You Were Never Just My Boss

Chapter 6

Bea’s POV

Jealousy was never supposed to be my color. I mean, I’ve worn lime green tulle and a sweater that made me look like I’d lost a fight with a bottle of expired mustard—so I know it's a bad fit when I see one. But jealousy? Jealousy slides on like silk dipped in acid. Tight in all the wrong places. Loud where you want quiet.

And yet—there I was. White-knuckling the edge of my desk like it might drift away and take my sanity with it. Trying to pretend that the model with cheekbones sharp enough to slice glass and lipstick smeared just a little too intentionally hadn’t just walked out of his office. Julian Wolfe’s office.

She didn’t even say a word. Just tossed me a look—a slow, dragging once-over, the kind that leaves fingerprints. Her gaze stopped at my hips, flicked over my blouse like she could see the panic stitched into the seams, and landed on my face with a silent, satisfied smirk.

Like I was a mid-season sale item. And she only wore couture.

My fingers curled tighter around the desk. I could feel my nails digging into the underside of the wood.

“Don’t be that girl,” I muttered to myself. “You don’t do this. You’re not her.”

But my chest wasn’t listening. My chest was a traitor. I told myself everything I was supposed to remember. He’s your boss. He’s cold. Controlled. He literally told you the kiss meant nothing.

“It’s just the winet,” he’d said. Like I was a typo in his billion-dollar life.

So what if she had come out of his office smiling like she’d just won a prize?

So what if her lipstick was smudged exactly the way yours had been?

It had nothing to do with me.

“Nothing,” I whispered again. Louder this time. Like I could beat the truth into existence.

Still, my jaw throbbed from clenching.

My hand itched for something to throw—preferably expensive and not mine.

And my imagination? Oh, it was staging a Broadway-level breakdown.

I flung myself into work like a woman possessed. Color-coded calendar updates. Budget requests. Scheduling emails. I attacked my inbox like it had personally insulted my ancestors.

Because if I stopped for even a second—if I breathed—the image would come back. Her. Him. That office. That kiss.

So I refused to look up when his door opened again.

Refused to care that he hadn’t spoken to me since the night I let him in, and then watched him slam the door shut.

And I absolutely refused to imagine the taste of his mouth against someone else’s skin.

Because that would make me pathetic. And I might be a mess. I might be hurt. But I am not pathetic.

“Get it together,” I whispered under my breath, stabbing at the keyboard like it owed me emotional compensation.

Jealousy isn’t my color. But damn it, today it fits like a second skin.

“Martinez.” His voice snapped across the room like a whip. I looked up slowly, keeping my face neutral even as my heart pulled a little stunt in my chest. “Inside,” he said, already turning back into his office.

I rose without a word, grabbed my notepad, and walked in like I wasn’t one annoying comment away from burning this building down. He was at his desk, sleeves rolled, tie gone, the top button of his shirt undone like some cruel editorial shoot. I stood across from him, pen poised, pretending like I didn’t want to shove that silver pen holder off his desk just to make a point.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just looked at me with those unreadable eyes, like he was scanning for something under my skin.

“You’re quiet,” he said finally. “I’ve been working,” I replied, evenly.

He stood and walked around the desk, and I didn’t move, even as he came to stand beside me, too close, leaning in just enough that I could feel the whisper of his breath near my ear.

“You always tense up when I get this close?” he asked, voice low, almost amused.

I stiffened and took a step sideways. “Don’t stand so close,” I snapped, more than I meant to.

He smirked, unbothered, his eyes watching me like I was a puzzle he was considering taking apart. “Or what?”

The way he said it made my cheeks burn. I turned without answering and walked out, slamming the door harder than I needed to. A couple people looked up. I ignored them. I marched back to my desk, heart pounding, fingers shaking, and told myself again and again: He doesn’t care. So neither should you.

By mid-afternoon, I was finally starting to calm down. I buried myself in the logistics for tomorrow’s product pitch and knocked out two press summary drafts while chewing through the last of my spearmint gum. I even managed to refill the supply closet and organize the media kits without obsessing over Julian Wolfe’s smug smirk. But in the chaos of trying to do everything at once and avoid thinking about him, I forgot something.

His lunch.

More specifically, the custom order for his daily chef-prepared lunch Lydia used to confirm every morning without fail. I’d been so distracted, I hadn’t confirmed the chef’s menu changes. By the time I remembered, it was too late. I checked the kitchen tablet and saw that his usual grilled salmon had been replaced with a kale and lentil situation that, frankly, looked like sadness in a bowl.

I froze. Thought about pretending I hadn’t noticed. Thought about calling and fixing it. Then I thought about his smirk. His question. His “Or what?”

And I didn’t fix it. At exactly 2:12, my desk phone rang. I answered before the second ring.

“Beatriz,” came the voice. Calm. Icy. Controlled.

“Yes?”

“My office. Now.”

I stood, smoothing my blazer with hands that didn’t feel quite steady. I walked in like I was walking into a test I hadn’t studied for. Julian sat behind his desk, the empty lunch tray in front of him. His fingers were laced together. His expression? Lethal.

He waited until I was standing in front of him before he said anything.

Then, with deadly precision, he asked: “Are you actually this stupid, or is this your way of quitting?”