Clara Santiago's mornings always began before the city itself decided to wake. The alarm clock never had the chance to ring because her mind was trained to stir at five o'clock sharp, as though her body had signed a contract with time. She would lie in bed for a few seconds, staring at the faint glow of Manila's skyline through her thin curtains, then push herself up, no matter how tired she was.
There was no room for indulgence in her world—not when she worked for Ethan Reyes, CEO of Reyes Technologies, one of the fastest-growing companies in Southeast Asia. Ethan was a man whose life was carved by precision and discipline, and Clara knew that if she wanted to survive in his orbit, she had to match his rhythm.
By six o'clock, she was dressed in her fitted navy suit, hair neatly pulled back into a bun, and her make-up—minimal yet polished—was applied with the same meticulousness that she approached everything else. She prepared a light breakfast, though most days she barely ate half of it, too preoccupied with reviewing her boss's schedule on her tablet. Meetings with international partners, investor calls, board briefings—it was always full, always relentless.
When she finally stepped into the sleek black sedan that chauffeured her to the Reyes Tower, she let out a soft sigh. The driver, Mang Tonyo, a kindly man in his fifties, glanced at her through the rearview mirror.
"Long day again, Ma'am Clara?" he asked, his voice gentle.
She smiled faintly. "Aren't they all?"
The ride was usually silent afterward, just the city blurring past her window. Towering billboards, the early bustle of vendors, the flow of commuters—all scenes she observed with detachment. The world outside felt distant, as though her life was no longer her own but tied completely to the man she worked for.
By seven-thirty, she arrived at Reyes Tower, a sleek glass skyscraper that reflected the morning sun like a shard of ice. As she stepped into the lobby, employees were already moving briskly, but Clara's presence drew a subtle shift in the air. People recognized her not for authority—she wasn't an executive—but for proximity. She was Ethan Reyes's executive assistant, and that position carried weight.
"Good morning, Ms. Santiago," greeted the receptionist warmly.
"Good morning," Clara replied, always polite, always controlled.
She rode the elevator to the top floor, the 42nd, where Ethan's office loomed over the entire city. The view was breathtaking: Manila Bay in the distance, the clusters of buildings that stretched endlessly, the faint haze of morning heat. But Clara never had the luxury to admire it for long.
Her first task was to ensure everything was ready before he arrived. She adjusted the blinds, checked the projector for the morning briefing, laid out the documents on his mahogany desk in perfect alignment, and set a fresh cup of black coffee—no sugar, no cream—on the coaster. She checked her watch. 7:58 a.m. He would walk in at exactly 8:00. He always did.
And he did.
The double glass doors opened, and Ethan Reyes strode in, his presence sharp enough to cut the silence. He was tall, his charcoal-gray suit tailored to precision, his dark hair neatly combed back. His features were chiseled—handsome in a way that was severe, not warm. His expression was unreadable, his gaze cool as if every person and every thing was a mere number in an equation he had already solved.
"Good morning, Mr. Reyes," Clara greeted, her voice steady.
"Schedule," he said flatly, not bothering with a return greeting.
Clara handed him the tablet. "At nine, you have the board meeting with the regional directors. At eleven, a call with Mr. Tan from Singapore. Lunch is blocked for the investor from Tokyo. Then at three, the financial review with accounting, and at five, the press conference regarding the new launch."
Ethan nodded curtly as he scrolled through the agenda. He didn't thank her, but Clara didn't expect him to. He never did. Gratitude was not in his vocabulary—not for things he considered mere duties.
Still, she followed him into the boardroom, her pen poised over her leather notebook, ready to catch every word he said. She had trained herself to anticipate his needs before he even voiced them: the next document he would request, the file he would need, the reminder he would snap his fingers for. And he never praised her for it.
Yet she stayed.
Hours passed in an endless string of conversations, presentations, and negotiations. Ethan's voice remained steady, his tone always clipped and controlled. Clara admired him quietly, even if he never looked at her longer than two seconds. He was brilliance and ice, ambition and distance.
During a brief pause between meetings, Clara slipped into his office to refresh his coffee. As she set the new cup down, her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than usual. He was standing by the window, hands in his pockets, staring out at the city with that same inscrutable look. For just a heartbeat, she wondered what he saw. Did he see the city he had conquered? Or did he see nothing at all?
She caught herself and quickly looked away. Feelings like that were dangerous. She couldn't afford them.
"Your two o'clock was pushed to three, sir," she said softly.
"Noted." His reply was curt, and he didn't glance at her.
Her chest tightened a little, though she forced a smile before stepping out. This was her life: dedication without recognition, loyalty without reciprocation. And yet, it was enough for her—at least, that's what she told herself.
The day stretched on, one demand after another. At the press conference, Ethan stood like a man carved of marble, answering questions with precision. Cameras flashed, and the world admired him. Clara stood just off-stage, her eyes never leaving him. She wondered if anyone else noticed the faint tension in his jaw, the tired flicker in his eyes. Probably not. Everyone else only saw the flawless CEO.
When the last question ended, Ethan turned and walked backstage. Clara handed him a bottle of water. He took it wordlessly, drank, then set it aside.
"You have dinner at eight with Mr. Villanueva," she reminded him.
"Cancel it," Ethan said.
Clara blinked. "Sir?"
"I said cancel it." His tone was sharper this time, final. He loosened his tie and sank into a chair, rubbing his temples.
It was rare—almost unheard of—for him to break routine. For the first time all day, Clara hesitated. She wanted to ask if he was all right, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she nodded, pulled out her phone, and rescheduled the dinner.
As she did, she heard him murmur, almost too softly for her to catch: "I'm tired."
Her hand froze over the screen. It wasn't the words themselves—it was the way he said them, like a man confessing something forbidden. She turned slightly, but his eyes were closed, his face unreadable again.
In that moment, Clara felt something stir in her chest. A dangerous, fragile hope.
Because for the first time, Ethan Reyes didn't seem untouchable.
He seemed… human.
And Clara knew that this was the reason she stayed—not for the paycheck, not for the prestige, but for the rare, fleeting moments when she glimpsed the man behind the cold façade. Moments that made her believe there was more to him than the world would ever see.
What she didn't know was that this small crack in Ethan's armor would change everything.
Forever.
By the time the clock struck seven-thirty, Clara was still at her desk outside Ethan's office, finalizing emails on his behalf. The other assistants and staff on the floor had already packed up, their chatter fading into silence as they left for home. But Clara remained, as she always did.
She typed quickly, her fingers flying across the keyboard, checking every line twice before hitting "send." Ethan didn't tolerate mistakes, and she couldn't bear the thought of disappointing him.
At 7:45, the office door creaked open. Ethan emerged, his jacket draped over one arm, his tie slightly loosened. The sight startled Clara—he was usually immaculate even at the end of a fourteen-hour day.
"You're still here," he said, his voice low.
She blinked. It wasn't unusual for him to notice her presence, but it was unusual for him to comment on it. "I'm just finishing up the last few emails, sir."
He studied her for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable, then gave a curt nod. "Lock up when you're done."
"Yes, sir."
He walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hall, and Clara watched him until he disappeared into the private elevator. Only then did she allow herself to exhale, her shoulders sagging.
She closed her laptop at eight-thirty, the building eerily quiet now. As she rode the elevator down alone, she caught her reflection in the mirrored walls—her bun slightly loose, dark circles faint under her eyes. She still looked professional, but the fatigue was there, etched into her face.
Outside, the city buzzed with night life. The neon signs, the honking cars, the hum of people who were free to laugh, eat, and live after a long day. Clara envied them sometimes, though she would never admit it.
Mang Tonyo was waiting with the car. "Long day again, Ma'am?" he asked gently, opening the door for her.
She smiled faintly. "The usual."
On the drive home, she leaned her head against the cool window, her mind drifting back to Ethan. She remembered the way he had rubbed his temples, the tired murmur of "I'm tired." It was such a small thing, but for Clara, it was everything. A glimpse of vulnerability in a man who was otherwise made of stone.
Her heart ached, though she knew it shouldn't. He was her boss, nothing more. But the lines had long blurred for her. His coldness didn't scare her away—it drew her in. She wanted to know him, to reach the heart that he kept hidden from the world.
The car stopped in front of her modest apartment building. She thanked Mang Tonyo, stepped out, and walked up the narrow staircase to the third floor. Inside, her small unit was neat but quiet. She slipped off her heels, hung her blazer on the chair, and collapsed onto the couch.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Sophia, her best friend since college:
Sophia:Clara, are you alive? Dinner tomorrow? Don't you dare say you're busy again.
Clara smiled weakly and typed back:
Clara:I'll try. Busy day.
Almost immediately, Sophia replied:
Sophia:Busy day = same excuse. You're married to that CEO, admit it.
Clara laughed softly, shaking her head. If only you knew, she thought.
She set the phone aside, changed into her pajamas, and brewed herself a cup of chamomile tea. Sitting by the window, she gazed at the scattered city lights, sipping slowly.
Her mind betrayed her again, replaying the sound of Ethan's voice, the way he had looked standing by the window that afternoon. Detached, untouchable, yet—just for a moment—human.
"Why do I care so much?" she whispered to the empty room.
Because deep down, she already knew the answer. Somewhere along the countless days of serving him, watching him, protecting him from chaos, she had lost herself. She had given her heart to a man who might never return it.
She sighed, finishing her tea. The clock read eleven-thirty. Tomorrow would come quickly, and with it, another marathon of meetings, phone calls, and demands. Another day orbiting around Ethan Reyes, the man she could never reach.
Clara turned off the lights and slipped into bed. As her eyes fluttered shut, one last thought lingered in her mind:
If only he could see me—not as his assistant, not as someone who makes his life easier, but as the woman who stays, who cares…
Her chest tightened, and sleep slowly claimed her.
Outside, the city pulsed with life. Inside, in the quiet dark of her apartment, Clara Santiago dreamed of a man who didn't even know she dreamed of him.
And so, her story began.