intended for CEO

receptionist, who smiles with that "I'm the most efficient person in the universe" smile. How she manages to always look impeccable, with a Colgate smile at eight in the morning, I'll never understand. "Hey, Isa! How was your weekend?" Clara's voice interrupts me as I barely start typing in my computer password. Of course she's already here. Clara appears with a glass of green juice that looks like it was made with fresh grass and the energy of someone who ran a marathon before coming to work. How is that possible? I haven't even had my second coffee yet. - Oh, the usual...

- I try to change the subject, already knowing where this is going. - The usual? Really? Because what I remember was you at the Ferraz party, laughing at everything and drinking like there was no tomorrow! And, by the way, where did you end up after that? - She leans over my desk with a curious look, waiting for details. The party. Yes, the damn party. I take a deep breath as I open my inbox and see an alarming number of emails piling up. Focus on the emails, Isabella. Clara won't settle for vague answers forever. - I left, that's all - I lie, praying that she buys the story. - "That's all," okay - she rolls her eyes, clearly not convinced. - So, when are you going to tell me who the guy was? The guy. I can't believe I'm stuck in this situation, trying to forget something that I'm not even sure happened the way I remember it. Clara is my best friend, but she doesn't need to know that the next morning I woke up with more questions than answers. And she definitely doesn't need to know that I'm starting to think that the "Dante" I met might not be who I thought. - What guy? - I try to play dumb, but the blush on my cheeks has probably already given me away. Clara smiles mischievously. - You're not fooling anyone, Isabella. But it's okay, I'll wait. Just please, next time, let me know before you disappear off the map, okay? - She punches me lightly in the arm and walks away, leaving me with a mixed feeling of relief and panic. Back at my desk, I try to focus on anything other than that night. Emails, meetings, reports... anything. Because, honestly, I'm not ready to face the possibility that I got involved with the wrong guy. And now, there's this little detail about a delay in my cycle that I'm pretending to ignore. CHAPTER 2: DISCONNECTED FLASHES You know that feeling when you try to remember a night and all that comes to mind are disconnected fragments? And, welcome to my life. The Ferraz party is still a blur in my head, like a poorly finished painting by an artist with no sense of perspective. But some parts are... well, almost clear. Enough for me to die of embarrassment every time I think about them. The party had everything to be a typical "Ferraz" event. A five-star event hall, a buffet with food that I couldn't even pronounce, and rich people showing off in red carpet-worthy outfits. I felt totally out of place, like an actress who walked into the wrong movie. "Isabella, stop hanging around there and come have some fun!" - Clara practically dragged me to the center of the party, laughing as she drank her second glass of sparkling wine. "Having fun" was the last thing I wanted. My plan was quite simple: socialize a little, drink as little as necessary so as not to seem antisocial, and get out of there as quickly as possible. That was, of course, until I accepted the first glass of wine. And after the first, the second, and the third... Everything started to get a little blurry from then on. I remember Clara introducing me to someone - a tall guy with an easy smile, the typical heir to a fortune who had never had to work a day in his life. In my alcohol-fogged mind, I immediately thought: Oh, of course, this is Dante Ferraz. Of course. - Nice to meet you, Isabella - I remember saying, trying to sound confident while my head was already starting to swim slightly. He laughed, that kind of easygoing laugh that makes any woman think, "Yeah, this guy knows he's cute." We talked about something completely trivial, me laughing at jokes that probably weren't even funny, until at some point - and I don't know how - we were dancing. Yes, dancing. I hate dancing in public. It must have been the wine, it had to be. And then, more lashes. He pulled me to the outside area of ​​the ballroom, where the music could still be heard in the background, but the atmosphere was calmer. I remember being dizzy, but not just from the wine. I was enchanted by the way he spoke to me, a natural charm that I hadn't expected. "So... are you always like this?" I asked, not sure what he meant by "like this." "Like what?" He smiled, leaning closer. I don't know what came over me, but at that moment I laughed. And then, he kissed me. The kiss. Yes, I remember that part well. It was like in the movies, with flashing lights in the background, the kind of scene where even the stars seem to conspire to make the moment perfect. Except, of course, in my case, I tripped right after, dropping my wine glass on the floor. Total elegance. After that, more disconnected flashes. A taxi, the two of us laughing like we were old friends, and then... the hotel room. Then everything becomes a blur. "Oh, Isabella... what did you go do?" I mutter to myself, as I look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I'm at work, but my mind is still stuck on that night. The night when everything started to go wrong. The problem is that, in my alcohol-addled mind, I was sure that I had spent the night with Dante Ferraz. But now, after investigating a little more, some details don't add up. The way he behaved, the fact that he didn't seem so... Dante. I mean, I even looked up pictures of him online-and let's face it, Dante Ferraz is impossible to ignore. If you type in "rich playboy," his face pops up instantly, and for good reason. He's ridiculously handsome. Like, magazine cover, billboard in the middle of a beautiful avenue. But when I look at his pictures now, something bothers me. I can't put the pieces together. I vaguely remember the guy's face at the party, but in my head everything is kind of blurry, like a badly done impressionist painting. What comes to mind is that he was just as handsome as Dante... but was it really him? "Did he dye his hair for the party?" I whisper to myself, as I scroll through Dante's Instagram photo for the tenth time. Dark hair, impeccable hairstyle, confident gaze. Yes, the guy I was with at the party had slightly lighter hair, but nothing a quick dye job can't fix, right? But... would Dante, the spoiled heir who only cares about his own appearance, go to the trouble of changing his hair for a family event? It doesn't make sense. And there's another thing. The Dante at the party-if that was him-seemed... different. He didn't speak with that arrogant tone that everyone describes. In fact, he was kind. Playful, even. He laughed at my jokes, at my clumsy dancing (ok, maybe he laughed at me and not at me, but details...). He didn't seem like the kind of guy who would look down on everyone around him just because he had a bank account bigger than my life expectancy. And now that I think about it, there's something else: his eyes. Dante has brown eyes, right? But at the party, I could have sworn his eyes were... lighter. Blue, maybe? But I was

wine and the cab ride back to the hotel. I try to console myself with the fact that it doesn't mean anything. I mean, it could just be stress. My cycle has never been regular anyway. Sometimes it comes on the right day, other times it decides to play tricks on me and be late, like now. That's it. It must be the stress. Work, life, that damn Ferraz party... It's all piling up, and my body is just reacting in the worst possible way. "There's nothing to worry about, Isabella," I tell myself, staring at my computer monitor, ignoring the fact that I'm in the middle of a crowded office.

"It happens all the time. Relax. It's just stress." But no matter how much I try to convince my brain to stop panicking, the idea of ​​being pregnant starts to hammer in my head. What if this delay isn't just stress? What if I'm really pregnant... by the wrong guy? No, no, no. Impossible. I'll give it a few more days. Wait. It'll definitely go down soon. I take a deep breath, leaning back in my chair and rubbing my temples. Breathe, Isabella, you've been through worse existential crises. This is just another one. Please, just be another one... CHAPTER 3: THE HOT GOSSIP I was trying to focus on my reports, still recovering from the anxiety attack I almost had earlier, when I saw Clara approaching with that smile of someone with a bomb about to explode. She never walks casually to my desk. No. When Clara walks like that, with a sparkle in her eyes and holding her cell phone like it's evidence of a crime, something big is about to happen. - Isa, you won't believe what I just found out! - she whispers, as if we were conspiring against the government, as she sits down in the chair next to me. I sigh, already knowing that I won't be able to continue working until I hear what she has to say. - Go on, just say it - I say, feigning disinterest while still trying to answer a rather complicated email. Who knows, if I seem busy enough, she'll leave faster. Of course it doesn't work. - Remember the Ferraz party? - she starts, and I freeze for a second. Ah, the party. My brain and I had made a pact to try to forget that night, but apparently Clara didn't get the memo. - Clara... - I start, already preparing myself for a long excuse about how I really don't want to talk about that night. - Wait! - she interrupts me, grabbing my arm with childish excitement. - I know you don't want to talk about the party. I know! But this gossip is hot. I can't ignore it. I roll my eyes. Clara always manages to drag me into these conversations, even when I know I should stay away. "Come on, just let it go. What now?" I finally give in, putting the email aside. "Dante Ferraz, the host of the party and hot playboy of the moment, got completely drunk that night," she says, as if she were revealing Batman's secret identity. "Wow, big news. The guy is a spoiled playboy, of course he got drunk," I say, trying to sound disinterested, but I can already feel my heart racing. "No, Isa, you don't get it. He got so drunk that... he doesn't remember who he slept with!" She drops this like it's the atomic bomb of gossip. I, on the other hand, freeze. What? How come he doesn't remember? Not that I expected a romantic serenade or anything, but does the guy really have no idea who he spent the night with? This can only get worse and worse. - And there's more - Clara continues, barely containing her excitement. - He's texting the girls who were at the party, trying to find out who the mysterious lucky girl is. Like, all of them. I feel the ground opening up beneath me. Texting all the girls at the party? That means he... he doesn't remember. Anything. Not even me. My stomach is in such a knot that I don't even know how I can keep breathing. - And you, did you get any texts? - Clara asks with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. She can barely hide how much fun she's having with this. - Maybe you're the mysterious girl? I laugh nervously, trying not to show the panic that's about to consume me. - Of course not, Clara - I answer, trying to sound casual. - That guy doesn't even know who I am. Thank God. She makes a face like she's not convinced. - Are you sure? Because, honestly, I think he would definitely hit on you. - Clara looks me up and down, as if she's weighing the odds. I roll my eyes, but inside, doubt begins to eat away at my insides. Did I receive a message and I didn't see it? Or worse, is he trying to find me and I'm running away from something that will end up following me anyway? "I didn't receive any message. And honestly, I hope I never see that guy again in my life," I say, a little harsher than I intended. Clara raises her eyebrows, surprised by the tone of my voice. "Okay, okay, you know what," she says, raising her hands in surrender. "But I would love to be in that girl's place, oh, I would love to! Sleep with Dante Ferraz and still be sought after by him? I would already be enjoying the fame." I give a forced laugh, but inside... everything starts to make sense. I didn't receive a message because, to him, I'm just another girl on the list. Or maybe, just maybe, he really is trying to find me and I'm here, with all this mess in my head. But now, with this new information, one thing is certain: it was him. Dante Ferraz was the guy I spent that night with. That guy with the movie-theater smile, the clear eyes that I shouldn't have mistaken for the real Dante, and... did I mention the fact that he definitely wasn't like the Dante on social media? It haunts me again. It's okay, Isabella. Breathe. You can deal with this. Maybe he'll never find out it was you. Maybe your name won't even be on his list. Maybe he'll move on and I can forget this whole mess. And let's hope so. "Well, I'll let you get back to work. I just wanted to give you this update," Clara says, standing up, still laughing like she's told the best joke of her life. I nod mechanically as I try to get back to normal, but my brain is far from emails and spreadsheets right now. If Dante doesn't remember me, then maybe I have a chance to escape this disaster without any major complications. After all, what could possibly go wrong, right? Okay, Isabella, take a deep breath. This is my new reality: I slept with Dante Ferraz, the most famous playboy in town, and he doesn't even remember. In fact, he doesn't even know who I am, and he's out there like a low-level detective, texting all the girls at the party. Lucky me, since I'm not on the list, right? I hope... Because, honestly, if this man shows up in my life again, I might as well bury myself under my desk and live there until I retire. But now that I know it was him, I can't stop thinking: would he recognize me on the street? Or am I really that forgettable? Not that I care about the opinion of a spoiled playboy, of course not... but am I? I roll my eyes. Oh, Isabella, stop it! You don't need this kind of drama in your life. I should be focused on work, on the report I need to deliver by the end of the day, not on... well, what happened that night. Yes, that's right. Work. My boss. The report. And here I am, sitting at my desk, trying to ignore the growing knot of anxiety that is Dante Ferraz in my head, while my brain screams: Pregnancy t

that's right. Work. My boss. The report. And here I am, sitting at my desk, trying to ignore the growing knot of anxiety that is Dante Ferraz in my head, while my brain screams: Pregnancy test, Isabella! PREGNANCY TEST!. I glance at the clock. It's still too early for a coffee break, but honestly, I deserve it. Just a minute away from all this chaos. But just as I'm about to get up, as if by Murphy's will, the phone on my desk rings. "Isabella, I need that report now." Jorge's voice, my boss, echoes in my ear like a drum. Oh, of course.

Because the universe couldn't be nice and give me a break, right? With no choice, I grab the papers on the table and walk to his office, trying not to look as disorganized as I feel inside. I arrive at Jorge's office door, knock twice, and go in. He's sitting behind his desk, leafing through some documents with the concentrated air of someone who thinks he's solving a great corporate mystery - but, in reality, he's just trying to calculate the budget for yet another useless meeting. "Here's the report, Jorge. It's all detailed just like you asked." I try to sound confident, because that's what I do: even when my life is falling apart, I keep delivering results at work. I'm practically an unbeatable professional, even if inside I'm falling apart. He looks up at me, adjusts his glasses, and studies the document for a few seconds. "Hmm... good work, Isabella. I need you to review this before tomorrow's meeting. See if you can finish it today." He turns his attention back to the papers as if I'm no longer there. "Sure," I reply, a tight smile on my lips. Because nothing says "no pressure" like a tight deadline and a possible unexpected pregnancy. I head back to my desk feeling like I'm about to explode. Okay, focus, Isabella. Work first. Pregnancy test... later? Maybe tomorrow? Or the day after? Yeah, that sounds like a good plan. The longer I put this off, the more time I have to pretend like nothing's happening. I sit down in my chair, open my computer, and stare at the screen, the words of the report dancing in front of me as I try to focus. But of course, my thoughts are more "Dante Ferraz" and less "budget meeting." "Focus, Isabella. Focus," I mutter to myself, as if that's going to help. The problem is, when your brain is torn between "does he remember me?" and "am I pregnant?" it's hard to do anything else. I take a deep breath, closing my eyes for a second. I need to finish this report and pretend like I'm a functioning adult, at least until the end of the workday. After that, maybe I can officially panic. CHAPTER 4: BACK TO MY DOMESTIC CHAOS Finally home. The sound of the key turning in the lock is the best symphony of the day, followed by the soft creak of the door opening. I sigh deeply, feeling relief run through me as I enter the small but comfortable apartment. I close the door behind me, leaning against it for a second, just to absorb the peace of being away from the madness of work. Just for a few minutes, without reports, without bosses, and without... chaotic thoughts about Dante Ferraz. Or at least, I try. My house is a reflection of my life: organized on the surface, but with some zones of controlled chaos. The couch in the living room has a blanket thrown casually on top-that is, casually since I gave up folding it a few days ago. A stack of books sits precariously on the coffee table, and my laptop is there, in the corner, staring at me as if to say, "Don't forget me, I still have work to do." "Not today, laptop. Not today," I mutter to myself, throwing my bag on the floor and kicking off my shoes. The first thing I do is head to the kitchen. My post-work routine is simple: something that involves comfort and carbs. I open the fridge, grimace when I find only an old salad and a container of expired yogurt, then head straight to the cupboard where I keep my salvation: instant noodles. Yes, it's not gourmet, but it works. I fill a pot with water, turn on the stove, and while I wait for the water to boil, I roll down the sleeves of my shirt, take a deep breath, and drag myself to the couch, where I collapse with an exaggerated sigh. Finally, my kingdom for a few minutes of peace. I grab the remote and start flipping through the channels, but nothing really holds my attention. Perhaps I should put some series of comedy, something that makes me forget the potential disaster of my life at the moment. Who knows a series about someone who has even more disorderly than mine? It's tormenting me from the party.-And if I'm pregnant? Return, right? Everything is consuming me in one way or another.What if it's pregnancy? What am I going to do? My life is already chaotic enough without a baby on the way. And how am I going to deal with him... Dante. If it's his... Of course it's his, who else would I have slept with? - Oh, Isabella, breathe! - I say to myself, turning off the stove and picking up the bowl of pasta. And of course I'm freaking out, but at least I can freak out with food in my hands. Sitting at the kitchen table, I eat slowly, while trying to get my thoughts in order. The plan is simple: live one day at a time. There's no point in freaking out too soon. I'll deal with this situation as soon as it becomes real, if it ever does. It's not like I have a choice. After the improvised dinner, I get up and take the bowl to the sink. I should wash the dishes, but honestly, I think I can leave that for tomorrow. My next step in the routine is, of course, the shower. The warm water falling on my shoulders always seems to relieve some of the weight of the day. I let myself relax a little, while I close my eyes and try not to think about anything - which, at this point, is practically impossible. After my shower, I put on my most comfortable pajamas, the ones that are almost falling apart from being so old, but that have exactly the touch of security and comfort that I need. I throw myself back on the couch, this time with the clear intention of not getting up for a while. With the remote in my hands, I end up putting on some random comedy. Maybe laughing a little will help me distract myself, at least for an hour or two. But, of course, even with the jokes on TV, my thoughts return to the same question: what if? Tonight, more than ever, it seems that this "what if" will follow me until I finally muster up the courage to take that test. Because, whether I like it or not, I need to face this reality. I take a long sigh, sinking even further into the couch, while I close my eyes for a moment, trying to find some comfort in the chaos that my mind has become. I'm almost falling asleep, the comedy on TV fading into background noise as my eyes begin to feel heavy. My body finally relaxes on the couch, and I think I can, at least for a few minutes, escape the chaotic reality that is my life right now. Until my phone vibrates. I open one eye, lazily, and pick it up from next to the pillow. Probably just a notification from some useless app. But when I see the screen... my heart stops for a second. There, at the top of the screen, appears a message notification from an unknown number. Normally, I would ignore it, but curiosity gets the better of me, so I unlock the phone and open the