Under the Mistletoe with My Boss

Lyla’s POV

The next morning starts with a headache so sharp I swear someone is squeezing my skull like a stress ball.

I groan and push myself off the bed, squinting at the faint glow of Boston’s winter sun peeking through my blinds.

I don’t even remember falling asleep. The last thing I recall was staring at the ceiling and replaying yesterday’s conversation with Alexander on an endless loop.

You’re overwhelmed.

You don’t have to pretend with me.

The rest is… something else.

What is something else? Why say it like that? Why look at me like that?

Great!. Now my headache is worse.

I drag myself into the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and pull my hair into a presentable bun.

As I stare at my reflection, mascara wand in hand, a tiny voice whispers, “Why does he notice things Ryan doesn’t?”

I shut the thought down immediately.

Nope, not going there.

By the time I’m grabbing my coat and locking the door behind me, I’ve mentally rehearsed a pep talk.

Focus on work. Focus on the wedding. Ignore your confusing boss. Everything is fine.

~

The moment I step through the glass doors, I sense something is off.

People gather in groups whispering, side-eyeing, and tapping each other’s shoulders like something interesting is happening.

My stomach drops.

“Please don’t let it be me,” I mumble.

Hazel, my co-worker and my best friend, meets me halfway across the lobby, wild-eyed. “Oh my God, Lyla. There you are.”

“What now?” I whisper, bracing myself.

“You need to breathe. Just… inhale something, oxygen. Anything.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

She grabs my arm and pulls me toward the hallway. “Alexander’s in rare form today. Like, frostbite-level mood. Something happened this morning. No one knows what, but he’s pacing and glaring. Breathing like he’s plotting world domination.”

I blink. “He breathes like he’s plotting world domination every day.”

“Yes, but today he’s doing it louder.”

We reach my desk, and Hazel lowers her voice. “Just be careful. If he snaps, you’ll be in the first blast radius.”

My pulse kicks up.

Perfect… Exactly what I need.

My boss is in meltdown mode while I’m hanging by a thread.

“Thanks for the warning,” I mutter.

She squeezes my shoulder and heads off.

I barely sit before I hear it.

“Anderson.”

His voice is sharp enough to cut steel.

I stand instantly. “Yes, Mr. Sterling?”

Alexander stands outside his office, expression carved from granite. But his eyes… His eyes dart over my face for a split second, checking me. Relief flickers there briefly, which makes zero sense.

“Inside,” he says.

I follow him, heart pounding. He shuts the door, but instead of launching into instructions, he pauses behind his desk, hands flat against the surface.

His jaw flexes. His shoulders are tight. He is controlling something. Hard.

“Is everything okay?” I ask carefully.

“No.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

I wait, unsure if speaking again will get me fired.

Finally, he exhales slowly. “There’s an issue with the Zurich branch. Delays. Miscommunication. And of course, it's happening the week before our major review.”

His tone is cold and clipped, but beneath it… he sounds tired. Human. Frustrated.

“Can I help?” I ask.

“You already are.” He gestures to a stack of documents. “I need you to reorganize these reports. Prioritize everything marked in red. Then…”

His voice catches. Just slightly.

I look up sharply.

“Are you… alright?” The question escapes before I can stop it.

His eyes lift to mine. Something flickers there… something raw, quickly buried. “I didn’t sleep.”

“Work?”

He hesitates. “Partially.”

“And the other part?”

He looks at me longer than he should. “Nothing that concerns you.”

It stings, even though it shouldn’t.

“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll get started.”

I turn to leave, but his voice stops me.

“Anderson.”

I look back.

His expression softens, just barely. “Thank you.”

Two simple words. But from him, it feels like a revelation.

I nod, unable to speak, and leave his office.

~

I drop the paperwork on my table with a sigh.

Hazel immediately leans in, and Jamie follows and asks, “Did he burn you alive? Do you need a medic?”

“No. He’s just… on edge.”

“Like an angry edge or brooding edge?” Hazel questions.

“Uh… somewhere between volcanic and emotionally repressed.”

“So… normal.” Hazel replies.

Jamie lowers her voice. “You okay, though? You look pale.”

“I’m fine. Just stressed.”

“Wedding?”

“Wedding. Work. Ryan.” I exhale. “Everything.”

She tilts her head. “Are you and Ryan doing alright?”

“Yeah.” The lie tastes metallic. “Just busy.”

“Mhm.” Her eyebrows do the judgment thing again. “Well… if you need to talk…”

“I know.”

But I don’t talk. Not to Jamie. Not to Ryan. Not to Hazel or anyone. Because the more I talk, the more real everything becomes.

~

(In the afternoon)

I sit alone at the small café across the street, stirring a soup I’m not eating.

My phone buzzes with a text from Ryan:

`Will call you later. Crazy morning.`

I type "Okay," but I don’t send it. Instead, I stare at the blinking cursor.

He hasn’t asked about the invitations.

He hasn’t asked about my day.

He hasn’t asked if I’m sleeping or eating or losing my mind.

When did he stop noticing me?

I’m still staring at the unsent message when someone says quietly, “May I sit?”

I look up and see Alexander Sterling standing beside my table.

My soul leaves my body.

“Um… sure,” I manage.

He sits across from me, not stiffly, surprisingly. More like someone who needs a moment away from people.

For a minute, we say nothing.

He studies me, eyes gentle in a way that makes my chest ache. “You’re not eating.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You skipped breakfast.”

My head snaps up. “How do you know that?”

“You looked faint this morning.” He says it matter-of-factly, like observing my nutritional habits is normal boss behavior.

“Well, I had water,” I mumble.

He stares. “Water is not food.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then eat.”

Is he… bossing my stomach?

I pick up my spoon and eat one bite. Just to prove a point.

“Better?” he asks.

“A little.”

He nods, but he doesn’t leave. He just sits there, silent, almost thoughtful.

“Why are you here?” I ask softly.

“Because you looked like you needed someone to sit with.”

The words hit me harder than they should.

I look down at my soup, blinking away the sudden burn in my eyes.

“You don’t have to… do that,” I whisper.

“I know.” His voice warms. “But I also know that pretending you’re fine doesn’t make anything better.”

My throat tightens.

He sees too much.

He sees me.

And that scares me more than anything.

I force a small breath. “I’m just stressed. That’s all.”

“That’s not all.”

His certainty is dangerous.

“Lyla.”

My head snaps up. He rarely uses my first name.

“You’re carrying too much,” he says quietly. “And no one should do that alone.”

Emotions swell in my chest… fear, relief, and confusion, mixing until they’re indistinguishable.

Before I can reply, his phone buzzes. He checks the screen, jaw tightening.

“I need to go,” he murmurs. “But… eat.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he stands and walks away, coat sweeping behind him.

I sit there, spoon in hand, heart hammering against my ribs.

This is getting dangerous. Not because of anything he said.

But because of how it made me feel.

~

By the time the workday ends, I’m already mentally exhausted.

Ryan texted me , `How’s your day?`, hours ago. I told him it was fine. I didn’t say anything real.

He didn’t answer anyway.

When I get home, the apartment is empty as always. I drop my bag on the couch, kick off my shoes, and sink down beside them.

The silence is suffocating.

I pull my legs up and rest my forehead on my knees. I don’t cry, exactly, but something inside me aches so deeply it might as well be crying.

My phone buzzes again. I pick it up instinctively, hoping it’s Ryan, even though I don’t know what I’d say if it was.

But it’s not Ryan.

It’s Alexander.

ALEXANDER STERLING:

`Don’t forget the early draft.`

That’s it.

A reminder.

Cold. Professional. Detached.

But somehow… somehow it hits me harder than it should.

I type out a polite `Got it` but don’t send it.

Instead, I stare at the unsent message and whisper into the empty apartment:

“What is happening to me?”

I don’t have the answer.

But the crack in the seam, the one between my job and my wedding, between Ryan and Alexander, between who I am and who I’m pretending to be… It's growing.

And I can feel it.

Slowly.

Dangerously.

One tug away from tearing open completely.