Chapter 2: Script (Samantha)

Samantha's Point of View

I came in early today, mostly to avoid hearing another round of unpleasant comments from Walter. I didn’t really have anything scheduled this morning anyway—unless he suddenly decided to give me something to do.

It’s been almost an hour since I got here. Now I’m slouched on the office sofa, head tilted toward the ceiling, eyes closed as I try, unsuccessfully, to sleep off the weight of my worries. My eyelids are heavy, but sleep won’t come. Erwin, my younger brother, is about to enter college. And my father . . . he has dialysis three times a week.

Lost in my thoughts and with my eyes still shut, I didn’t even notice Walter entering the office. Not until he opened his mouth, instantly causing my blood to boil.

“I hired you to work, not to get paid while you sleep.”

I cracked one eye open and saw him walking toward his desk, brown leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder. No coat today—just a white long-sleeved dress shirt. And those black pants that look like they’re one wrong move away from ripping.

I watched him until he stopped in front of me, holding a brown folder he’d taken from his bag. He didn’t really approach—he stayed a few meters away and tossed the folder onto the table.

Of course he smirked when it landed perfectly. As if handing it over nicely was too much effort.

I glanced at the folder. Nothing written on the cover. I picked it up and looked at him.

He crossed his arms, eyes fixed on me like he couldn’t wait for me to open it. He looked strict—intimidating even—but somehow that authoritative look only heightened his appeal. It was infuriating how I could be annoyed and still find him attractive at the same time.

“What’s this?” I asked, lifting the folder slightly.

He let out an irritated sigh. “You could’ve answered your own question if you opened it first.”

I took a long, steadying breath—so deep it felt like it might be my last. Ignoring the part of my brain telling me to smack him with the folder, I finally opened it.

My brows furrowed the moment I saw the first page. Confused, I looked up at him.

“What am I supposed to do with your personal details?” I asked. Why on earth did I need to know his favorite color was blue? Or that he was allergic to shrimp?

He took a step toward me. I swallowed when I realized he was now only a meter away, with nothing but the small table between us. The real problem? I was seated and he was standing—directly in front of me. I tried to look at his face, but my eyes kept drifting lower. His pants were . . . distracting.

“Since I’ll be introducing you as my girlfriend, you need to act like you actually know me,” he explained. “For example, you’ll tell them you realized you loved me when you saw me fighting for my life, after you accidentally fed me food with tiny, unrecognizable bits of shrimp.”

He said it all so seriously. Not a hint of laughter—deadpan, as if he wasn’t weaving an entire telenovela right in front of me. Honestly, if I ever saw him on the verge of dying, I’d probably start preparing food for a fiesta.

“Wow,” I said, pretending to read the contents of the folder. Safer to keep my eyes there. “But what if they ask who fell in love first? Or how did our relationship start?”

He sighed. “Next page.”

My mouth fell open silently. I didn’t expect him to be this prepared. As I read through it, he continued talking.

“To make it realistic, we’ll say our love began here, at work. That I fell first. That I rediscovered love, something I hadn’t felt in years, when you walked into my life.” His tone didn’t even waver. I couldn’t believe he could say things like that with a straight face. “And since I have a background in dancesport, we’ll make them believe it wasn’t your hard work or your beauty that captivated me.”

My cheeks warmed at that single word, beauty, because for a second it sounded like he was actually calling me beautiful.

“It was your talent for dancing,” he finished.

I shot to my feet in shock. “What? Talent for dancing?”

He stepped closer. “Yes. We’ll pretend I caught you dancing here in the office.”

I lowered the folder and stood fully. “Wait!”

I held both my hands up near his chest. Something in me wanted to actually touch him, but I stopped myself.

“I don’t dance,” I insisted. “I don’t know how. Can we pick another lie? Or maybe just stick to the ‘you fell for me because I’m pretty’ version?”

He took another step forward, closing the remaining distance between us until my heart began pounding—slow but loud, like each beat was carefully measured. I swallowed hard when he cupped my chin and tilted my face upward.

“I don’t fall for beauty,” he said.

Our faces were so close I could feel his breath brushing against my lips—cool and minty, like ice. His gaze roamed across my features, studying every detail. It made me suddenly self-conscious.

“You have a talent for dancing because that’s what we’re going to make them believe. Understand?”

I barely heard him. His words felt like they were floating somewhere far away, drowned out by the weight of his stare. His eyes were so dark, pulling me in like a black hole.

We stayed like that for a few seconds. Too long, too close, until both of us snapped our heads toward the door when it suddenly opened.

“I should’ve knocked,” Sid, his best friend, said, lower lip between his teeth and eyes wide as he stared at us.