When my husband fell seriously ill, I finally had a reason to step into his office after seven years of marriage. All I wanted was to ask for his sick leave. Instead, the receptionist froze, eyes widening as she studied my face. “The man you’re talking about… he owns this company. Our boss and his wife arrive and leave together every day. Unless… you’re not his wife.” In that second, my world cracked open.

Her lips parted, then pressed together. For a second she just stared at me, and I felt the urge to check if I’d spilled soup on myself without noticing.

“I’m… sorry,” she said at last. “Are you serious?”

I stiffened. “About my husband being sick?”

“No, I—” She shook her head quickly, at war with good customer service. “The man you’re describing… he owns this company. Our boss. The CEO.”

My heart stuttered in my chest.

“Owns?” The word came out wrong, oddly shaped in my mouth, like it belonged to someone else’s language.

She leaned forward slightly, her eyes scanning my face, my cardigan, the worn strap of my bag.

“Mr. Steven Condan,” she said carefully. “Our CEO. He and his wife come and leave together almost every day. Unless…”

She trailed off, and I watched the thought land in her mind.

“Unless you’re not his wife.”

I didn’t drop the folder, but my fingers loosened. I think something in my face must have given me away, because her expression softened instantly, alarm replacing confusion.

“I mean,” she added quickly, “perhaps I misunderstood. There might be—”

The chime of the elevator behind me cut through her words.

I turned.

And there he was.