Page 14 of Hitched to my Boss (Viva Las… Oh, Sh!t #2)

NATALIA

T he cabin feels enormous without Jason in it.

I stand in the kitchen, holding my morning coffee and staring out at the mountains he disappeared into a week ago.

The silence should be peaceful. For ten years, I've craved quiet spaces where I can think without interruption, work without distraction, exist without having to consider anyone else's needs or schedule.

Instead, I feel like I'm rattling around in a space that's too big despite being designed for one person.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter to myself, settling at the dining table with my laptop and the stack of client files I've been neglecting. "You lived alone for years before you accidentally married a mountain man. You can handle a few days of solitude."

But as I open my computer and try to focus on the crisis management strategy I'm developing for a tech executive caught in a patent dispute, my eyes keep drifting to Jason's empty chair across from me.

The mug he'd forgotten to wash before leaving sits in the sink, a small reminder of his presence that I can't bring myself to clean.

My phone buzzes with a text from Maya.

Maya: How's life as a mountain wife? Are you going completely stir crazy yet?

Me: I'm getting plenty of work done. The isolation is actually quite productive.

Maya: That's not what I asked. Are you missing your husband?

I stare at the question, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Missing him seems too simple a word for what I'm experiencing. It's more like feeling off-balance, like trying to navigate a space that's missing a crucial piece of furniture.

The week has been productive, objectively speaking.

I've set up a proper home office in the spare room, established routines for working remotely, and even started a few organizational projects around the cabin.

But every morning when I wake up in our bed alone, every evening when I cook dinner for one, every moment when I catch myself listening for the sound of his truck in the driveway, I'm reminded that productivity isn't the same as happiness.

Me: It's complicated.

Maya: Everything's complicated with you. It’s a simple question Nat. Do you miss Jason Wallace?

Me: Yes. Which is concerning given that we've only known each other for a month.

Maya: Or it's completely normal given that you're married to him and apparently made the decision to make it real.

I close the text conversation without responding because Maya's assessment hits too close to home.

The decision to make our marriage real had felt obvious, inevitable, when Jason was here.

But this week of solitude has given me too much time to think, and thinking has always been dangerous for my peace of mind.

Three days into his absence, my phone had rung with the call that changed everything.

"Natalia? Thank God you answered." The voice was sharp, frustrated. "It's Rebecca. From the Morrison account."

Rebecca Martinez, my first major client, the pharmaceutical executive whose career I'd saved from a product liability scandal two years ago. She'd been more than a client, she'd become a mentor, someone whose opinion I valued more than almost anyone else's.

"Rebecca, what's wrong?"

"What's wrong is that I've been trying to reach you for three weeks. Left voicemails, sent emails. My assistant said she called your office number, and it just rang and rang." The disappointment in her voice cut deeper than anger would have. "Natalia, I needed you."

My blood turned to ice. Three weeks. Jason's project timeline, our Vegas trip, the whirlwind of getting married and making life-changing decisions. I'd let everything else fall by the wayside.

"Rebecca, I'm so sorry. I've been dealing with some personal?—"

"I don't need explanations, sweetheart. I need to know if you're still the professional I hired two years ago. Because the Natalia Santos I know would never disappear for three weeks without a word, especially not during a crisis."

"Crisis?"

"The SEC investigation. Remember? The one you were supposed to help me navigate?" Her voice was strained but controlled. "Natalia, where have you been?"

The SEC investigation. The follow-up to the product liability case, a routine inquiry that required careful media management and strategic communication. I'd promised Rebecca I'd handle it personally, had blocked out weeks in my calendar for preparation and execution.

Weeks that had vanished while I was playing house with my accidental husband.

"I can handle this," I'd said, scrambling for my laptop to check my calendar. "Rebecca, I'm so sorry. I'll fix this."

"I had to hire someone else, Natalia. I couldn't wait any longer." The words hit like a physical blow. "The investigation expanded because we didn't have the right messaging from the beginning. My board is furious, and frankly, so am I."

"I can still help. I know your case better than anyone?—"

"You know the case from two years ago. This is different, and the consultant I hired has been working on it for two weeks already. Natalia, I trusted you, and you disappeared on me when I needed you most."

After that call, I'd spent two days frantically trying to salvage the situation, but the damage was done.

Rebecca had moved on to another consultant, and word had already started spreading in crisis management circles.

The SEC inquiry that should have been routine had become more complex because of delayed response and inconsistent messaging.

Rebecca's company stock had dropped eight percent.

Two board members had lost confidence in her leadership.

All because I'd been too wrapped up in my mountain man fantasy to honor my professional commitments.

I'd offered to work for free, to do whatever it took to fix things, but Rebecca's trust was broken. She was polite but distant, professional but disappointed. The mentorship I'd valued was effectively over, and my reputation had taken a hit that would take years to recover from.

"Natalia Santos disappeared for three weeks during a client emergency" wasn't the kind of story that built careers. It was the kind that ended them.

Now, sitting in Jason's cabin with my laptop open to three different client crises that need attention, I'm forced to confront the uncomfortable truth that I've lost myself in this relationship.

Not in the romantic, swept-off-my-feet way that feels exciting and adventurous. In the dangerous, career-destroying way that I've seen derail a dozen smart women who should have known better.

I look around the cabin I've been unconsciously decorating, at the domestic life I've been unconsciously building, and feel sick.

When did I become the kind of woman who abandons her professional responsibilities for a man?

When did I start defining myself as someone's wife instead of as an independent professional with her own goals and ambitions?

My phone rings, and I answer it automatically.

"Natalia Santos."

"Ms. Santos, this is David Chen from Hartfield Industries. We met at the communications conference in Chicago last year?"

I remember him. Major potential client, the kind of account that could set me up for years. "Of course, David. How can I help you?"

"We've got a situation that requires immediate crisis management. Product recall, potential lawsuits, the works. I remembered your presentation on proactive reputation management and thought you might be available for a consultation."

Six months ago, this call would have been a career-making opportunity. Now, sitting in my mountain cabin a thousand miles from anywhere that matters professionally, it feels like a lifeline thrown to someone who's been drowning without realizing it.

"I'd be happy to discuss your needs," I hear myself saying. "Though I should mention I'm currently based in Nevada, so we'd need to work out the logistics of?—"

"Nevada?" His voice changes, becomes less professional. "I thought you were based in Atlanta. Isn't that where your office is?"

"I've been working remotely while handling some personal matters."

There's a pause that feels loaded with judgment. "I see. Well, this situation requires someone who can be fully present and available. Maybe this isn't the right time."

"David, I can assure you that my location doesn't affect my ability to?—"

"I'm sure it doesn't. But we need someone whose full attention is on our account, not someone who's dealing with personal complications that might interfere with their professional judgment."

The line goes dead, and I stare at my phone in shock. David Chen just dismissed me as a serious professional because I'm living in the mountains with my husband instead of maintaining a prestigious city office and single-minded career focus.

He's not wrong.

I've spent the past month reorganizing my entire existence around Jason's life, moving into his space, adjusting my work schedule to accommodate his needs, defining myself in relation to him instead of as an independent entity.

I've been so focused on making our situation work that I haven't stopped to ask whether I'm sacrificing who I am for who he needs me to be.

This isn't love. This is the kind of self-erasure I've always prided myself on being too smart to fall into. I'm becoming one of those women who disappears into a relationship, who loses her identity and professional edge because she's too busy playing supportive wife to maintain her own ambitions.

I close my laptop with shaking hands and walk to the window overlooking the mountains.

The view is stunning, peaceful, everything I thought I wanted.

But all I can see now is isolation. Distance from opportunities, from colleagues, from the life I'd built before Jason Wallace crashed into it with his green eyes and wounded mountain man act.

My phone buzzes with a text from Jason.

Jason: Project's going well but complex. Might need another week to get a complete picture. How are you settling in?

Another week. Another week of me sitting in this cabin, neglecting my career, losing professional momentum while he pursues the opportunity that could transform his business.

I stare at the message for a long time before responding.

Me: I'm fine. Take the time you need.

But I'm not fine. I'm disappearing, becoming a shadow of the professional I used to be, and I'm letting it happen because I fell for a man who makes me feel things I've never felt before.

The smart thing, the responsible thing, would be to rebuild the boundaries I've let erode completely. Return to Atlanta, take on clients who don't complicate my personal life, rebuild the career I've put at risk for a marriage that started as an accident and might end the same way.

I pick up my phone and scroll through my contacts until I find the number for my Atlanta office manager.

"Tarah? It's Natalia. I need you to start looking for Atlanta office space again. Something professional, centrally located. I'm thinking it's time to come home."

As I hang up and start making a list of everything I need to do to extract myself from the life I've been building here, I try to ignore the voice in my head that's asking whether I'm being smart or just scared.

Whether I'm protecting my career or running away from the first real happiness I've ever found.

But happiness that costs you your identity isn't real happiness, is it? It's just another trap dressed up as love.

And I've never been the kind of woman who falls into traps, no matter how beautifully they're disguised.