You Were Never Just My Boss
Description
Beatriz "Bea" Martinez never expected to land a job at a billion-dollar fashion empire-especially not as the assistant to Julian Wolfe, its icy, infuriatingly gorgeous CEO. She's all chaotic charm and fruit-shaped earrings; he's all control issues and custom suits. They clash instantly. But beneath the sarcastic jabs, 2 a.m. work crises, and one ill-advised kiss, something messier brews-something that neither of them is ready to name. When office politics, jealousy, and hard truths threaten to break what's barely begun, Bea must decide if love is worth the risk-or if some men are better left unread and unreplied.
Chapter 1
May 22, 2025
Bea’s POV
If heartbreak had a recipe, mine was simmering in a cracked bowl of overcooked chicken-flavored ramen, eaten on the floor of a shoebox apartment that reeked of crushed dreams and vanilla candle smoke. I sat cross-legged on the peeling linoleum, fork twirling through soggy noodles that clung together like even they couldn’t stand the thought of being alone tonight.
The only light came from my laptop, casting a pale, unforgiving glow over the fifty-fourth rejection email blinking on my screen.
This one stung more—it was from a boutique agency I used to fantasize about working for, back when hope wasn’t a luxury.
“You’re not the right fit for our team.”
A sentence dressed in professionalism, but I could read between the lines: they liked my resume—just not the body attached to it. My throat burned as I swallowed another spoonful of salty broth that somehow tasted saltier tonight. I had the degree. Three internships. A Canva resume polished to perfection. But none of it mattered the moment they saw me.
Plus-size was marketable in theory. In practice? I was too loud. Too colorful. Too soft in all the places they wanted sharp edges. Too damn big.
I blinked back tears as I placed the bowl down on the old milk crate I called a coffee table. Even my tear ducts seemed exhausted, like they were tired of crying for a girl who never quite made the cut. Rent was due in five days. My bank account barely held twenty-nine dollars. And if my mom knew, she’d pawn off something else she couldn’t afford to lose. I wouldn’t let that happen. I’d promised her—and myself—that I’d make it. On my terms.
“Just one yes,” I breathed into the quiet, fingertips hovering over the keyboard, desperate for another listing, another crack to slip through, another company to throw my heart at.
That’s when it came—the sound that shattered the silence.
A buzz.
My phone.
Unknown number.
I almost didn’t answer. Probably another scam or some robot offering me a fake loan I couldn’t even dream of accepting. But something… something deep in my gut, the same gut that had been kicked too many times by this world, whispered: Pick it up.
“Hello?” I answered cautiously, pushing my glasses up my nose.
“Hi, is this Beatriz Martinez?” the voice asked. She sounded crisp, like she wore suits with shoulder pads and never got food on them.
“This is Bea,” I replied, already expecting another polite no.
“This is Chloe from Wolfe & Whitmore. HR came across your application. Can you come in tomorrow at 9 a.m. for an interview?”
I didn’t breathe for a full three seconds. Wolfe & Whitmore? As in the fashion and luxury empire that controlled half the industry? “Yes!” I choked out, then cleared my throat and tried to sound like I hadn’t just spilled soup down my shirt. “Yes, I can absolutely be there.”
“Bring a printed resume. Business formal,” she said before hanging up.
The call ended, and I sat there frozen, blinking at my phone. Then I screamed into my pillow so loudly my upstairs neighbor knocked on the floor.
I barely slept. I spent half the night ironing my only pair of black dress pants and scrubbing my thrifted floral blazer with baking soda. It still smelled like the secondhand shop it came from, but I told myself it added character. I didn’t own heels that didn’t squeak, so I wore flats and hoped the lemon earrings made it look intentional. My eyeliner was sharp, my confidence was duct-taped together, and my resume was printed on slightly crumpled paper I found under a pile of old bills. I looked in the mirror and told myself I belonged—over and over until it almost sounded true. Then I grabbed my tote bag and left before I could change my mind.
Wolfe & Whitmore’s headquarters looked like a place that charged rent just to breathe inside it. The glass doors were taller than my apartment ceiling, and the lobby was made of marble, gold, and judgement. Everything about the space whispered “you don’t belong here.” I walked in anyway. The receptionist at the front desk glanced up and blinked like I was a pop-up and she didn’t know how to close. Her hair was slick, her nails were sharp, and her outfit probably cost more than my laptop.
“Hi,” I said with a nervous but practiced smile. “I’m here for the executive assistant interview.”
She looked me up and down slowly, pausing at the lemon earrings, then at my blazer, and finally at my shoes like she wanted to set them on fire with her eyes.
“Name?”
“Beatriz Martinez.”
She typed something in and leaned toward the girl next to her, not even trying to whisper as she muttered, “Is HR pulling a prank today?”
My cheeks burned, but I didn’t let my smile slip. I pulled my shoulders back and said a little louder, “Yes. I’m here for the executive assistant position. Nine o’clock.”
She rolled her eyes and pointed toward the elevator. “Top floor. Someone will meet you there.”
The elevator ride felt like it took a year and a half. My reflection in the mirrored doors looked more anxious with every floor we passed. When it dinged open, the air smelled different—like money and eucalyptus. Everything was sleek, glass, white, beige. I felt like I’d walked into a museum curated by minimalists who hated joy. A woman in a fitted dress and tight bun met me at the landing with a clipboard and no smile.
“Beatriz Martinez?” she asked, not even glancing up.
“Yes. Bea.”
“Have a seat. Mr. Wolfe is finishing a call.”
I nodded and sat on the edge of a bench that looked like a piece of modern art. I clutched my folder and tried not to sweat. I tried not to imagine him—Julian Wolfe. The CEO. The icon. The cold-blooded fashion giant who could kill a career with one look. I imagined he wouldn’t even notice me. I imagined he’d shake my hand, say thank you, and move on.
And then the glass office door slammed open like it had been kicked.
He stormed out in a flash of grey suit and fury, walking with the energy of a man used to clearing rooms with his presence. His eyes scanned the space with surgical focus—until they landed on me. He stopped mid-step. His expression flickered between confusion and disgust, like he was trying to figure out what I was doing there and how fast he could make me disappear. His gaze dragged across my outfit, my curves, my earrings, my very existence like it offended the marble floors.
The entire office went quiet.He stared at me like I’d personally insulted his bloodline.
And then, without blinking, he said it. “What the hell is an elephant doing in my office?”
You Were Never Just My Boss
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