★ NEXT DAY ★✦ CR COMPANY ✦
A glossy black car purred to a stop like it had secrets. The kind of secrets that smelled like money, power, and scandal.
The back door clicked open with the kind of precision that suggested it had been rehearsed. Twice. Alfred stepped out first, sunglasses so dark they looked like they might sue the sun for glare. Then came Danica—heels stabbing the ground as if it owed her money, eyes forward like a general inspecting troops. The scene was giving off vibes so powerful they should have come with a soundtrack. Their bodyguards—two matching towers in black suits and expensive scowls—trailed behind like well-dressed shadows.
"Why do they give me... 'Power Couple meets 'Mission: Impossible' energy?" Mr. Lee murmured, sipping coffee that was 70% caffeine and 30% pure judgment.
He breezed through the glass doors, half-expecting them to shatter from sheer intimidation.
"Where's Paul? Late again?" he muttered, glancing at his watch like it was Paul's fault time existed.
Just then, Paul sauntered in, sipping something too green to be legal and wearing the disheveled charm of someone who'd won the lottery of naps.
"Hey, Lee," he said casually, offering the kind of smile that suggested he had zero regrets and even fewer morning routines.
Mr. Lee's face split into a smile so wide it made Paul flinch.
Why's he smiling like that? Like he just found out I'm secretly a Kardashian? Or worse, like I'm a kitten that just learned how to meow? Paul wondered, mentally bracing for impact.
"Okay... what's going on?" Paul asked, his voice half-sarcasm, half-concerned HR report.
Mr. Lee started to laugh—a slow-building, shoulder-shaking laugh that made Paul take a wary step back.
Oh God, he's cracked. Corporate finally chewed through his soul. I knew this place would break him one day. It's happening now. Paul thought, eyes narrowing.
Paul gave Mr. Lee a pity-pat on the shoulder. "I know this company's a descent into madness, buddy. If you start talking to furniture, blink twice."
Mr. Lee wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye, then produced his phone like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. He jammed in his earbuds with an enthusiasm that should've been illegal before 10 a.m.
"What are you doing? If this is a surprise playlist of breakup songs again, I swear to God…" Paul muttered, side-eyeing him like he was about to be cursed.
Mr. Lee grinned wider. "My dearest friend, yesterday a very important man gave a very beautiful speech. It moved me to tears. So, obviously—I recorded it."
"Oh," Paul said slowly. "Didn't know we were recording... moving speeches now. Thought we just suffered through them in silence."
Mr. Lee tilted his head. "You want to hear it, don't you?" He asked with the joy of someone handing over a ticking time bomb disguised as a gift.
"I mean... sure. Let's ride this chaos wave all the way in." Paul took the phone, tucked in the earbuds, and hit play button like a man about to find out his therapist moonlights as a stand-up comedian.
Mr. Lee slapped a hand over his mouth, physically trying to suppress the giggles bubbling up his throat no less than soda in a volcano.
**RECORDING STARTS**
I LOOOVE NINA. I love her so freaking much it hurts my pancreas.
I love you, honey. You're the warm banana bread to my soul.
Every time I see you, my heart goes wub-wub-wub. I love you to the moon and… like, the next galaxy after that. Maybe two galaxies. Marry me, Nina. Let's have five babies. FIVE. Like a full basketball team. Plus a substitute. All with your nose. I-
**RECORDING STOPS**
Paul froze mid-breath, blinking like someone who'd just walked in on himself singing naked in the mirror. His brain had clearly short-circuited.
"How was the speech?" Mr. Lee asked casually, like they were discussing lunch options and not Paul's complete emotional striptease. "Oscar-worthy? Or more like... local theater matinee?"
"What the actual—what is this?!" Paul spluttered, feeling scandalized and rapidly sweating. "This is fake. Deepfake! That's not me!"
"Pretty sure it's you," Mr. Lee said, looking much too smug for someone still snorting laughter. "The weird banana bread metaphor was very... on brand."
"I was drunk!" Paul insisted, a man on the edge of implosion. "Delirious. Not lucid. Maybe even sleep-talking. I don't even eat banana bread!"
Lee shrugged. "A person always speaks the truth in two situations: when they're angry... and when they're hammered." He smirked. "Guess which one you were."
Paul barked, but even he looked like he didn't believe it. "That doesn't prove anything! I don't love Nina."
Lee raised a brow. "Says the man who wants to genetically replicate her nose across five offspring."
"I—Okay, listen!" Paul stammered, pointing an accusing finger like he was going to cast a spell. "I wasn't conscious of what I was saying, so it doesn't count!"
"Sure, bud," Lee said. "Denial is just love in its larval form."
Paul's face was now the color of boiled lobster. "Why are you so invested in this, huh?"
"Because you're out here pretending to pine for Danica while making interstellar love declarations to Nina like it's a Taylor Swift album cut."
Paul's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. A tragic goldfish.
"And this recording?" Lee grinned. " I was planning to forward this love confession to Nina. Just a lighthearted email with the subject line From Your Secret Admirer Who Wants Five Babies."
"YOU ABSOLUTE MENACE," Paul shrieked. "Delete it. Right now. Give me that phone before I do something dramatic."
With the reflexes of a cat burglar and the desperation of a man exposed, Paul lunged and deleted the recording from Mr. Lee's phone. Triumphant, he grinned. "Boom. It's gone. Poof. Problem solved."
Lee smiled like someone with a royal flush. "Yeah, I figured you'd do that. So I made a backup copy. On my pen drive."
Paul stopped breathing. "You what?"
Lee held up a smug little USB like it was Excalibur. "Insurance, my man."
Paul made a noise so high-pitched it probably summoned a few bats. "Why are you doing this to me? I thought we were friends. Best friends! The kind who don't emotionally blackmail each other!"
"I just want you to stop lying to yourself," Lee said, with fake sincerity so thick it could clog a drain.
Paul's eye twitched. "You..."
And then he grabbed Lee's collar. Because maturity is overrated.
They wrestled like overgrown kindergartners, tangled in a bizarre mix of button-down shirts and misplaced testosterone. Somewhere in the scuffle, Mr. Lee's precious pen drive went flying. It skittered across the floor like a tiny spy with very important information.
"Gentlemen?" A monotone voice interrupted the wrestling match.
An employee stood at the doorway, staring at them like he'd walked in on two raccoons fighting over a muffin.
"The conference is about to start," he said coldly. "Maybe you could pause your love-hate domestic and pretend to be adults for thirty minutes?"
He walked away, muttering something about "corporate professionalism being dead" under his breath.
Paul and Mr. Lee slowly untangled themselves, breathing hard and dusting off pride and lint.
"I will end you," Paul muttered darkly.
"I'm just honest. And honesty always wins," Mr. Lee replied with smug finality, readjusting his tie like a man who hadn't just lost a fight over a love confession.
They stormed off toward the conference room, leaving behind a war zone of feelings… and the pen drive, which was lying forgotten on the office floor like a ticking time bomb of romantic chaos.
★ MEANWHILE ★
"Where the hell is the pen drive?" barked Jeremy (one of the employee), hands flailing like he was conducting an invisible orchestra of panic.
"I don't know," muttered Ryan, half-crawling under the conference table like a detective in a crime thriller. "It must have fallen somewhere between the floor and my dignity."
"Oh for God's sake, hurry up!" Claire hissed, arms folded like a disapproving headmistress. "The conference starts in—" she checked her phone dramatically "—four minutes and you're playing hide-and-seek with a USB stick."
"I know! Believe me, I'm more emotionally invested in this pen drive than in my own retirement plan," Ryan snapped, frantically patting down the carpet like it owed him money. "I'm the one giving the presentation, remember? You're just there for moral support and judgmental stares."
Claire rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in her skull. "Well, your moral support is about to abandon ship and throw you under the metaphorical presentation bus."
Then, like a divine intervention in polyester slacks, her gaze zeroed in.
"Wait—wait! Is that it?" she gasped, pointing with the triumphant glee of someone discovering fire.
Her heel clicked as she power-walked over to Mr. Lee's table. "Bingo! It's right here."
She picked it up like it was the last chocolate croissant at an office breakfast. "Your precious is safe, Gollum," she said, handing it to him with a mock bow.
"Oh thank God," Ryan breathed, clutching the pen drive to his chest like it was a newborn. "If I'd lost this, the boss might've—"
"Spontaneously combust?" Claire interrupted. "Throw your body into the recycling bin and call it 'eco-friendly turnover'?"
Ryan gave a short, manic laugh. "Yeah, something like that."
"Cheer up," she said, patting his shoulder. "You've got your pen drive. You're a hero. Now let's go pretend we're professionals."
Ryan grinned, the relief practically melting off him. "You're the best."
"Tell me something I don't know," Claire quipped, already halfway to the door.
They walked off like a budget crime-solving duo, unaware that Mr. Lee's pen drive—identical in shape, color, and tragic potential—was similar to theirs. Maybe, they weren't carrying their own pen drive. Who knows?
✦ CONFERENCE ROOM ✦
Danica had done the noble thing—inviting Nina to the pre-launch meeting. Not out of kindness, mind you, but because someone needed to explain the "don'ts" of the Product Launch Event, and clearly, Danica didn't trust her team not to screw up and accidentally set off fireworks during the PowerPoint.
Alfred sat next to Danica, perfectly upright like the polished corporate Ken doll he was. Nina, wearing the world's most distracting red lipstick, took the seat to Danica's right, all charm and legs. The right side of the conference table was occupied by Paul, Mr. Lee, and their cohorts—Team Testosterone. On the left sat Alfred's team—Team Overachievers.
Everything was meticulously placed. Coffee, sparkling water, air conditioning turned to slightly Arctic. The scent of fear and expired ambition lingered lightly.
Nina shot Paul a wink—slow, deliberate, like she'd rehearsed it in the mirror that morning. Paul winked back, less smoothly, more like he had a contact lens malfunction.
Mr. Lee leaned in, whispering like a middle-schooler in church. "What the hell was that?"
"Love," came the dry murmur from one of the other guys. "That's what it looks like."
Paul, puffed with ego like a rooster on caffeine, smirked. "Hardly. It's just—formality. I'm like, chronically admired. Comes with the cheekbones."
Mr. Lee blinked. "You're insufferable."
"Tell me something I don't know," Paul replied, stretching.
Alfred, either sensing the awkward sexual tension or trying to prevent the fall of Rome, gave a subtle nod to his employee to begin the presentation. A man with glasses and the energy of a terrified intern inserted the pen drive and hit play.
The screen flickered.
Then—
"I LOVE YOU NINA—I WANT TO MARRY YOU!"
The words exploded from the speakers like a firework made of pure humiliation.
Paul's entire body stiffened. He resembled a man who had just been caught in a live-streamed proposal he neither made nor approved of.
Mr. Lee let out the tiniest whimper and physically folded into himself.
Paul turned to him, face the color of overcooked lobster. "What is this?!" he hissed, voice cracking like a boy going through second puberty.
"I—I don't know, my friend," Mr. Lee replied with a smile that said I'm definitely lying and also afraid for my life.
Frantically, Lee checked his pockets, then blanched. "The pen drive. It's—it's gone."
"Gone?" Paul repeated, voice shrill. "You swapped the drives?!"
"I think it got...replaced, I mean...misplaced." Mr. Lee said, like a man trying not to confess to murder.
"You absolute—buffoon."
Dear God. If You're There. Smite Me. Now. Paul mentally begged.
The room descended into an orgy of whispers and wide eyes.
"Oh my god, so romantic!" someone cooed.
"Is this...like a corporate proposal?" another asked, confused and possibly delighted.
Sean, on the far end, didn't even blink. He was so used to disasters, he probably thought this was a Tuesday. He let out a sigh, the kind that said I regret everything, including my birth.
Danica's expression shifted from mildly annoyed CEO to murder is absolutely on the table.
What in the seven levels of corporate hell is this? she thought, eyes twitching.
Nina, meanwhile, was blushing like a Jane Austen heroine at a ballroom. Delight sparkled in her eyes.
Alfred, quietly enjoying the chaos, chuckled. Oh Paul... you absolute trainwreck.
The recording looped again, louder this time. Like the universe wanted Paul to suffer in 3D surround sound.
Every time I see you, my heart goes wub-wub-wub. I love you to the moon and… like, the next galaxy after that. Maybe two galaxies. Marry me, Nina. Let's have five babies. FIVE.
The guy manning the projector; Ryan, a man who clearly didn't get paid enough for this nonsense, scrambled.
"Oh shit! The player's jammed!" he muttered.
My heart goes wub-wub-wub. Marry me, Nina. Let's have five babies. FIVE.
Paul audibly choked. Mr. Lee looked seconds from a panic attack.
"Come out—" the employee begged, yanking the pen drive like it owed him money.
Danica finally snapped. "What. The actual. Hell," she spat, voice so sharp it could've sliced bread.
She turned to the poor projector guy. "Is this your presentation? Are we launching a product or launching Paul's rom-com career?!"
"B-Boss, the pen drive is jammed," Ryan whimpered. Honestly whimpered.
Mr. Lee physically recoiled. Paul covered his face like he could disappear via sheer shame.
God, take me now. Hit me with lightning. Or a truck. Or just...end me. Paul's brain screamed.
I'm never going to financially recover from this. This is how I die. Death by romantic PowerPoint. Mr. Lee's sobbed internally. His mind echoed like a meme from 2019.
Danica, now channeling her inner wrath goddess, stormed toward the projector.
I am about to be reborn in hell. thought Ryan (poor projector guy), trembling.
With a graceful, terrifying force, Danica ripped the projector off the table and slammed it to the ground. The room gasped as the machine shattered like Paul's hopes and dreams.
Silence.
The kind of silence that made people rethink their career choices.
Paul stood frozen. Mr. Lee looked like he'd seen his obituary in real time. Paul imagined Danica stabbing him with a fountain pen. Mr. Lee envisioned being escorted out with a cardboard box of shame.
Alfred stood frozen. He wanted to step in, but Danica had made it very clear: No emotions. No favoritism. No boyfriend antics at work. Corporate romance was fine in theory. In practice, not so much.
Nina's blush hadn't faded. In fact, she was practically glowing. Which was confusing and also wildly inconvenient.
Danica's voice, cold and hard as obsidian: "You. Two. My office. Now."
They nodded like terrified kindergarteners caught stealing crayons.
She turned and walked out, heels hitting the floor like the countdown to an execution. Alfred followed, silent. Nina trailed them, because clearly she hadn't suffered enough for the day.
The room exhaled collectively.
Paul and Mr. Lee didn't wait—they bolted like rats off a sinking ship.
Sean rose with the elegance of a man utterly unfazed by the implosion. "This," he muttered, "is why I never plug in mystery USBs."
And he left.
✦ DANICA'S CABIN ✦
Danica stood in the middle of the room no less than a corporate goddess freshly summoned from the underworld, arms crossed, lips thinner than a budget line item. Her gaze—cold, calculated, and deeply offended—could curdle oat milk at thirty paces. Anger smoldered behind her mascaraed lashes. Also humiliation. But she'd never admit that. Not even under oath.
Alfred lingered near the tall glass windows, pretending to be fascinated by the skyline, as though the cityscape might offer an escape route or a parachute. Spoiler: it wouldn't.
Nina was glued to the sofa like a ragdoll caught between delight and disaster. Her cheeks pinked like a rookie intern who accidentally hit 'Reply All.' She sipped water with the grace of a person trying not to choke on her own red-hot blush. The glass clinked against her teeth.
"Hydration is important during professional meltdowns," she muttered, mostly to herself.
Sean stood nearby, rubbing his temples like he was summoning patience from the heavens. He sighed with the agony of a man watching toddlers play with gasoline.
"Ah, these two glorious idiots," he grumbled. "A symphony of poor judgment." Then he added, "Honestly, if I had a dollar for every brain cell lost in this room, I could retire. Twice."
Mr. Lee and Paul stood stiffly side by side like two penguins who wandered into the wrong documentary. Their backs were straighter than their excuses. Their shoulders drooped in shame, a silent duet of oh no, we're so screwed. If remorse had a fragrance, they were wearing it like cologne.
And then he entered. The man of the hour. The one responsible for today's grand performance—an unholy presentation that had somehow managed to offend logic, taste, and every possible metric of success. Ryan. He strolled in with the swagger of someone who didn't realize they were already walking into their own funeral. His companion trailed behind him, trying to look invisible, which only made him more suspicious.
Silence spread like spilled coffee—bitter, dark, and about to stain reputations.
The mood? Thick enough to slice with a letter opener.
The vibe? A mash-up of courtroom drama, roast session, and therapy circle gone terribly wrong.