“The plan went out the window the second I remembered what you felt like.” He moves closer. “I tried, Bailey. I really tried to maintain boundaries. I wanted to pretend you were just an employee helping me solve a problem.”
“I am just an employee.”
“You’re not. I don’t sleep with or kiss ‘just my employee’, do I?”
My pulse is racing now. “You’re a terrible fake boyfriend.”
“I wasn’t pretending very well, was I?”
“No,” I whisper. “You really weren’t.”
We stand there in the dim office lighting. Everyone else has gone home. It’s just us, the quiet hum of computers, and whatever is cackling between us.
“I hate those events,” Daniel says suddenly.
The subject change throws me. “What?”
“Last night. The gala. I hate all of them. I hate being around people who think money makes them important.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up. “They’re everything I grew up without.”
Something in his voice makes me pause. There’s pain underneath the words.
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t grow up with galas, charity dinners, and people in tuxedos discussing their third homes.” He moves to the window and stares out at the city. “I grew up in a two-bedroom house with parents who worked three jobs between them and still couldn’t make rent half the time.”
I don’t know what to say. This vulnerable and honest version of Daniel is someone I haven’t seen before.
“I didn’t know that.”
“Most people don’t. It’s not the kind of thing that fits the narrative.” He turns back to me. “Billionaire tech bro makes good after a tragic childhood doesn’t sell as well as a self-made genius builds an empire.”
“What happened to your parents?”
His jaw tightens. For a moment, I think he won’t answer.
“They died when I was thirteen. House fire.”
The words are flat. Emotionless. But I can hear the weight underneath them.
“Daniel, I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“I’m sure that doesn’t make it hurt less.”
He meets my eyes. Something raw flickers across his face. “No. It doesn’t.”
“Is that why you work so hard?” I ask.
“Probably. My therapist would say I’m compensating for childhood instability with adult control.” He gives me a wry smile. “Turns out not having what you need as a kid makes you want to prove you can survive without anyone as an adult.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“It is.” He says it simply. Honestly. “But it’s safer than depending on people who might disappear.”
My heart aches for the thirteen-year-old boy who lost everything. For the man who built walls so high no one could reach him.
“I get that,” I hear myself saying.
