You Were Never Just My Boss

Chapter 14

Bea’s POV

Coming back to the office after Paris felt like stepping into a walk-in freezer with a full face of glam. The lights were too bright, too blue, making everything look harsher—skin, smiles, truth. Conversations hushed when I walked by. Chairs squeaked. Keyboards clicked. No one said anything, but the air said enough.

Julian didn’t look up when I walked in.

Didn’t blink when I dropped his coffee just a little too hard on his glass desk.

The ceramic rattled. He didn’t flinch.

“Slide deck. Ten minutes,” he said, voice flat, already scrolling through something that wasn’t me.

“Already done,” I replied, cool as I could manage.

His jaw twitched. Just barely.

He barked orders like always—bullet-point sharp, clipped, efficient—but there was something off. A tightness beneath the words. Like he was holding everything together with duct tape and control.

And I matched it, line for line. My tone? Crisp. Clean. Deadly accurate. But when my replies landed, they didn’t bounce—they hit.

Like we were speaking through smoke.

Like everything we weren’t saying was screaming in the gaps.

We hadn’t said a word about Paris. Not about the kiss. Not about the whisper. Not about the fact that I left—and never answered his text.

The entire team tiptoed around the tension, except Lydia, who eyed me with her usual dry curiosity. “You and His Highness back to code red?” she asked in passing, handing me a stack of reports. “More like a passive-aggressive orange,” I muttered. But even that felt generous. Because under the clipped commands and snarky responses, something had shifted. He watched me when he thought I wasn’t looking. I felt his gaze burn through the frosted glass of his office every time I laughed too loud or leaned in too close to another assistant. The man who had kissed me like I was air now treated me like I was smoke—dangerous, impossible to contain.

Then HR called us in.

I followed Julian down the hallway, heels sharp, spine straight. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t speak. Just walked like we were headed into a war room instead of a disciplinary meeting. The HR rep sat primly at the edge of a long table, files already open, expressions neutral but wary. “We received a report from a third-party executive,” she said, folding her hands. “Your behavior at the Paris gala raised some concerns—specifically regarding a breach of the company’s intimacy clause.” My heart thudded. Julian’s jaw twitched. “Clause?” I asked, even though I knew what was coming.

“In your employee contract, Ms. Martinez,” she continued, “there’s a section about romantic involvement between executives and direct reports. It’s considered a conflict of interest and must be disclosed—or else disciplinary action may be taken.” I glanced at Julian, whose expression had turned stone. “So,” I said slowly, “let me guess. You’re here to fire me.” The HR woman looked uncomfortable. “That decision is up to Mr. Wolfe.” I turned to him then, staring straight into those ice-blue eyes, refusing to blink. “Go ahead,” I said. “Do it. At least then I won’t mistake your mixed signals for meaning something.”

The room held its breath. Julian didn’t flinch. Didn’t raise his voice. He simply said, “Leave us.”

The HR rep looked surprised, but she gathered her things and walked out, heels quiet on the carpet. The door clicked shut. Silence stretched. He paced once, slowly, then turned back to face me. “I’m not firing you.” I blinked. “Really? Could’ve fooled me with the whole silent treatment and let me twist in front of HR.” He walked to the window, hands in his pockets. “I’m doubling your salary.” The words hit me like a slap. “What?” I asked. “Why?” He turned slowly, his face unreadable. “To keep you under control.”

I laughed—loud, disbelieving, furious. “Control? You think money buys that?” I took a step forward, eyes blazing. “You don’t get to silence what happened with a raise.” He didn’t back down. “It’s not silence. It’s structure.” “It’s manipulation,” I snapped. “It’s your way of avoiding feeling anything by hiding behind contracts and dollar signs.” His mouth twitched like he wanted to say more, but didn’t. And that said everything.

The rest of the day passed like a game of emotional chicken. He stayed behind his desk. I stayed behind my sarcasm. Lydia didn’t say much but raised an eyebrow when I passed her with a file and muttered, “I’ve had jobs that paid less and hurt less.” She offered me a piece of dark chocolate and said, “You’re gonna need this.” I sat at my desk, fingers flying over the keyboard, trying to lose myself in admin chaos, but my brain wouldn’t shut off. He doubled my salary, and still, I felt cheaper than I ever had. Like a secret. Like a risk. Like something he wanted to keep just out of sight but not out of reach.

Then I saw the envelope.

It was slid under my planner, barely visible beneath a stack of briefs. My name was written on the front in bold, black ink—Damien’s handwriting. I opened it carefully, curious and tense. Inside was a single invitation, gold-edged and sharp: “Winter Gala, Musée des Arts.” Beneath that, a handwritten note in dark script: Come with someone who doesn’t hide you. My breath hitched. My hand froze. I stared at the words, heart pounding. It was bold. Direct. And exactly the kind of thing Julian would hate.

I didn’t hear him approach until it was too late. He reached for a file on the desk—then saw it. The invitation.