Page 1

Chapter 1

The marketing department’s fluorescent lights hummed at nine p.m., casting a sickly glow over my cluttered desk. Empty coffee cups formed a graveyard of caffeine around my keyboard while I tweaked the hundredth version of a pitch deck that Ms. Rodriguez would present as her own brilliant idea tomorrow. Not exactly what I’d imagined doing with my marketing degree six months after graduation, but at twenty-two, beggars couldn’t be choosers in this job market.

At least the protagonist in My Boss is Secretly a Demon Lord?! got magical powers with his terrible boss, I thought, squinting at the screen until the fonts blurred together.All I get is carpal tunnel and instant ramen.

My carefully organized desk was a study in soft purples and blues, from my pastel-colored sticky notes to my kawaii pen collection—the only splash of personality allowed in the corporate wasteland of identical cubicles. A poster photo of the summer marketing team building day mocked me from the wall—everyone’s families had shown up for the barbeque. Well, everyone except me. Even my boss had her whole clan there, three generations of Rodriguez pride beaming at the camera while she presented the “Best Team Leader” award to herself.For ideas she’d stolen from me. Six months into my first post-college job, and this was my reality.

“Just needs a few more tweaks,” I muttered to my collection of kawaii desk plushies. My lavender bunny stress toy—bought during a three a.m. online shopping therapy session—stared back with judgy button eyes. “Don’t look at me like that, Mr. Fluffles. Some of us can’t afford to have principles.”

Down the hall, the cleaning lady’s vacuum cleaner droned on, a lonely symphony accompanied by the soft whir of my dying laptop fan. The office felt different after dark, like those manga scenes where the ordinary classroom transforms into a portal to another world. Except instead of a hot demon lord appearing to claim his fated omega, I just got increasingly desperate emails from Ms. Rodriguez demanding “minor changes” to the entire campaign concept.

My phone buzzed with another message from her:Need the Beyond Beauty campaign pitch perfect for tomorrow’s meeting. Whole board will be there. Make me look good.

“Make me look good,” I mimicked under my breath, clicking through my meticulously crafted slides. “Because heaven forbid you come up with your own ideas about selling overpriced face cream to insecure twenty-somethings.”

My stomach growled, reminding me that coffee and spite weren’t actually food groups. The break room vending machine had eaten my last dollar earlier, probably adding it to its dragon hoard of loose change and broken dreams.

A burst of laughter from the framed photos on Jessica’s desk next door made my chest ache. Well, not really—photos don’t actually laugh—but the frozen moments of her perfect family life seemed to mock me every time I glanced over. Her mom brought homemade lunches twice a week— “Moooom, I can buy my own lunch!” Jessica would whine, but her smile always gave her away. Her dad picked her up every Friday for their standingdinner date— “Daddy, that tie is so embarrassing!” But she’d straighten it for him anyway.

Today’s mandatory office birthday celebration for Brad from Digital had been the usual parade of family love. His wife surprised him with a cake she’d baked herself, their toddler twins creating chaos in their matching MY DADDY’S THE BEST! t-shirts. It reminded me of how Mom used to surprise Dad at his office with homemade dumplings, both of them beaming with pride while his coworkers raved about her cooking. “Every fold must be perfect,” she’d taught me the night before, her nimble fingers demonstrating the pleating technique I could never quite master. “Food made with love looks as good as it tastes.”

Even Mark from Accounting’s grandmother had shown up with her “world-famous” cookies, pinching cheeks and demanding to know why her “sweet boy” wasn’t married yet. The whole office smelled like butter and family and belonging.

Me? I had Mr. Fluffles and his judgy button eyes.

“Some of us actually have to work for a living,” I muttered to my dark screen reflection, but the words tasted bitter. The truth was, I’d volunteer for a hundred overtime shifts just to have someone—anyone—fuss over me like that. To have a mom who’d text asking if I’d eaten. A dad who’d insist on checking my apartment’s locks. Hell, even a grandmother who’d criticize my life choices would be better than this… emptiness.

My phone buzzed again. Ms. Rodriguez, of course.Don’t forget to add more sparkle to the presentation. But keep it professional. But fun. But serious. But young. But mature.

“What she really means ismake it magical but take none of the credit,” I told my phone, already clicking through the slides again. InThe Cold CEO’s Fated Omega, the protagonist would have stood up to his boss by now, probably while sparkles floated around his perfectly styled hair. But real life didn’t comewith convenient power-up sequences or dashing love interests who happened to be secret billionaire alphas waiting to sweep you off your feet.

The vacuum cleaner’s drone stopped abruptly. “Mr. Luca?” Mariana’s weathered face appeared around my cubicle wall, concern etched in every line. “You’re still here? It’s so late.”

I managed a weak smile. “Just finishing up some things. The board meeting tomorrow…”

“Always working, working.” She clicked her tongue, reminding me so much of my mom in that moment that my chest physically hurt. “You need family, need someone to take care of you. My Sofia, she works in marketing too, but her husband makes sure she comes home for dinner.”

“I have Mochi,” I said, pointing to my phone’s lock screen—my grumpy cat’s face judging the world in high definition. “He’s very demanding about his dinnertime.”

Mariana’s eyes softened with that particular blend of pity and grandmotherly concern that made me want to simultaneously hug her and hide under my desk. “A cat is not family. You need people. Real people.”

I had real people, I wanted to say.Once. Before a rainy night and a slippery road decided my story needed a tragic backstory worthy of a manga hero.My parents had been heading home from their weekly date night—a tradition they’d kept alive for twenty years. One patch of black ice, one truck driver who’d fallen asleep at the wheel, and suddenly their always-empty chair at my college graduation made sense in the worst possible way.

Instead of saying any of this, I just smiled and promised Mariana I’d leave soon. She hesitated, probably wondering if she should adopt me on the spot—she had that look my best friend’s mom used to get when she realized I was spending another holiday alone.

“Ten more minutes,” I promised, holding up my fingers like a Boy Scout pledge. “Just need to add somesparkleto this presentation.”

Mariana sighed but nodded. “Ten minutes only, okay? Your cat needs you home.”

At least someone does, I thought, turning back to my screen as her footsteps faded away. The cleaning cart’s wheels squeaked their way down the hall, leaving me alone with the artificial office light and memories I tried very hard not to think about.

Being an only child had been fun once—all of my parents’ love, attention, and terrible dad jokes had been focused solely on me. Mom trying to teach me Mandarin while Dad butchered the pronunciation in the background, both of them laughing as I corrected him. Now? Now it just meant there wasn’t even a sibling to share holiday dinners with, no one to call when I found an old family photo and needed someone else to remember the story behind it.

The foster system had tried its best, but by fifteen I was “too old” for most families looking to adopt. Too quiet, too bookish, too wrapped up in manga and anime to be the perfect son they were looking for. So I aged out, armed with a scholarship to State and determination to prove I could make it on my own. Now at twenty-two, with a fresh marketing degree and a soul-crushing job, I was still trying to find my place.

My laptop finally gave up with a wheezing sound that perfectly matched my own exhaustion. Probably for the best—I’d been staring at the same slide for ten minutes, trying to figure out how to add “sparkle” to a marketing campaign about luxury face cream. Maybe I should just photoshop actual sparkles around the products and call it a night.

The office felt bigger in the dark, emptier, as I packed up my things. My “development folder”—filled with campaign ideas Ms. Rodriguez would eventually claim as her own—went into myworn messenger bag, along with my lucky cat-eared pen and the instant coffee packets that tasted like broken dreams but had enough caffeine to wake the dead.