Face-Slapping12 min read
My Boss, My Heart, and the Wedding That Changed Everything
ButterPicks21 views
"I need to see you in ten minutes." Marshall's voice was flat through the line.
"I'll be there," I said, and I was already packing the folder. I had been Marshall Yamashita's chief secretary for seven years; I knew the sound of his impatience like the pattern on my palm.
"I only have twenty minutes," he added.
"Then you'll get twenty minutes," I answered.
I worked like that for years—fast, accurate, invisible until needed. I also loved him in a way that had nothing to do with first-name closeness and everything to do with quiet, late-night loyalty. I had been in love with him so long it felt like a habit I couldn't break.
The hospital had forced me to slow down. When the doctor said "bed rest" and "one week," it felt like a vacation I hadn't planned. Marshall had refused to approve any leave at first.
"You need me," I told him on the phone. "And you know the company's signing requires the secretary's presence. I own 0.5 percent. Could you cash me out instead?"
He looked up from a pile of paper, and his look was slow and amused. "When you get married, we'll cash you out," he said.
"I won't get married," I said without thinking.
He didn't laugh. "I had someone read your chart. You are meant to have two children."
I snorted.
He finally approved one week.
One week turned into a week in a small hospital, then a week of plotting to avoid saying the one thing I wanted to say and a day I picked to walk out of the hospital at noon, pretending I was fine.
"I live next door," he had told me when he set me up in the flat beside his. "You're my chief secretary. It's practical."
We had three floors between us and separate doors, but the elevator opened like a trapdoor. That day at the elevator, I saw him walking out of his apartment holding hands with a woman with long, wavy hair, high cheekbones, and a smile that felt like a blade in the back of my ribs.
"You're out?" Marshall said, looking startled. "Back to the office, then."
"Yes, Mr. Yamashita," I said. "Thank you for the week."
They rode the elevator together. The doors closed. My mouth was dry.
I called Daisy and asked, "Anything big happen while I was away?"
"Yes," she said, voice small. "A new female vice president joined this morning. Very glamorous. People say she has a strong presence."
"That was her?" I asked.
"Probably."
My heart turned sour. I drafted a message: "Mr. Yamashita, Mr. Rafael Esposito called for a wedding invitation for your engagement. I need a week off to go home."
He called before I could send it. "You found a way to go home? For laziness?"
"Mr. Yamashita, congratulations are in order if you're engaged."
"Yes, we're engaged. Don't make this harder." He put it like an order.
"Aren't you supposed to tell your secretary?"
"You'll handle the engagement party," he said. "You will arrange invitations, the gowns, the table counts. You know how to do this."
"Okay. I'll be there." I swallowed. "I'll come to the office."
When I knocked on the door of his office, the woman from the elevator was sitting across from him, smiling at me as if to say welcome, I've already won.
"Janessa, this is Aurora Ortiz. Aurora, Janessa Dickinson is the new vice president." He didn't offer more.
"Nice to meet you," Janessa said, with that same smile. Her eyes slid across me in a way that was polite on the surface and sharp underneath. "I've heard a lot about you."
He watched us, and he said, "Aurora, draft a list of suggested hotels—top three. Make sure the guest list is limited. We don't need the whole client list."
"Mr. Yamashita, you need to provide the family list for hotel rooms," I said. "And the gowns must be ready now. Time is tight."
Janessa lifted a brow. "So handy. So efficient."
"That's my job," I said, smiling.
"Go," Marshall ordered without looking up.
Outside the office, my assistant Daisy pressed a cup of hot water into my hands. "You look terrible," she whispered.
"Thanks," I said. "I can do this."
Inside I moved like a well-oiled machine selecting hotels, printing menus, even picking sample suits. They praised me; Janessa's smile had a hint of something like triumph.
"She must be proud," Daisy said later. "You look like you were the one running everything."
But pride didn't cover the ache. That night they brought porridge to my door—Janessa had insisted, Marshall said—because my stomach was still upset. Janessa handed me the bowl like a queen testing for poison.
"Thank you," I said. "You didn't have to."
"You've taken care of Marshall all these years," Janessa said as if that explained everything.
"He is my boss," I replied. "I did my job."
At three in the morning, with the porridge untouched, I cried alone. I didn't want to be a secret love; I wanted a life with dignity. The engagement party was two days away.
Rafael Esposito called and asked for an invitation. I sent one. I did the lists, booked the hotel, printed the menus, convinced the caterers to keep a room for two extra tables. I wore my best face and told my mother I would come home later. My mother did what mothers do—she insisted I meet men, set me up with dates while I felt like my life had been pushed off a cliff.
"You're thirty," my mother said the minute I walked into the house. "When will you settle? The world doesn't wait for anyone."
"I will marry when it's right," I said, but her voice was loud and fast like a judge.
I ran. I bought a ticket to Yunnan and walked until the noise in my chest eased. On the plane back, I ran into Antoine Sanchez—my doctor. He smiled like someone who didn't need to pretend.
"Are you well enough to be alone?" he asked.
"I'm resting. My heart is heavy," I said.
He looked at me like a friend might. "Come back to the hospital for a full check when you can. For your own good."
"I will," I said.
At the airport in our city, chance dropped him into my path again. Then Marshall arrived with his driver. The world shrank to a point, to the three of us. Marshall's glance at me felt complicated and quick as a shutter.
"This is..." Antoine introduced. "Antoine Sanchez."
"Marshall Yamashita," Marshall said, blinking as if somewhere a surprise had sprung open.
"You're back already?" Marshall asked when he learned I had been traveling.
"My leave just started," I said. "I'm still on break."
"My office is a mess without you," he said then, and for a moment the tone was almost tender.
"Then why don't you come by and I'll help?" I offered, trying to be polite. I didn't want to be a lamp they shaded with polite hands. He insisted I come to his house and help with packing. He made it a command, and I obeyed out of habit.
In his apartment I found a war. Clothes everywhere, his books askew—he lived like a man who had learned to be efficient enough not to notice details. I called a cleaning service and set the house in order. He sat wrapped in a wool robe when Janessa came in with a suitcase.
"You're back?" he snapped.
"My apologies," I said. "I came only to help."
"Why are you here?" Janessa said coolly, eyes sliding over me.
"I'm on leave," I reminded her. "This is just a favor."
She looked at him like a captain claiming his ship, then turned quickly to me. "You plan to move?" she asked.
"Yes. I bought a flat. I will move after the engagement."
She took that in like an animal smelling weakness. "Interesting," she said. Her smile had teeth.
When I left that night, I moved quietly. I loaded my things while Marshall found me on the stairwell, breath coming sharp.
"You're leaving?" he asked.
"Yes. I can't watch from next door while you and your fiancée live in one apartment."
"You don't have to," he said, as if it were a kindness. "Stay."
"No," I said. "I need to go."
He looked at me for so long that the world froze. Then he took my wrist like a man who had learned to take what he wanted. For a second, I thought he would stop me and speak, but he released me. "Do what you want," he said. "But don't make it ridiculous."
A week of quiet passed. Then his mother called.
"Can you meet me?" she asked. "I'm at the coffee shop under the office."
I came, careful, my coat buttoned. Mrs. Yamashita smiled at me like a warm hand. She asked about my family, about my plans. Finally, she said, with a tilt in her voice like someone testing water, "Does Marshall...have problems?"
"Problems?" I repeated.
"With...in that way," she said. "You have been with him for years. You two know him well. Is everything normal?"
My heart stumbled. "Mrs. Yamashita, there is nothing unusual. Mark may be private, but—"
"Don't lie for him," she said. "I'm worried."
"I haven't lied," I said.
"Please," she said. "If you know something, tell me. I want him to be happy."
I didn't tell her I loved him. I didn't tell her I had walked past their apartment and seen them together and felt like an intruder. I only said, "I'm his secretary. I care about him. If anything is wrong, I will help."
Mrs. Yamashita's eyes filled. "You are a good girl," she said. "Thank you."
Two days later, gossip blew through the office like a bird alighting on a wire. Janessa had accused Marshall of being impotent—said it in the office in a voice everyone could hear. "He can't—" she had said, sharp and cruel. The word tore through the floor like a storm.
My face went cold. I had seen the way Janessa had looked at me and compared me. Now she had broken a private thing into shards. When the rumor spread, people laughed and pointed and whispered. Rafael Esposito and several investors looked concerned. The company reputation wavered.
Then Marshall collapsed. He was rushed to the hospital. Word came: he had coughed blood. I went there because he was sick, because years of proximity had morphed into two truths—I loved him, and I upheld his work.
"What's happening?" I asked Daisy on the phone.
"Janessa is bargaining," Daisy said. "She says she invested and she wants forty percent."
"Forty?" I whispered.
"She claims she lent Marshal one million as an investment years ago, and now she wants forty percent or else she'll go public with allegations."
I felt angry, hot and fierce. My hands shook. "Meet me at the office," I said. "Bring the legal team."
At the company, I sat with the lawyers for an hour. My palms had paper cuts from years of folding contracts. I called Janessa and asked for a meeting.
She arrived in heels that clicked like a metronome. She had a smile that leaned sharp.
"You want to talk?" she asked.
"Yes," I said. "With witnesses."
"You?" she scoffed. "What can you do?"
"I'm here in Marshall's name," I replied. "He signed a power of attorney. Mrs. Yamashita and his father are present."
She stopped. Her face tightened.
"Lie to me," she whispered. "You don't get to play judge."
"Then tell us the truth," I said. "Why do you think you can take more than the records show?"
"I gave him a million," she said loudly. "I deserve more. I helped him grow the company. I deserve respect."
"Show us the paperwork," I said.
"I don't carry it," she said, voice high.
I slid the photocopy across the table: the bank transfer, the memo line: 'loan to M. Yamashita.'
"This is a loan record that lists it as a loan," I said. "Not investment. Not equity. The check was refunded, paid interest. You asked it to be 'loan' when you sent it."
Her smile fractured. "You forged this."
"No," I said. "The bank statement matches the records we recovered. You claimed to own thirty percent, now you claim forty percent. The shareholder registry does not list you. You never had stock certificates in your name."
She stood. "This is ridiculous. He owes me. He promised."
"Do you have an agreement?" I asked.
She slammed her palm on the table. "He promised."
"Verbal promises are not enforceable without documentation in our jurisdiction," I said. "You posted allegations in the office about his private life. You threatened to disclose personal matters in exchange for more shares. You attempted to coerce. That is extortion."
Her expression went from anger to stunned to furious. "How dare you—"
"Mr. Yamashita's mother is here," I said. "She is disappointed in your behavior."
"Disappointed?" Janessa laughed like a snapping wire. "You're on his payroll. You're protecting him."
"That's called loyalty," I replied.
Then Mr. and Mrs. Yamashita entered. Mrs. Yamashita's face looked older. She sat, looked Janessa in the eye and said, "You threatened my son. You came between us. We will not be bullied."
Janessa's breathing quickened. "I deserve fair treatment!" she cried.
"You will be compensated," I said. "This is how we solve it: you take a sum—one million five hundred thousand—and you leave, or we go to court. Legal fees will cost us both. We'll let the court decide who was right."
"You are wrong," she spat. "I will not be paid off like a thief."
"You will sign a release then," I said. "We will have a recording. You will sign before our lawyer. Or we will go to court."
She stormed out like a queen losing her throne, but not before she turned on me. "You think you can humiliate me? You think you can sit at his table? You're a pennypincher, a secretary. You have nothing."
The room breathed out. I didn't answer.
What followed was public and slow and designed for everyone to watch. The media did not come, but the staff did; they gathered, murmuring behind hands like stifled rain. Law waited with papers. Janessa re-entered the boardroom, face pale and tense, and sat. She was now the defendant in a circus she thought she could lead.
"Sign here," said our lawyer, a calm man named Brandon Kobayashi, who read the terms plainly: confidentiality, compensation, no further claims, and a clause stating any public allegation would be considered slander.
Janessa's face went through stages.
At first she was triumphant, smiling as if the room belonged to her. "I won't be bullied into silence," she said.
Then she looked at the paper. The word "slander" sat like a noose. She tried to speak. She began to deny everything. "He promised," she said, voice shaking. "He is indebted."
"Do it," Marshall's father said quietly. "Or go to court."
"He's sick," she cried. "He can't—"
Her voice cracked. The room watched. Phones appeared. People recorded. Her bravado thinned to fear. She started to plead, to bargain, then to scream, then to beg.
"Fine," she said. "Fine, I'll sign. Give me time." Her hands trembled.
"No," Brandon said. "Sign now."
Janessa's fingers hovered. A camera flash—or a phone—caught the moment. "You are sure?" the lawyer asked.
She put her name on the line with a flourish that looked more like a confession than an affirmation.
"Now," Brandon said, "shall we record you acknowledging your statements?"
"You can't—"
"Yes we can," he said.
The recording began. She had to admit on tape that she had accused him, that she had no written investment agreement to claim shares, that she demanded money in exchange for silence, and that she understood she had made false statements. She looked smaller with every admission. The witnesses watched and shifted. Coworkers exchanged looks—some stunned, some relieved, some embarrassed.
She began to break. "I—" she stammered. "I wanted a stake. I thought… I thought I could bargain."
"Who taught you this?" someone asked from the back.
"No one," she sobbed. "It was my choice."
Once the tape stopped, Marshall's mother stood and said, "You will not appear in our lives again."
Janessa's reaction was like a tide going out. She first tried to be angry—face red, fingers digging into the table. Then she tried to deny, "No, no, I didn't say that," then she crumbled, "I'm sorry," and finally collapse into pleading. People looked away. Phones were hidden. Some nodded. Someone whispered, "Good."
That scene lasted nearly an hour in the boardroom, but the consequences rippled longer. Janessa left the company with a check, a signed release, and a stain that would follow her reputation. She had been tested by the public and found wanting. Staff who once feared or envied her now treated her with the thin courtesy we give those who’ve fallen.
The punishment had been public: words recorded, witnesses in the room, her parents contacted, her demands unmasked. She had gone from triumph to humiliation, and the change was considered by many to be fitting.
After that, Marshall's health became the focus. He was in the hospital; I visited every day. He was quieter than the man I had known. I saw him with new eyes: not just a boss, but a person who could be hurt. At the bedside he asked me, softly, "Were you honest with my mother?"
"I was," I said. "I told her since I care what happens."
"Do you—" he started, and stopped.
"Do I what?" I asked.
"Do you still... like me?" he asked, voice small.
I surprised myself. "Yes."
"Even after..." He had so much pride I could see it in the way his lips pressed together. "Even if I had been..." He could not finish.
"Even if you had been broken," I said. "I love who you are."
He watched me as if learning to read a book for the first time. "If you still love me, then help me keep my dignity."
"You already have," I said.
He recovered. Not perfectly, but enough. When Janessa left with a signed settlement, the company breathed. Rafael Esposito left a message asking to stay close to the company as an advisor. Marshall's parents came by, and Mrs. Yamashita wept one evening in front of me.
"You kept him safe," she said. "You kept him proud."
"I barely did anything," I said.
"That's not true," she said. "You stood with him when others tried to break him. That matters."
In the months that followed, a rumor that had been poison turned into an armor. Marshall and I stepped into a place where duty slid into something like affection. He started to look at me differently—less like a resource and more like a person whose hands had known how to steady him.
"Will you stay?" he asked one rainy afternoon as we stood in the kitchen I had once stocked for him.
"For how long?" I teased.
"For life."
"You know I can't promise forever," I said. "But I can promise today."
He smiled then in a way that melted the last of my stubbornness. "Then let's be practical," he said. "Sign the papers. We will register quietly and be done."
We married quietly. No fanfare, no loud announcements. At the registry he said nothing dramatic. He held my hand and his eyes searched my face like a map. After the simple ceremony, when we walked out, someone from work clapped politely. Gossip didn't vanish—people whispered about motives, about who gained what. The whole office said I had married up, that I had used my loyalty as a ladder.
"Did you take the 0.5 percent as my dowry?" he asked once, teasing.
"You took my patience," I said.
Years later, a little boy arrived—a small version of Marshall with his father's dark curls and the same stubborn set of chin. When I brought him to the office at six months and the gossipers saw his face, the tone shifted. "This proves it," they said. "He's the father."
And for the first time since I had tended his schedule and ironed his suits, I sat in the office and heard laughter that was not mocking but warm.
"Do you regret?" he asked me one night as he wrapped an arm around my waist.
"Regret what?" I said.
"Everything you went through for me."
"I regret the nights I cried," I said. "But I don't regret how I learned to be brave."
He kissed my forehead like a benediction. "You were brave enough to keep me."
I smiled. The hospital bracelet that had once marked me as fragile became a memory I wore like a medal. I had walked a long road that included humiliation, a public showdown, and a quiet, brave marriage. My life was messy, true, but it was mine.
"Tell me," I said, leaning into him. "If the world ever says something cruel, will you stand with me?"
He looked at me like I was an answer he'd been waiting for. "I already do."
The End
— Thank you for reading —