I Told My Kids to Stop Hiring Me a Boyfriend, Then My CEO Asked for a Second Interview

POV: Lena

By Sunday evening, my living room floor had turned into an active drafting committee.

I walked out of the laundry nook with a basket of folded towels to find Owen, Chloe, and Benji huddled around a poster board the size of a coffee table. Owen had uncapped four different colored markers, while Chloe directed operations from her knees.

"What is that?" I asked, setting the basket on the sofa.

Owen didn't look up from his heavy black lettering. "We are finalizing the compliance documentation."

"The what?"

I stepped around the coffee table and looked down at the poster. At the top, written in thick purple marker and framed with wobbly red hearts, was a banner headline:

*RULES FOR DATING MOMMY (APPLICANT A. VALE ONLY).*

My temples began to throb. "Guys, we talked about this. Mr. Vale is my employer. Nobody is dating anyone."

"He passed the first two rounds, Mommy," Chloe said firmly, pointing a glitter-glue stick at me. "The teacher said when people pass the test, they get the contract."

"Preschool teachers do not hand out dating contracts," I muttered, leaning down to read the numbered bullet points scribbled across the cardboard.

*Rule 1: Must never make Mommy cry. (Penalty: Immediate kick in the shin).*

*Rule 2: Cannot suddenly disappear and never call again like the old one did.*

The air went still in my lungs. I stared at the second rule, recognizing Owen's neat, careful handwriting. A sharp ache tightened under my ribs. They remembered more of the past than I had ever realized.

Then my eyes dropped to the bottom of the page.

*Rule 3: Absolutely NO kissing Mommy unless Mommy says it is okay first.*

"Give me that," I said, snatching the poster board off the rug so fast the markers rolled across the floor.

"Hey!" Chloe protested, scrambling to her feet. "We're not done with the signature line!"

"This is going straight into the recycling bin," I told them, marching toward the kitchen with the giant sheet under my arm. "There will be no rules, no contracts, and definitely no kissing clauses regarding the Chief Executive Officer of Vale Group."

"Mommy, don't throw it out!" Benji yelled, rushing over to wrap both arms around my left leg. "It has the rules! If he doesn't have the rules, he won't know how to stay!"

The raw panic in Benji's voice stopped me right by the trash can.

I looked down at his tear-filled eyes, then over at Owen and Chloe, who were watching me with matching expressions of desperate, guarded hope.

I closed my eyes and let out a defeated breath. Slowly, I lowered the poster board, rolled it up into a tight cylinder, and slid it into the high closet shelf above the coats.

"It stays in the closet," I said quietly. "Nobody touches it. Understood?"

Owen nodded once. "Understood."

***

On Monday morning, I walked into Vale Tower with my armor fully strapped on.

I wore my sharpest navy blazer, had my hair pulled back into a sleek, sensible bun, and clutched my tablet to my chest like a shield. I spent the entire elevator ride up to the forty-second floor rehearsing how to handle Adrian. If he made a clever remark about pancakes, I would pivot to the Q3 logistics review. If he brought up the kids, I would coldly state that personal matters were concluded.

Instead, Adrian gave me nothing to deflect.

When the strategy team assembled in the main boardroom at nine sharp, he was already seated at the head of the mahogany table. He wore a dark navy suit and an immaculate white shirt, his focus entirely locked on the financial projections glowing on the projector screen.

"Morning, Bennett," he said when I took my seat four chairs away.

"Good morning, Mr. Vale."

That was it.

He didn't smirk. He didn't offer a private nod or a lingering look. For forty-five grueling minutes, he grilled the marketing director on regional acquisition costs, dissected our quarterly supply chain bottlenecks, and approved my team's community initiative budget without a single change.

His voice was crisp, authoritative, and completely detached.

By noon, I should have felt relieved. The boundaries were secure. My job was safe. The weekend had been an isolated anomaly, neatly filed away and forgotten.

Except it wasn't forgotten. Not by me.

Every time footsteps passed the frosted glass panels of my corner workstation, my shoulders tensed. Twice during the afternoon, I caught myself looking up from my spreadsheets just to see if the tall, broad silhouette walking down the executive corridor belonged to him.

When it did, he never once glanced through my door.

The restraint was infuriating. It threw me off balance far more than any bold workplace pass would have. He had stood in my cramped kitchen in his socks yesterday morning, wiping blueberry juice off my five-year-old's chin, and today he was acting as if we hadn't shared a single syllable outside of profit margins.

By six-fifteen, the strategy floor had cleared out.

The fluorescent banks of overhead lights clicked off in automated zones, leaving only the warm glow of my desk lamp and the skyline shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I shut down my monitor, slid my tablet into my leather work tote, and stood up to pull my coat from the rack.

"You're working late."

The deep voice made me jump.

Adrian stood in the open doorway of my office. He had stripped off his suit jacket, carrying it hooked over one shoulder with a single finger. The top two buttons of his dress shirt were undone, loosening the severe corporate edge he wore all day.

"Just finishing the quarterly summary," I said, quickly reaching for my coat to give my hands something to do. "I'm heading out now."

He didn't step into the room, but he didn't leave either. He leaned lightly against the doorframe, watching me pull my coat over my shoulders.

"You spent the whole day waiting for an issue that didn't happen," he said quietly.

I smoothed my lapels, refusing to look rattled. "I was doing my job, Mr. Vale."

"You were bracing for impact," he corrected.

I picked up my tote bag and met his gaze. "Can you blame me? After what happened this weekend, I expected you to bring it up in front of the department."

"I don't bring personal matters into project reviews," Adrian said, his voice dropping into a calm, steady rhythm. "And I don't use my position in this building to put you in an awkward corner."

"I appreciate that." I took a step toward the doorway, expecting him to move aside. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to pick up my children from after-school care."

Adrian didn't move. He stayed right where he was, his dark eyes fixed on mine with unyielding intensity.

"I didn't go to that preschool on Friday because I wanted a distraction, Lena," he said softly.

The sudden use of my first name struck the quiet office like a struck match.

My pulse jumped, but I forced my expression to stay neutral. "You went because you're competitive."

"No," Adrian said. "I went because I read that application three times. And I kept wondering what kind of man walked out on three kids so completely that they built a checklist just to keep someone from breaking their mother again."

The air left my chest in a sharp rush.

The vulnerability hit too close to home. The old anger and self-protection surged to the surface before I could stop them.

"That's none of your business," I said coldly, stepping up so close I could smell the faint cedar and clean soap on his skin. "My past, my marriage, and my family are completely off-limits. They do not belong on your balance sheet, and they are not up for discussion in this office."

I waited for his jaw to tighten, for the billionaire executive to push back against a subordinate who dared to speak to him with an edge.

He didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice or show a trace of offense.

"You're right," Adrian said calmly. "They don't belong in this office."

He reached into the pocket of his slacks, pulled out a small, heavy white card, and extended it toward me between two fingers.

I looked down at it. Written in crisp black print was the name of a quiet Italian restaurant downtown, accompanied by a reservation time for eight o'clock tomorrow evening.

I looked up at his face, my throat tight. "What is this?"

"An invitation," Adrian replied, his dark eyes holding mine without a shred of hesitation. "So let me ask you properly, Lena. Dinner. No children. No interview."