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“And this,” Stephen says, stopping by a desk near the back of the fifth floor, “is Marcus Andersson, our Senior Creative Director. Marcus, this is Lila – our new Social Media Manager I’ve been telling you about.”
He stands up, and I swear, the temperature in the room shifts.
He’s tall, with kind eyes and dark hair streaked with silver strands, swept back in soft waves. His broad shoulders hint at an athletic build hiding underneath a navy suit that fits him so perfectly, I can’t help but wonder if he had it custom tailored. A meticulously groomed beard adorns his chiselled jawline, more grown out than stubble but not long, framing his face perfectly in a way that accentuates the intensity of his blue-grey eyes and the fullness of his lips. He has an air of mature confidence - a man who knows exactly who he is and what he wants.
And wow. That smile should come with a warning.
God help me, I can’t remember my own name.
“Nice to meet you, Lila,” he says, holding out his hand.
I blink. Right.
Smile, Lila.Smile.
“Hi – yes. You too.”
His handshake is firm, steady, confident.
And then it’s gone.
“Welcome to the team. Looking forward to seeing what you come up with. God knows we need it.”
I smile, my brain short-circuiting. “Same. I mean – you too. I mean – not that – sorry.”
Kill me. Just kill me now.
Stephen laughs, clapping me on the shoulder, and carries on herding me toward the next desk, but I glance back.
Marcus has sat back down, but he glances up at the exact same moment.
Our eyes lock. And he smiles.
Fuck. I am so fucking screwed.
***
It’s Tuesday morning, and I’m on the verge of tears over a damn spreadsheet. I am sonotcut out for corporate life.
The onboarding folder is a never-ending rabbit hole of brand guidelines, ‘tone of voice’ documents, scheduling tools I’ve never even heard of and spreadsheets with more colour-coding than a primary school Easter egg hunt.
My to-do list has items like ‘learn our tone of voice’ and ‘fix the TikTok algorithm,’ as if either of those are things I can justdo.
By 10:45, Angela and Carter are called into a meeting, and I use the moment to escape to the kitchen for a breather.
I stand there, clutching one of the office branded mugs like a lifeline, waiting for the kettle to boil and trying to convince myself that everything is going to be fine.
“Morning.”
I jump slightly, turning to seehimwalking in.
Marcus Andersson.
He’s wearing a tailored navy suit – similar to the one he wore yesterday, but this one by a different designer. The cut is sharper, the fabric a shade deeper, the buttons matte instead of glossy. He looks like he’s just stepped out of the pages of a Hugo Boss campaign, all effortless elegance and quiet power. There’s something about his presence – so composed and confident – that stills my heart without him even knowing.
“Hi,” I say, trying not to sound flustered.
“How’s day two treating you?” he asks, casually stepping past me toward the counter. He sets a navy-blue mug beneath a fancy looking coffee machine. With a single press of a button, it whirs to life, dispensing a perfect looking Americano.