After My Boss Forgot Our Three-Year Relationship

The mahogany table stretched like a runway in the executive boardroom. I sat in the furthest corner, the shadows of the frosted glass partition cooling my skin. It was Leighton’s first day back. I kept my gaze anchored to my tablet, my stylus moving in rhythmic, detached strokes.

Leighton stood at the head of the table. The white bandage was gone, replaced by a faint, jagged pink line near his temple. He was speaking about the Q3 acquisitions, his voice that familiar, low rumble that used to vibrate against my collarbone in the dark. Now, it was just noise. I breathed in the sterile, heavily filtered air. I was safe in the periphery.

Until he stopped talking.

The silence in the boardroom was absolute, heavy enough to bend steel. I didn't look up, but the hairs on my arms rose. He was looking at me.

"Ariella."

My stylus froze. I lifted my chin, locking my features into the polite blankness of a subordinate. "Yes, Mr. Grant?"

His slate-gray eyes were dark, tracking the physical distance between us as if it offended him on a cellular level. He didn't remember me, but his body remembered the gravity between us. "You're too far away. Bring your chair here."

He pointed to the empty space directly to his right. The space reserved for equals.

"I have an unobstructed view of the presentation from here, sir," I said smoothly.

"Here." The word wasn't loud, but it didn't leave room for oxygen, let alone argument.

I stood, the legs of my chair scraping harshly against the carpet, and walked the length of the room. Every step felt like walking back into the cage. When I sat beside him, the heat radiating from his tailored suit enveloped me. He didn't look at me again, but the rigid muscles in his jaw relaxed. He had me back in his orbit.

Two hours later, at my desk outside his office, I meticulously aligned the edges of a file folder. Through the glass walls, I could feel Leighton’s eyes burning against the back of my neck.

A shadow fell over my desk. I smelled expensive cedar and bergamot before I looked up.

Boston Martin leaned his hip against the edge of my workstation, crossing his arms. His smile was loose, but his eyes were entirely too sharp.

"Boston. Mr. Grant is on a call," I said, my voice perfectly level.

"I'm not here for Leighton." Boston tilted his head, his gaze flicking from my face to the glass wall behind me, then back again. "Though he certainly seems to be here for you."

"I'm his assistant. It's his job to monitor my workflow."

Boston let out a low, rough laugh. "Right. The assistant." He leaned closer, invading my space just enough to force me to hold my ground. "Since when do you take his notes, Ariella?"

My stomach gave a slow, sickening pitch. "Since the transition plan required it."

"Transition plan." Boston’s eyes danced with dangerous amusement. "You’re wearing a two-thousand-dollar watch, drafting entry-level calendar updates, while a man who allegedly doesn't know you stares at you like he wants to eat you alive. You’re playing a very dangerous game."

"I don't know what you mean."

"You do," he murmured. "But don't worry. I like watching people play."

He tapped his knuckles twice on my desk and sauntered into Leighton's office. Beneath the desk, my fingernails bit so hard into my palms they drew blood. Boston knew. And if Boston knew, my margin of error had just evaporated. I needed a firewall.

At eight o'clock that evening, the ambient lighting of my apartment lobby cast long, elegant shadows across the marble floor. I waited by the mailboxes. When the revolving door spun, depositing Sloan Adams into the lobby, I stepped directly into her path.

She paused, her perfectly manicured hand tightening on her designer tote. "Ariella. Late night?" Her voice held that faint, competitive edge she never bothered to hide.

"I need a favor," I said, skipping the pleasantries. "And I have an opportunity for you."

Sloan’s eyebrows arched. "An opportunity?"

"Leighton."

At his name, her posture shifted. The casual neighbor vanished, replaced by the predator I knew she was. "What about him?"

"He lost his memory. Three years of it." I kept my voice low, intensely practical. "He thinks I'm just his assistant. But he's hovering. And his friends are asking questions. I need a decoy to explain my proximity to him."

Sloan’s eyes narrowed, processing the data with lethal speed. "And you want me to be the decoy."

"I want you to be his girlfriend," I corrected. "Officially. Publicly. You know his habits, his preferences. You step in, you take the title, you get the man. I stay the assistant until I can transfer out."

She studied me, searching for the trap. "Why would you give him up?"

"Because I want out," I said, letting a sliver of genuine exhaustion bleed into my voice. "And you want in. We both win."

Sloan looked toward the elevator, then back at me. A slow, triumphant smile curved her lips. "Introduce us tomorrow. I'll wear the red dress."