaks the seal, and signs with a calm flourish.

“There,” Ernesto says, handing it back.
“Now don’t make me regret it.”

You take the letter with hands that feel suddenly unsteady.
“Thank you,” you manage.

Ernesto nods once and walks away like he didn’t just rearrange your life.

You turn toward Elise, envelope in hand, and your pulse is roaring.
But Elise’s eyes aren’t on the envelope.

They’re on Álvaro.

Because Álvaro is walking toward you again, and this time he isn’t smiling.

He stops in front of you, close enough to feel the heat of his anger.
“You think you’ve won,” he says quietly.

You keep your face calm.
“I’m not competing with you,” you reply.
“I’m protecting her.”

Álvaro’s eyes flick toward Elise.
“Protection,” he repeats, amused.
He leans in slightly, voice lowering. “Do you know what I can do to you?”

You hold his gaze.
“You mean what you can do to my job?” you ask.
You lift the envelope slightly, just enough to make a point without announcing it. “That ship just moved.”

Álvaro’s eyes flash as he recognizes what you’re holding.
His jaw tightens, and the veneer finally cracks.

“You signed him,” he says to Elise, voice sharp.
Elise’s shoulders straighten.
“Yes,” she replies. “I did.”

Álvaro’s gaze flicks to you again.
“Congratulations,” he says, and it sounds like a curse.
Then he turns to Elise, smile gone. “This isn’t over.”

Elise’s voice is ice again, but it’s different now.
Not defensive.
Armed.

“It is,” she says.
“Because tonight I file the restructuring documents.”
She takes a slow breath. “And tomorrow I go to the board with counsel.”

Álvaro laughs, harsh.
“You think the board will choose you over me?” he scoffs.

Elise lifts her wrist, and for the first time you see the watch up close.
It glints in the light like a blade.

“This watch,” she says softly, “was my mother’s.”
She looks at Álvaro. “She wore it the day she told me never to confuse obligation with love.”
Elise’s eyes narrow. “You’ve been confusing the two for years.”

Álvaro’s face tightens.
Then he leans closer to Elise, voice low enough it’s almost intimate.

“Careful,” he murmurs.
“I can still ruin your father.”

Silence drops like a curtain.
The party noise keeps going, but the air around you turns cold.

Elise’s eyes flicker with pain.

And that’s when you do something you didn’t plan.

You step forward, place yourself between them again, and speak calmly.
“If you threaten her father again,” you say, “I’ll make sure your name is the only thing anyone associates with it.”
You smile slightly. “And I’m very good at documentation.”

Álvaro stares at you.
Then, slowly, he smiles again, but it’s empty.

“Ah,” he says softly. “So the assistant has teeth.”
He turns to Elise. “Enjoy your new boyfriend.”
Then he walks away, vanishing into the crowd like a villain exiting stage left.

Elise’s breath shakes as she exhales.
You glance at her and realize her hands are trembling.

“You okay?” you ask again.

Elise looks at you, and for the first time tonight she doesn’t perform.
She doesn’t pretend to be fine.

“No,” she admits.
Then she swallows. “But I will be.”

You hold up the envelope.
“We got it,” you say.

Elise stares at the signature like it’s unreal.
Then she closes her eyes and presses her forehead lightly to your shoulder, just for a second.
It’s the smallest collapse, the smallest surrender.

“I promised you the most precious thing I have,” she whispers.

Your chest tightens.
“And?” you murmur.

Elise lifts her head and looks at you.
Her eyes are glossy, and it makes her look younger, softer, dangerously human.

“I’m giving you the watch,” she says.

You blink, shocked.
“Elise, no,” you say immediately. “That’s not—”

“It’s not about money,” she cuts in.
“It’s proof.”
Her voice tightens. “It’s me saying I’m done letting people hold what I love hostage.”

She unclasps the watch from her wrist, hands shaking, and presses it into your palm.
The metal is cool and heavy, like responsibility.

“Take it,” she says.
“Just for tonight.”
Then she meets your eyes. “And take my trust. Because if we’re doing this, we do it together.”

You swallow hard.
You nod once.
“Okay,” you say. “Together.”

That night doesn’t end with fireworks.
It ends with paperwork.

You and Elise leave the party early, slipping out before gossip can demand a finale.
A car takes you to her apartment, a sleek place that smells like clean linen and loneliness.
Elise opens a laptop at her dining table and begins filing documents like her life depends on it, because it does.

You sit across from her, watch on your wrist, scanning files, catching errors, moving fast.
At 2:17 a.m., Elise pauses, eyes on the screen, then whispers, “Thank you.”
And you realize that’s the first time she’s ever said those words to you like she means them.

By morning, the restructuring is filed.
Legal is looped in.
Ernesto is notified.
And Álvaro’s leverage begins to dissolve in the face of real, documented action.

A week later, you walk into the office and your desk isn’t on the second floor anymore.
It’s on the fifth, outside Elise’s corner office with a view of the Guggenheim, like the building itself has acknowledged you exist.
Your new title prints on your badge in black letters that make your stomach flip: Associate.

People treat you differently now.
Not kinder.
Just more careful.

Elise remains Elise in meetings, sharp and controlled.
But sometimes, when the room clears, she looks at you with something softer in her eyes.
Not ownership.
Not entitlement.

Recognition.

One evening, after the board vote that strips Álvaro’s influence for good, Elise stands by the window in her office.
The city lights reflect in the glass like constellations.
She holds out her hand.

“Give it back,” she says, nodding at the watch.

You slide it off and place it in her palm.
Your fingers brush, and the contact feels like an echo of that first moment in the loft.
Elise fastens it to her wrist, then looks at you.

“I used you,” she says quietly.

You tilt your head.
“Yes,” you reply. “You did.”

Elise’s throat moves.
“And you still stayed,” she whispers.

You let the truth sit there without dressing it up.
“Because you weren’t using me to hurt someone,” you say.
“You were using me to survive.”

Elise’s eyes glisten.
Then she exhales, and the ice finally cracks enough to let something honest through.

“The most precious thing I have,” she says, voice low, “was never the watch.”
She taps her chest lightly with two fingers. “It was the part of me that still believes people can be trusted.”

You hold her gaze, pulse steady.
“And you gave it to me,” you say.

Elise nods once.
“I did,” she whispers.
Then she adds, almost like a confession: “And now I don’t know what to do with the fact that you didn’t break it.”

You step closer, slow enough to give her time to retreat if she wants.
She doesn’t.

“Then we don’t make it a game,” you say quietly.
“No pawns. No deals.”
You pause. “Just… real.”

Elise’s lips part.
For a second, she looks like she might say something sharp to protect herself.

Instead, she reaches for your hand.
Her grip is firm, steady.

“Real,” she repeats.

And when you kiss her this time, it isn’t a performance.
It’s not for Álvaro, or the board, or the firm.
It’s for the two people who finally stopped pretending they were untouchable.

Later, when you leave the building together, the lobby lights dim behind you and the night air feels clean.
You don’t know what tomorrow looks like.
But you know one thing with absolute clarity.

You’re not invisible anymore.
And Elise Carón is no longer alone.

THE END