If someone ever writes my biography, I hope they call it: Ruhi Kapoor - Girl Who Thought Her Boss Was a Wattpad Hero, Got Mentally Slapped, and Still Didn't Learn.

It's been exactly five days since I joined as Alessandro Romano's personal secretary. Five days of torture. Five days of me wanting to bash my head against my office desk. Five days of secretly watching his veins flex when he types 300 emails an hour - and then wanting to strangle him with his own tie the next second.

Let me explain: my boss is a robot in a tailored suit. He works from 7 AM to midnight. He doesn't smile, doesn't joke, doesn't breathe (I swear), and he expects me to match his inhuman speed.

"Miss Kapoor, retype this file."

"But sir, it's already perfect-"

"Do it again."

"Sir, I haven't eaten lunch-"

"Not my problem. Five minutes, Miss Kapoor."

I hate him. I adore him. I hate him again. It's a vicious cycle.

---

Anyway, today's disaster started with his phone. Or rather, his voice on a phone.

It was nearly 8 PM. I was alone in my little corner outside his glass office, speed-typing a contract while munching stale chips. He was inside - pacing like a panther, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and sharp.

All Italian. No clue what he was saying. But I heard my name twice.

Naturally, I did what any nosy, hopelessly curious girl would do: I opened Google Translate on my laptop, maxed out the volume, and typed whatever words I caught.

"Ruhi... incompetente... indisciplinata... lavoro... inutile..."

---

I pressed Translate.

Output: "Ruhi... incompetent... undisciplined... work... useless..."

Me: 😃😃😃

So that's what he thinks of me? Useless? INCOMPETENT? And here I was defending him in my head like some misunderstood villain!

The rage that boiled in my middle-class bones could power Delhi's streetlights for a year.

---

Five minutes later, my phone dinged: Miss Kapoor. Inside. Now.

I stormed in like a hurricane, fake smile locked and loaded.

He didn't even look up from his laptop. "Sit."

"No, thank you. I'll stand."

His eyes flicked up - ice grey and annoyed. "Is this rebellion, Miss Kapoor? Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"Maybe you should try being less rude, sir. Maybe try speaking English instead of insulting me behind my back!"

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Excuse me?"

I crossed my arms, righteous as ever. "I know what you said about me on the phone - incompetent, undisciplined, useless-"

He stood up. Slowly. Deliberately.

His desk separated us - thank God.

"First of all," he said, voice quiet like a blade sliding out of its sheath, "don't ever raise your voice in my office."

I tried not to flinch. Failed.

He stalked around the desk. Each step echoed like a death bell. He stopped one foot in front of me, towering, glaring down his nose like a bored king.

"Second," he growled, "I called you incompetente adorabile - which means adorably incompetent. I was telling my lawyer you make mistakes but I tolerate them. Because your stubborn mouth amuses me."

My brain short-circuited. Adorably incompetent? Tolerate me?

He leaned in. Close enough for me to see the flecks of stormy blue in his irises.

"Next time, Miss Kapoor," he said, voice low and lethal, "if you want to know what I think of you - ask me. Don't play games behind my back."

I squeaked. I swear to God, it was a squeak.

He straightened, cold mask snapping back on. "Now. Sit. We have three more contracts to review tonight."

"Tonight?" I squeaked again.

His lips twitched - was that a ghost of a smirk?

"It's barely 8 PM, Miss Kapoor. I work until I'm done. If you can't keep up, sei licenziata."

There it was again - that damn Italian word. Fired.

And what did I do? Did I run away? Did I cry?

No. I sat down, picked up my pen, and cursed every romance novel I'd ever read.

Because in those stories, the villain secretly melts in chapter two.

Mine? He just doubled my workload.

---

Being Alessandro Romano's secretary feels like volunteering to be a human punching bag - except the punching is done with emails, deadlines, and his razor-sharp tongue.

Hi again. Ruhi Kapoor here, the middle-class daydreamer who thought she could handle a villain CEO because she'd read a thousand mafia books. Spoiler: I can't.

It's exactly 11:06 AM on a Thursday, and I have already:

1. Reprinted the same contract three times because 'Miss Kapoor, this font is unacceptable.'

2. Delivered his triple espresso, only to have him taste it and say, "Redo it. Less sugar. You are not my grandmother, Miss Kapoor."

3. Eaten exactly half a biscuit, because that's all the break time my dear Italian demon allows.

---

Right now, he's barking instructions at me while pacing behind my desk. I can't see him, but I can feel him. Like a thundercloud directly over my head.

"Miss Kapoor," he snaps, "email the Paris team. CC Singapore. Call Mumbai for updates. Draft my speech. And book my dentist."

I swear I can feel my soul leaving my body.

"Yes, sir," I say sweetly, while mentally cursing every romantic fantasy I've ever had.

---

He suddenly stops behind me. I can feel his eyes drilling into my skull.

"You're slow today."

I clench my jaw. Don't say it, Ruhi. Don't say it. Don't-

"Well, maybe because normal humans require sleep, sir."

Silence. Dead silence.

Oh no.

He leans down so close I can see his reflection on my computer screen - hair tousled, tie slightly loose, eyes cold enough to freeze the sun.

"Did you just call me not human, Miss Kapoor?"

I squeak. Why do I always squeak?!

"N-no, sir. I meant you're superhuman. Like a... vampire."

Oh great. Perfect. Now he thinks I'm insane.

He straightens, expression unreadable. Then, without a single word, he walks back into his office and shuts the glass door.

---

I bury my face in my hands. I'm done. Over. I should just pack my bag and become a street poet.

A soft chime snaps me out of my pity party - his door swings open again. He stands there, one eyebrow cocked, holding a sticky note.

"Miss Kapoor," he calls dryly. "You forgot this on your desk."

He holds it up. I squint.

It's my to-do list - except I doodled little vampire fangs next to his name.

Oh.

My.

God.

I jump up to snatch it back, but he pulls it out of reach - a hint of something dangerously close to amusement tugging at his lips.

"You think I'm a vampire, Miss Kapoor?"

My voice comes out in a squeak whisper: "Sometimes. Who loves to suck my blood"

He steps closer, towering over me, his cologne wrapping around my poor, confused brain.

"For your information," he murmurs, voice low and lethal, " maybe I am "

He tosses the sticky note back onto my desk like it's evidence of a crime.

"Next time, focus on your work instead of your fantasies."

He turns on his heel, walks away, and shuts himself inside again.

---

And me?

I sink into my chair, cheeks on fire, half mortified, half swooning.

I hate him.

I hate him.

God help me, I think I'm doomed.

---