He came into the café where I worked every morning.
Same order, same seat, same quiet smile that made you think he actually saw you.
I didn’t know who he was at first — just another man in a suit who looked like he carried the world on his phone.
It wasn’t until my manager whispered, “That’s the CEO of that tech firm downtown,” that I noticed how everyone else looked at him.
One morning, he left a note with his tip:
“You look like someone who deserves better coffee — and maybe a better job.”
I laughed. Then he came back the next day, and the day after that.
Two weeks later, he offered me one.
“Assistant,” he said. “You’ll mostly handle scheduling and my sanity.”
It felt like a dream — nicer clothes, a desk with my name on it, people suddenly remembering I existed.
He taught me how to talk like I belonged in rooms I never imagined entering.
And in between meetings and late-night emails, he’d say things like, “You’re the only one I trust,” or “You get me in a way no one else does.”
That’s how it starts — not with seduction, but with validation.
When someone powerful tells you you’re different, it’s intoxicating.
You start to think maybe you’re the exception.
Maybe you earned this closeness.
And then one night, over too much whiskey and too little distance, he kissed me.
He said, “You’re not my employee anymore. You’re my weakness.”
I should’ve known that “weakness” isn’t romantic. It’s temporary.
For a while, it was everything — secret weekends, business trips that turned into excuses, whispered goodbyes in parking lots.
He said he couldn’t leave his wife yet, but he would “soon.”
They never do.
Still, I waited.
Until the day I walked into a board meeting and heard him refer to me as “staff.”
No trace of warmth. No familiarity. Just professionalism so sharp it cut.
That night, he didn’t call.
The next morning, his assistant (the new one) emailed me my severance package.
Two months’ pay, a confidentiality clause, and a polite note:
“It’s been wonderful working with you. Wishing you all the best.”
It’s been a year now. I see his company in the news sometimes — new awards, new ventures, the same smile.
People say he’s brilliant.
I think he’s just good at storytelling.
Because that’s all I ever was — a subplot in someone else’s redemption arc.
The girl who made him feel human for a while. The proof he still had a heart.
End line:
Some people don’t fall in love with you — they fall in love with how you fit into their narrative. And when the chapter ends, so do you.
Top Comments
[officeghost88]
“The girl who made him feel human for a while.” Oof. That line stings. Because it’s true — they always love the way you make them feel, not who you are.
[realisticromantic]
This wasn’t a relationship. It was character development — for him. And you were the lesson he’ll brag about never repeating.
[softrebellion]
You wrote this like someone still halfway between hurt and healing. That honesty makes it beautiful.
[exsugarbabyhere]
I’ve lived this. Power dynamics make you think you’re special until you realize you were replaceable the whole time.
[throwawaytruths]
He didn’t promote you — he repackaged you. “Assistant,” “lover,” “liability.” It’s all the same hierarchy in a different suit.
[curiousSDthrowaway]
As a man who’s been in his position, I wish I could say it’s rare. It’s not. We mistake admiration for affection. And when it fades, so do we.
[quietchaos]
“Some people don’t fall in love with you — they fall in love with how you fit into their narrative.” That’s a truth I didn’t know I needed today.
