Quin
I slipped through the front door as quietly as I could. The living room lights were still on, kind of glaring for midnight. And there they were—my two roommates, tangled up in a heap on the couch.
Both totally out cold. Limbs thrown everywhere.
One girl's arm flung across the other's neck—kinda dramatic, like maybe she'd lost a fight? The other clutched a pillow like someone was about to take it away from her. I stopped and looked them over.
"Are they fighting or dating?" I whispered.
Neither one twitched. I decided I didn't need to know. I crept past their twisted pile and slipped into my room, shutting the door behind me as softly as I could.
Quiet. Sweet, precious quiet.
I tossed off my shoes, fell back onto the bed, and stared up at the ceiling.
Except my brain—my brain was nowhere near quiet.
Tristan.
Why did he storm out of the office like that? He'd made me clear his calendar, told everyone he was 'not feeling well.' Yeah, right.
That guy walks around like he handles world domination before lunch. A migraine wasn't taking him down.
And whatever went down in his office earlier, courtesy of his personal assistant? He came out totally on edge after. Unusually tense. Everything felt… off.
I rolled onto my side and reached for my phone. Instantly lit up—Kiara's name.
Hi love. You great? I… got evicted from my apartment, but no worries, I'm not on the streets. I'll tell you everything when we meet. Goodnight.
I sat up a little in bed. "Evicted?!"
Of course I was worried. But she made a point about not being houseless, which meant she was probably safe. Somewhere. And with her current romantic subplot, there was only one place she'd go.
"That hot therapist…" I said to no one, grinning a little.
I texted back, telling her we were definitely meeting tomorrow, deal with it.
Then—I was right back to thinking about Tristan.
I picked up my phone again. Technically, this was research. Very professional. I was just doing my job as a very competent personal secretary.
Totally normal.
I typed it in: Tristan Andre Hernandez.
A second later, his whole profile showed up. Head Manager at Hernandez Global Technologies. A massive multinational, heavy on software and AI infrastructure. Definitely not small-potatoes CEO energy.
Also, youngest son of Peter Hernandez—aka the Founder.
Actual money.
I kept scrolling.
There was Mikael, his older brother, listed as Vice CEO. They had a photo together at some fancy gala. Both looked cut from the same expensive cloth—strong jawlines and perfect suits.
But Tristan… there was something else in his face. Softer? Like he knew secrets. Mikael looked ready for a glossy magazine. Tristan looked like he'd eat you alive in a boardroom.
"Only in a business sense," I reminded the air.
I zoomed in just to make sure. Yep. He was absolutely better-looking up close.
More scrolling. Lists of awards. Magazine features. Conference shots.
But absolutely nothing personal.
No scandals. No messy breakups. Not even one blurry yacht photo in the tabloids.
"Suspicious," I muttered.
How does a guy like that—handsome, powerful, rich—never make gossip headlines? Was there a secret wife? Did he just not bother dating? Or is he one of those ultra-private types?
I tossed my phone aside and stared at the ceiling. Again.
Tristan Andre Hernandez.
That man could honestly be the end of me. Not in a tragic, swooning way. More like the slow torture of him stealing glances at me across the office while I totally pretend not to notice.
I buried my face in my pillow and groaned.
"It would be nice," I said into the fabric, "if he liked me back."
Because honestly? Falling for someone on my own? Not what I signed up for.