Chapter 2 Marry Me, Boss

Ciara's POV

The room was spinning.

Not in the cute, rom-com way where the girl twirls under fairy lights, but in the realistic kind-the kind that came after six shots of tequila, a suspicious mix of cocktails, and whatever the hell Jules made us drink in that flaming glass.

I had been flying high a few hours ago. Promotion party, overflowing liquor, sizzling meat straight off the grill, and coworkers who were more like family cheering me on. We toasted to my new position-President's Secretary-like I had just been crowned royalty.

And for a while, I believed it.

For a while, I was unstoppable.

Until the call came.

It pierced through my hangover haze like a needle through silk.

Unknown Number.

I shouldn't have answered, not with half my face buried in a throw pillow and the taste of barbecue sauce still haunting my tongue. But I did.

"Hello?" I rasped, sounding like I gargled gravel.

"Is this Ms. Ciara Dela Cruz?" The voice was crisp. Clinical. The kind that said I have bad news and I won't apologize for it.

"...Yes?"

"This is the U.S. Department of Migration. We're contacting you regarding your current visa status."

That's when the nausea hit me.

Not hangover nausea-existential, soul-leaving-the-body kind of nausea.

"Uh... okay?"

"According to our records, your visa expired last week. We've sent multiple notices, but we have not received a response or application for renewal. Therefore, you are now under consideration for deportation proceedings."

I sat up so fast my head nearly cracked in two.

"Wait. What? De-Deportation?" I stammered. "No, no, no. There must be a mistake! I-I have a job! I just got promoted! I pay taxes-well, sometimes! I-"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. You have seventy-two hours to submit updated documentation or leave the country. Failure to comply will result in legal consequences."

The call ended. Just like that.

No empathy. No "have a nice day."

Just cold, hard doom.

I stared at the ceiling. Then at my phone. Then at the framed photo on my shelf of me holding my first U.S. paycheck like a trophy. I had made it. I had come here with nothing but dreams and a secondhand suitcase.

And now?

Now I was being erased.

I couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. I grabbed my coat, not even caring that it was inside-out, and stumbled into the street. My phone was in one hand, my dignity clutched loosely in the other. I needed air. Or liquor. Or a divine intervention.

It was the universe, I swear. Fate. Destiny. Karma with a megaphone.

Because as I turned the corner near the office district, heels clicking unevenly on the cracked pavement, there he was.

Lysander Eryx.

My new boss.

My infamously aloof, terrifying, devastatingly gorgeous boss.

Drunk.

I blinked, certain I was hallucinating. But no-Lysander, the immovable iceberg of the corporate world, was leaning against a lamppost, his dress shirt rumpled, tie hanging like a noose, a bottle half-empty in his hand.

"What the-Lysander?"

His head lolled slightly. "Ciara? Oh, you're the secretary?"

"You're... you're drunk?" I whispered, as if uttering a forbidden spell.

He blinked at me, eyes glassy, lips parted like he had no idea how he got there.

"I went to see a client. Client brought scotch. Scotch brought regrets."

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I took a step closer, heels sinking into the sidewalk crack. "What are you even doing out here?"

"Thinking." He squinted up at the night sky. "About firing people. About not firing you."

That... was somehow comforting and ominous at the same time.

And then I said it.

"I'm being deported."

His brows furrowed. "What?"

"My visa expired. I just found out. I don't have a green card. They're giving me three days before they kick me out of the country like a... like a returned Amazon package."

His expression shifted-confused, mildly horrified, and definitely still drunk.

And that's when it hit me.

Like a meteor slamming into Earth.

A thought. A completely reckless, vodka-fueled, utterly insane thought.

I gasped. "Wait."

He narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"You're a citizen, right? You own a company. You wear suits that cost more than my rent."

"Are you okay?"

"No! I'm about to be deported! But you-" I pointed at him like he was some divine loophole. "You can save me."

"Ciara-"

"Marry me."

Silence.

Even the crickets seemed to stop chirping.

Lysander blinked slowly. "...What did you just say?"

I stepped closer, gripping his coat like I was pitching a business plan. "It's perfect! You need a reliable secretary-check. I need a visa-check. We fake the romance, do the paperwork, and boom-problem solved."

He just stared at me, stunned and unblinking.

"Come on," I whispered, grinning like the maniac I was. "You're all about strategic partnerships, right? This is just one with a wedding ring."

"You're insane." He mumbled. "I don't want to marry any random girl."

"Possibly," I shrugged, "but I'm a loyal employee."

He let out a long sigh, running a hand down his face. "You want to marry me so you can stay in the country?"

"Desperate times," I mumbled.

Then-God help me-I batted my lashes. "I can be very convincing. I'll even make you coffee. With cinnamon. Just how you like it."

"I will do everything you want me to do. I can even flip right now if you want to!" I attempted to do a flip on the street to show him that I am not lying.

"What? Hey, woman, stop." He forced me to just behave instead of making a scene.

"I can be pretty flexible as well. I'd please every single one in your family if needed just so we can make sure that this whole thing will work. Tell me, what else do I have to do?" I whispered, desperate to earn the favor.

He looked away, muttering something under his breath. Then, after an unbearably long pause, he said, "...There'd be a prenup."

My heart skipped.

Was that... was that a maybe?

Oh my God.

What did I just start?