The week after the board meeting unfolded like a delicate balancing act. Clara buried herself in tasks—screening calls, drafting memos, reviewing documents with precision that bordered on obsession. She told herself it was about staying professional, about proving she could handle the pressure. But the truth was simpler and far more dangerous: she was trying to drown out the memory of that night.
The way Ethan had looked at her.The way he had said she was indispensable.The way her name had sounded in his voice, soft and unguarded.
It haunted her in quiet moments, slipping into her thoughts when she least expected it. And yet, every time she stepped into his office, his composure was flawless. He gave instructions, reviewed reports, scheduled calls—nothing in his demeanor hinted at the intimacy that had nearly unraveled them both.
But Clara noticed the cracks.
Like the way his eyes lingered on her a beat too long when she wasn't looking. Or how his jaw tightened whenever a male colleague stopped at her desk with a smile. Or the sharp edge in his tone when she mentioned staying late with another department.
It was subtle, but undeniable. And it terrified her.
That Friday, Clara found herself on the receiving end of an unusual request.
"Clara," Ethan said, looking up from his desk, "pack an overnight bag. We're flying to Cebu tomorrow morning. Client meeting, two days."
Her pen faltered against the notepad. "Of course. I'll book the hotel and—"
"You'll be staying at the same resort. Just… make sure you're prepared."
Clara's throat went dry. Overnight trips weren't uncommon in her role, but the thought of sharing close quarters with him after everything that had happened made her pulse race. Still, she nodded briskly. "Yes, sir."
The following morning, the airport was crowded, filled with the hum of travelers rushing toward their destinations. Clara, in her neatly pressed blouse and pencil skirt, clutched her small carry-on like a lifeline.
Ethan arrived moments later, sharp in his tailored suit, his presence commanding even in the chaos of the terminal. Without a word, he gestured for her to follow him through security, their steps falling into rhythm as though choreographed.
On the plane, they sat side by side in first class. Clara tried to lose herself in her tablet, reviewing the client's file, but every brush of his sleeve against hers sent tingles up her arm. Ethan, for his part, looked out the window with a brooding expression, his fingers tapping against the armrest.
Halfway through the flight, the flight attendant leaned closer with a practiced smile. "Can I get you anything, Mr. Reyes?"
Ethan ordered coffee, his voice clipped. Clara, flustered, asked for water. The attendant lingered a little too long, her smile warm, her gaze almost flirtatious.
Clara stiffened. She didn't know why it bothered her—this was Ethan Reyes, after all. Women noticed him. But when the attendant touched his arm lightly while setting down his cup, something twisted hot and sharp in Clara's chest.
Ethan didn't return the smile. Instead, his gaze flicked briefly toward Clara, as if measuring her reaction. She quickly looked away, her cheeks burning.
The resort in Cebu was breathtaking—white sands, azure waters, and villas scattered among lush gardens. The client meeting was scheduled for the afternoon, leaving them with a few hours of downtime. Clara tried to keep her focus, but the atmosphere made it nearly impossible.
As she walked beside Ethan through the resort lobby, she was acutely aware of how they looked: a powerful CEO and his ever-loyal assistant, traveling together. To anyone watching, the assumption would be easy to make.
Her stomach fluttered at the thought.
The client meeting was intense but successful. Clara took notes, kept the documents flowing smoothly, and subtly redirected small talk whenever it drifted off course. Ethan handled negotiations with his usual brilliance, firm but persuasive, never letting the other party gain too much ground.
By the time they left the conference room, Clara's shoulders ached, her hand sore from writing. She expected Ethan to retreat to his villa, perhaps to make calls or catch up on emails. Instead, he surprised her.
"Walk with me," he said.
The resort grounds were quiet in the fading light, the air warm with the scent of sea salt and frangipani. They walked in silence for a while, the ocean waves crashing gently nearby. Clara's heart raced with every step.
Finally, Ethan spoke. "You handled yourself well today."
Clara glanced at him, startled. "I just did my job."
"You did more than that." His gaze lingered on her, the same intensity she had felt in the boardroom. "The clients trust me because you make everything seamless. You make it look effortless."
Her breath caught. Compliments from Ethan were rare, and each one felt like a treasure she wasn't sure she deserved.
She forced a smile. "You give me too much credit."
"No," he said firmly. "Not enough."
The words made her chest ache. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the air thick with everything unspoken between them. The ocean whispered against the shore, a soundtrack to the tension coiling tighter and tighter.
Clara wanted to tell him how much she admired him, how much she cared, how every late night and early morning was worth it because it meant being by his side. But the words stayed trapped, locked behind the walls of professionalism she had built so carefully.
Instead, she whispered, "Sometimes I wonder if I'll always just be… your assistant."
The silence that followed was deafening. Ethan stopped walking, turning to face her. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes burned with something raw.
"You're not 'just' anything, Clara." His voice was low, almost rough. "Don't ever think that."
Her pulse pounded in her ears. She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, a voice called out from behind them.
"Ethan! I didn't know you were here!"
They both turned to see a tall woman approaching, elegant in a flowing dress. Clara recognized her instantly—Bianca Velasco, a socialite known for her connections in the business world. And, if gossip was to be believed, one of Ethan's former flames.
Bianca's smile widened as she reached them. "What a coincidence! I thought you hated resorts." Her eyes flicked briefly to Clara, her smile sharpening. "And who's this?"
Clara's stomach dropped.
"This is Clara Santiago," Ethan said evenly. "My assistant."
Bianca's gaze lingered on Clara, appraising, dismissive all at once. "Ah. Of course." She turned back to Ethan, her tone syrupy. "Well, perhaps we should catch up while you're here. Dinner, maybe?"
Clara's chest tightened, but she kept her expression neutral. Ethan hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded. "We'll see."
Bianca laughed softly, touching his arm in a way that made Clara's throat ache. "Don't keep me waiting too long."
As she walked away, the silence between Clara and Ethan stretched taut, brittle. Clara forced a professional smile, even as her heart cracked quietly inside her.
"Shall I prepare the notes from today's meeting?" she asked, her voice carefully steady.
Ethan looked at her, his eyes searching hers, as if he could see through the mask she wore. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, softly but firmly, he replied:
"Clara. Don't do that."
Her breath caught. "Do what?"
"Pretend you don't feel it."
The world tilted. Clara's heart stopped, then thundered back to life, wild and unstoppable. She opened her mouth, but no words came. Not here. Not now.
And yet, she knew: the cracks in their facade had widened. Soon, the whole wall would shatter.