MY BOSS, HIS STUPID CONTRACT, AND ME.

RIIIIING.

The alarm shrieked so close to my ear I almost filed a complaint for attempted auditory homicide.

“Shut up, please…” I mumbled, flailing blindly.

Thud.

The poor thing ended up on the floor. The sound of plastic against tile was the official anthem of my adult life.

I opened one eye. Then the other. Nothing improved.

Peeling ceiling.

Crooked curtains.

Mental tally: late rent, maxed-out credit card, a fridge that went crick, crick, crick every time I opened it.

Hi. I’m Lia Moreno, twenty-something, aspiring functional adult and failing spectacularly.

“Are you alive?” my roomie yelled from the kitchen. “The coffee tastes like tragedy, but there is coffee.”

“That counts as motivation,” I answered, rolling out of bed.

My feet hit the cold floor. Brrr.

Half dressed, I planted myself in front of the mirror. Dark circles at “drama marathon” level, hair rebelling in all possible directions, and that expression of “can someone please reboot me.”

“Today’s the day, Lia,” I told myself. “Today you’re going to be a professional, serious wo—”

The towel slipped.

“Ow!”

Flop.

Towel on the floor. Dignity: zero.

I gathered what was left of my pride and got into my official exploited-corporate-worker uniform: black pants, white blouse that had definitely seen better days, and a blazer pretending to be expensive. Spoiler: it wasn’t.

In the kitchen, Mara was stirring a cup of very dark coffee with a level of enthusiasm that was actually scary.

“You look… functional,” she said, one eyebrow up.

“That’s the highest level I can reach on a Monday,” I huffed, grabbing the mug. “Did you already pay the power bill?”

“Define ‘already’…”

“Mara.”

“Relax, relax. I’ll do it today.” She flashed her maximum-charm smile. “You just worry about not losing your job. I’ll make sure the fridge keeps going bzzzz and not boom.”

Hard to argue with the logic of boom.

I took a sip of coffee. Gulp. Watery, but hot, so it counted as fuel.

While I was looking for my bag, my phone buzzed. Bzz, bzz.

New work email notification.

REMINDER: VEGA GROUP ANNUAL GALA – MANDATORY ATTENDANCE FOR ALL CORPORATE STAFF.

Dress code: formal.

Time: 8:00 p.m.

Location: Hotel Mirador.

I let out a groan worthy of a horror movie.

“That rich-people thing again?” I complained.

I worked in the communications department at Vega Group. Translation: I made PowerPoint presentations, edited press releases and plastered on fake smiles whenever someone in an expensive suit came near. My official position was “communications assistant.” My real role: low-cost wildcard.

“At least is there free food?” Mara asked, resting her chin on her hand.

“Yeah. There are also broken heels, unpaid overtime and existential crises,” I snorted. “It’s the ‘big annual gala’: speech by the lord of the universe, champagne that tastes like vinegar, and people pretending they care about the planet while they buy their third car.”

The lord of the universe, by the way, had a name and surname.

Adrian Vega.

CEO.

Heir to a gigantic empire.

And, according to hallway gossip, owner of the coldest heart in the city.

I’d seen him in person exactly three times, from a very safe distance, surrounded by people so elegant I wanted to hide my patched-up shoes. Always immaculate, always serious, always with that air of “I have better things to do than share oxygen with you.”

In my head, Adrian Vega was somewhere between a drama villain and a very expensive robot.

“Go anyway,” Mara said, taking my empty mug. “You never know when someone might discover you and offer you a million-dollar contract to make… I don’t know, corporate memes.”

“Mara, nobody pays a million-dollar contract for memes.”

“Tell that to the internet.”

I didn’t have time for philosophical debates, so I grabbed my things, kissed the air near her cheek and rushed out of the apartment at the speed of someone who was already late.

The city greeted me with its usual orchestra: honk, honk, motorbikes, voices, a dog barking indignantly somewhere. On the bus, squeezed between a snoring man and a girl watching a video without headphones, I went over my to-do list in my head.

Answer emails.

Check internal newsletter.

Prepare talking points for the HR speech.

Don’t insult my boss.

Don’t look at my bank account.

Simple.

The Vega Group building rose like a monument to capitalism: glass, steel, and revolving doors that looked like they’d spit you back out if you weren’t dressed according to the dress code.

Beep.

My access card chirped when I swiped it, and for a second I wished my bank account would make the same sound every time I got paid. A girl can dream.

“Moreno!”

The shrill voice cut me off. I knew it too well. “You’re late.”

I turned slowly. Clara, my boss, was marching toward me with a folder clutched to her chest and a smile that never reached her eyes.

“It’s 8:03,” I said, pointing at the clock with a shy smile. “Our start time is eight a.m. Technically…”

“Technically, people who are still on probation should arrive earlier,” she cut in, pinning me with her stare. “We have the gala today. I don’t want any mistakes. Is that clear?”

Thump, thump, thump.

My heart did a nervous little drumroll.

“Crystal clear, Clara,” I replied. Yeah, I know. One day my mouth is going to kill me.

Her lips tightened.

“Very original joke, Moreno. My office. Five minutes. We need to go over the event program.”

I watched her walk away, her perfect bun and her stiletto heels sharp enough to be classified as a weapon. I swallowed. Gulp.

“One day they’re going to build me a shrine for putting up with this,” I muttered to myself as I headed to my desk.

The communications department was a jungle: printers spitting paper, phones ringing, people rushing around with folders, mumbling things like “brief,” “branding,” and “deadline.” I sank into my chair, turned on the computer and opened the folder that haunted me even in my sleep: VEGA_ANNUAL_GALA.

The worst part wasn’t the work. The worst part was knowing that, despite everything, I needed that paycheck like I needed air.

The morning went by in a blur of emails, PDFs and calls.

“Lia, change the slide order.”

“Lia, the logo is one pixel too low.”

“Lia, that comma changes the whole meaning of the sentence.”

“Lia, do you think this color says ‘financial stability’ or ‘nervous breakdown’?”

By noon, my brain was going zzzzzz.

In the break room, while I tried to convince the snack machine to release my chips—clack, clack, clack—I overheard two coworkers whispering.

“They say the boss is making a big announcement tonight,” one of them murmured.

“What kind of big? ‘We’re firing half the staff’ big or ‘I’m getting married’ big?” the other asked.

“No idea. But if Adrian Vega ever got married, the news channels would do a live special.”

I rolled my eyes. The office’s favorite topic: the supreme boss and his mysterious private life. They had theories for everything—secret girlfriend, politician lover, mafia deal, robot, vampire… The only thing they hadn’t said yet was that he was a lizard in a suit.

I didn’t have time for that. I had an ongoing war with an Excel file that refused to cooperate.