CEO And The Cinderella Of The Community Center

"Stupid, Emilia. So stupid," I whispered to myself, eyes closed.

"Why think that about yourself?" A gentle male voice spoke above me. My eyes flew open. Looking up, I saw Andrew Collins standing there. Wesley Jones's constant companion, ThreadLink's co-founder and COO, frequently appearing alongside Wesley in business news. And, incidentally, also a volunteer at the community center.

Wesley and Andrew were polar opposites.

Wesley was the quiet one, the thinker lost in code and strategy, often appearing aloof or awkward in public. Andrew was the born socialite, with a charming smile, a master of PR and negotiation, ThreadLink's smoothest and most public-friendly face. Wesley cared about every logical detail of the product; Andrew seemed to navigate the business world with sheer savvy and interpersonal skill, securing astounding deals without deep technical diving.

"Lost it a bit in the session, huh? I'm guessing that's making the rounds in the volunteer chat." He nodded, then, to my shock, simply sat down on the floor opposite me. Those perceptive dark eyes gazed calmly into my green ones.

"Actually, Lisa just texted asking if I'd seen you. She's a bit worried." Damn smartphones. Damn WhatsApp. I cursed internally.

"You know she's grouping the kids for the street art festival project, right?" I groaned, closing my eyes and shaking my head, fingers digging into my hair. "And, to introduce 'cross-disciplinary thinking,' she wants to bring in some 'guest advisors.'"

"Any clues as to which big shot I might be getting paired with?" I looked up to see an impossibly fast, thoughtful flicker cross his face. He tapped the side of his phone once, clearly reading a message or typing a quick reply. This new tech elite really needed to learn how to mask those micro-expressions better from the old-money crowd.

"You and… well, Wesley. Our CEO. Have been proposed as a 'cross-disciplinary creative pair.' Lisa pulled some strings, got through to ThreadLink's CSR department. Wesley actually agreed to take it on himself." My eyes widened. He watched the color drain from my face, his brow furrowing with concern.

"Fuck. I have to go." I scrambled to my feet, grabbed my backpack, and fled down the hallway towards the restroom. I stared at my panicked reflection, rubbing my eyes hard until tiny sparks danced in my vision.

"It's fine. Be professional. Keep your distance. Pretend you don't know him. Treat him like any other collaborator. Keep it strictly business. Don't touch him. Don't get close. Don't let him sense anything… or this will be beyond humiliating." *'I don't even believe that crap myself,'* I sneered internally.

I rolled my eyes at my reflection. Just then, my old phone buzzed in my pocket—the next session was about to start. I took a deep breath, grabbed my bag, and headed for the children's activity zone. Thank God he wouldn't be there. Yet. But my thoughts were already spiraling towards that name.

I could almost feel the aura of his world in the air—not a scent, but an intangible pressure, a sense of ultimate order and efficiency, radiating from James, his ever-present, sharp-eyed head of security.

I carefully constructed his image in my mind, the imagined mix of sea salt, mint, and coffee unsettling me. What would I even look like under his reportedly algorithm-like observation? Probably like an incongruous bug in the code, bearing the marks of a struggle at the bottom, with occasional defensive spikes.

Time crawled by in a blur of mundane tasks until the lunch break finally offered a sliver of respite.

Entering the cramped staff lounge/kitchen, heading for the vending machine, I felt several pairs of colleagues' eyes on me. I pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill—today's lunch budget—and bought the cheapest yogurt and an apple. At least it saved money and made me look less pitiable. Turning to find a quiet corner, I almost bumped into someone.

"Emilia, wait!" It was Andrew. He stood by the small round table usually claimed by management and senior volunteers, waving me over. Curious glances immediately ping-ponged between us. So, "mysterious, prickly Emilia" talking to "ThreadLink's co-founder" was going to be lunchtime gossip.

"What is it, Andrew?" I tried to keep my voice neutral.

"Wesley wanted to have a preliminary chat about ideas for the art festival project. He's got an urgent conference call, but it should wrap up soon." I knew exactly what this meant, but said nothing. That familiar, twisted ache of longing and dread bloomed in my chest again, so familiar it was almost numbness.

The first time I'd realized my absurd fixation on him, it felt like a shameful torment. But I'd learned to live with it. This hopeless "pang" had been a constant for two years now.

"Emilia. Hey." A low, slightly rough voice, infinitely more real and affecting than any audio clip, sounded behind me. I turned and met Wesley Jones's famous blue eyes. Something *clicked* in my mind, like a secret switch had been thrown. I felt a part of me screaming internally, begging to be let out, but I used all my strength to shove it back down. He was walking over with Paige, who looked like she'd just rushed from a formal event, a strand of hair out of place.

"Hey, uh—" My throat was dry.

"Wesley." He supplied, the corner of his mouth seeming to quirk ever so slightly. I knew his name. God, of course I did.

"Sorry, this art festival collaboration is a bit… unexpected. Any initial thoughts on adapting Shakespeare for street art?" He leaned in slightly, pulling a worn paperback from his impeccably tailored briefcase—*The Complete Works of Shakespeare*. The spine was cracked, as if read countless times. A faint scent, like antique paper mixed with clean, crisp wood, wafted towards me. It took all my willpower not to inhale deeply, obviously.

"You mentioned camouflage or resilience earlier… I thought the core idea could be interesting combined with drama." I nodded, almost mechanically taking the book, my fingers brushing the damaged cover. The cool touch grounded me slightly. Clutching the book and my half-eaten apple, I made to turn away.

"Okay. I'll look this over. We can talk later."

"Wait." Just as I looked down to hide my fluster, a warm, dry hand gently closed around my upper arm.

Not a grab. Just a steady hold.

Instantly, a strange current shot across my skin. Not painful, but it made every hair stand on end and my heart stop. I froze, eyes wide, clearly hearing his own breath hitch almost imperceptibly behind me.

*Shit.*