Accidentally Yours, Mr. CEO

Chapter 1

"Whoa, this is insane!"
Across from me, Chloe Bennett gaped at her computer screen, practically whisper-screaming.
"Emma Sullivan, check your email. Now."

"What is it?" I yawned, exhausted from staying up late writing, and waved her off lazily.
"Why are you freaking out so early?"

"Someone just mass-emailed the entire company. The subject line is ‘Mr. Grant’s Secret Lover’." Chloe’s voice went up an octave.
"Does this mean Alexander Grant is off the market? Is this like... a public claim?"

Alexander Grant.
Our company’s CEO.
Thirty-five, single, ridiculously wealthy, and objectively hot—every unmarried woman in the building had fantasized about him at least once. Probably twice.

"You’ve got to be kidding. That’s so low-brow!"
Office gossip like this was the only thing strong enough to snap me out of my sleep-deprived haze. I clicked open my inbox.

Sure enough, the recipient list was endless—executives, managers, interns... everyone.

Whoever sent this must have been desperate or completely unhinged.
I mean, what kind of person would risk total humiliation just to get a point across?

I didn’t expect Alexander Grant to be that kind of person.
He always looked so put-together—polite, distant, unreadable. But behind the scenes…?

“Oh my God…” Chloe gasped sharply before I could even open the attachment. “The content. It’s… wow.”

Right on cue, my computer froze.
Of course. The company gives entry-level staff the cheapest, slowest machines known to mankind.

I jumped out of my seat and ran behind Chloe. Her screen showed a black-and-white Word doc full of dramatic punctuation and breathless ellipses.

Oh no. I knew that formatting.
That was a romance novel.
A CEO romance novel.

I scanned the page.
And couldn’t look away.

The vivid language, the heart-pounding scenes, the steam practically rising off the screen—

Whoever wrote this didn’t just dabble in fiction.
She lived for it.

And something about the way it was written felt... familiar.

But then again, all CEO romances share the same DNA—tears, tension, trauma. Nothing new under the sun.

"It’s so... detailed," Chloe muttered, practically drooling over the screen. "Do you think Alexander Grant is really that… enduring?"

Wait a second.

My eyes shot to the top-left corner of the screen.
The sender’s address started with xt…

Hold up.
That looked exactly like my email.

“Emma Sullivan, Mr. Grant would like to see you in his office.”

The voice snapped me back to reality.

I lunged for Chloe’s mouse and slammed the document shut.
Right there, plain as day—xt123.

It was me.

I had accidentally sent last year’s steamy CEO romance draft to the entire company... thinking it was my year-end report.

---

Chapter 2

Alexander Grant sat in his leather chair, back turned to me, seemingly admiring the skyline.

I stood there, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole.
If I could dig a hole deep enough, I’d rent a one-bedroom shame apartment and never come back.

"You’re Emma Sullivan?"
His voice was cool and crisp, filling every corner of the room like a trap I couldn’t escape.

“I mean... if I said I wasn’t, you wouldn’t believe me anyway, right?”
I forced a smile. It was awkward. Deeply, irreversibly awkward.

"You write well."
He finally turned around—gray suit, two undone buttons on a white shirt, tie hanging loose.
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he spoke. Sexy. Unfairly sexy.

Oh no.

My brain betrayed me.
All I could think about was a scene I’d written.

"It’s just a little... exaggerated," he added, raising an eyebrow.
Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes glinted with amusement.
"Seven times in one night? I don’t remember being that talented."

Cough cough.

I nearly choked on my own spit.

“Mr. Grant, I—I swear I didn’t mean to—”
Facing my real-life fantasy man, I was sweating bullets.
"I promise it won’t happen again."

"You mean emailing the wrong file... or writing novels in the first place?"
He looked entirely too entertained.

“B-B-Both?”
My whole nervous system was malfunctioning.
Every pore on my body screamed in terror.

"I’m serious though. It was a good read."
And just like that, he circled back.

God.
If I’ve done something wrong, let HR fire me.
Why did I have to be punished with flirtation?

Right then and there, I vowed: I must save up for a new laptop.
Work is work. Writing is writing. Never mix the two.

"How about a transfer to the executive office?" he said, as casually as ordering coffee.
"You can write reports for me directly."

Hell no.

What did he want me to write—his measurements?
His preferences? His stamina log?

This was punishment.
A petty, slow-burn kind of revenge.

“Mr. Grant, I—I don’t think I’m qualified. I’d really prefer to stay in the strategy department a bit longer...”
I couldn’t exactly say no, so I went with respectful begging.

"I think you’re more than qualified," he replied, smirking slightly.
"You wrote me so well, I almost believed I was in love. Kicked out socialites, destroyed rivals, bought half the world’s villas for you—"

He quoted my damn novel.

Word. For. Word.

“Mr. Grant, I’m really sorry.”
He sounded amused, but I could tell by the subtle twitch in his brow—he wasn’t entirely joking.
If I kept playing dumb, I might just get fired. And without severance.

"I was exhausted last night. It was a genuine mistake. Whatever punishment you decide, I’ll—"

"Transfer approved."
He cut me off, voice calm but final.

"You’re moving to the executive office. Starting today."

---

Chapter 3

Originally, I was just an office nobody.

Plain life. Plain looks. Plain body.
Everything about me was plain.

I rented a tiny apartment in Westbridge Suburb, and spent four hours a day commuting by subway.
Breakfast? Two buns and a cup of soy milk.
Lunch? Takeout under $3.
Dinner? One sad little apple.

Even if someone made a movie about me, no one would watch it.
Even if the director begged on livestream, crying and kneeling for attention, the theater would still be empty.
Passersby would just shrug and say: “Look, another hopeless loser.”

But thankfully, I had a secret identity.
I was also... a web novelist.

More specifically, a CEO romance author.

That’s right—I loved reading CEO romances so much, I started writing my own.

And every single one of my leading men?
Modeled after my boss.

Not because I had a crush on him or anything.
It’s just... he was literally the only CEO I knew in real life.

And isn’t art supposed to imitate life?

To honor that sacred creative principle, I reluctantly played every female lead myself.
Even though I didn’t dare look him in the eye at work...

In my novels, he was my obsessive simp.
He worshiped me. And yes, kept me up all night.

Ironically, it was one of those ridiculous, over-the-top CEO novels that got me promoted three levels overnight—straight into Alexander Grant’s inner circle as his personal assistant.

Chloe Bennett looked at me like she’d just seen a real-life plot twist.
“Well played, Emma Sullivan. The whole ‘pretend to be clueless, then win it all’ strategy? Genius.”

“Please. It’s more like a lamb walking into a lion’s den.”
I shoved files into a box, dead inside.
“Who knows what Alexander Grant is planning? I humiliated him in front of the entire company…”

“Humiliated?” Chloe glanced around and leaned closer, lowering her voice.
“Are you serious? The entire office thinks you’re his secret fiancée. Like, the future Mrs. Grant.”

God help me.

Has no one in this place ever read fiction before?

These things are made up. Not evidence in court.

Before I could defend myself, Chloe smirked and added,
“I know, I know—you’re gonna say it’s just a novel. But every story starts with a little bit of reality, right?”

I had no comeback.

Writers like me—we lie for a living.
Explaining our creative process to normal people is a lost cause.

“There’s just one thing I need to know,” Chloe added, her cheeks turning pink.

“What?” I groaned.

“Is Alexander Grant really that... talented?”

I choked again. This was becoming a pattern.

Expressionless, I stared at her for a full ten seconds before replying:
“Yes. He has stamina.”

The first day I stepped into the executive office, everyone treated me like royalty.

“Emma, here’s your desk.”
“Emma, we’ve set up your new computer.”
“Emma, your fresh-brewed coffee.”
“Emma... Emma...”

Overnight, thanks to Alexander Grant, I went from “that random girl from Strategy” to “suspiciously important Emma.”
Just like that, I’d made it to the top.

As I stood there, stunned and awkward, Alexander Grant walked in.

“Morning, Mr. Grant.”
“Good morning, Mr. Grant.”

All the people who were just fawning over me?
Immediately switched sides, bowing and scraping like he was royalty.

“You can all leave. I need to speak with Emma Sullivan.”

With one sentence, he cleared the room.
It was just the two of us now.

I stood up, suddenly very aware of every wrinkle in my clothes, avoiding his gaze like it was radioactive.

Was something about to happen?

Something... novel-worthy?

But after a long silence, Alexander finally spoke.
"You made it to the executive office. Couldn’t you at least wear something... appropriate?"

Excuse me?

“This outfit is fine!”
I tugged at my wrinkled skirt.
It had survived the subway during rush hour. Honestly, the fact that I made it here in one piece was a miracle.

“Fine? Really?”
He frowned slightly... and walked out.

Yup. Just like that. Walked away.

No drama. No tension.
Just a man with a serious grudge against my fashion choices.

I stood there frozen.

He went through all that trouble—clearing the room, setting the mood—just to criticize my outfit?

---

Chapter 4

I froze when the latest season Chanel suit arrived in the executive office.

"Wow, Mr. Grant is so romantic. Buying Emma clothes like that?"
"Ugh, I’m choking on this mountain of PDA. Being single has never hurt more."
"This is too sweet. I’m obsessed. They’re so cute."

I pretended to be calm, but my hands were shaking as I googled the price on my phone.

The official site: $2,800.
On Pindudu (the shady knock-off site): $18.99.
God knows which one he bought from.

Either way, I couldn’t accept it. That would only make the rumors worse.

Acting on pure panic, I stormed into Alexander Grant’s office—no knocking, no thinking.

He was mid-meeting with a client.

A bald man turned as I barged in, and his head practically sparkled under the lights.

"This must be..."
"Yes," Alexander said smoothly, picking up the thread without missing a beat. He looked at me with a warm, indulgent smile. "She’s a little headstrong."

"No problem, no problem." The bald man grinned at me, clearly amused. "Business can wait. What’s important is keeping the home front happy."

Watching the two of them exchange meaningful looks made me feel... emotionally attacked.

"Mr. Grant, this really isn’t appropriate," I blurted, ignoring the strange vibes between them as I placed the suit on his desk. "You’re making people misunderstand."

"Misunderstand what, exactly?"
His gaze burned into me.

"I... I..."
God, that look again. The one that screamed CEO with unresolved tension. It turned my brain to mush.

"I can’t accept the outfit."

"Why not?"
He tilted his head, all innocent curiosity, like some kind of clueless golden retriever.

"Because... we’re just... colleagues," I said, mustering all the courage I had. "I can’t accept such an expensive gift."

"A gift?" he repeated, visibly confused.
"You thought I was giving it to you?"

Wait—wasn’t he?

Unless... oh no.
Was someone else trying to hit on me?

"You’re my personal assistant," he said, clearing it up casually. "You should look the part. I picked the style, but the cost will be deducted from your paycheck."

Excuse me?

Did Alexander Grant just say what I think he said?

My salary was only $2,800 a month.
If that suit wasn’t a knockoff, I’d basically be working for free for the next ten months.

Yes, I’d been promoted.
No, my salary hadn’t changed.

CEOs. Heartless.
Petty CEOs? Even worse.

For a moment, I seriously considered flipping his desk and quitting on the spot.

But... I hadn’t used up my paid leave.
I hadn’t picked up my holiday bonus.
And most importantly, my romance novel royalties only made $0.30 a day. I couldn’t even afford bottled water without comparing prices.

Alexander must’ve sensed my inner collapse, because he shrugged and said generously,
"Pay it off gradually. No rush."

Oh, wow. Thank you so much, Your Majesty.

To get my money’s worth, I wore the Chanel suit everywhere—even on the subway.

It might’ve squeezed me into a human sandwich, but I stood taller than ever.
What can I say? Clothes really do make the woman.
Even if I was flattened, I was the classiest pancake on that train.

---

Chapter 5

Three days later.

Alexander informed me we’d be attending a gala together.
And just like that, another outfit showed up—this time a gown.

Price tag? $3,600.

I nearly cried.

Standing in front of him like a broke Cinderella, I begged,
"Mr. Grant, do I have to? The Chanel’s still in perfect shape."

"You can’t wear business attire to a gala," he replied flatly, fingers flying over his keyboard, not even glancing at me.

"But..."
I looked down at the gown.
Every stitch screamed luxury. Every thread whispered debt.

What kind of job was this?
The higher I climbed, the deeper in debt I fell.

Since I figured the dress was returnable, I spent the entire evening moving like a mannequin—too afraid to eat, drink, or breathe wrong.

I stuck to Alexander like a decorative statue.

"That’s her. The one Alexander Grant’s been hiding away."

"Seriously? That’s her?"

"She’s got that quiet, delicate look. Like she doesn’t belong in the real world."

"Please. She’s totally fake. I heard she even wrote about their sex life and emailed it to the whole company. Desperate much?"

"I don’t get it. What does he see in a girl like her?"

Two socialites gossiped loudly enough for me to hear every syllable.
Embarrassed, I tightened my grip on Alexander’s arm without even realizing.

"Mrs. Hathaway. Mrs. Whitmore. Long time no see."
Alexander took my hand, then led us straight toward the gossip queens.

"You were just discussing something that concerns me, I believe?"

"Oh no, not at all!"
Both women froze, clearly uncomfortable.
"So lovely to see you again, Mr. Grant. And this must be..."

"My fiancée," he said smoothly, cold smile in place.
He lifted my hand and kissed it lightly.
"She’s young and still learning. I hope you’ll be patient with her."

"Oh, of course, of course..."
They forced a few polite laughs, then made their retreat.

My hand tingled where his lips had touched. I yanked it back, blushing like crazy.
"Mr. Grant, you can’t say stuff like that."

"I didn’t say anything untrue," he replied with a wicked smirk.
"Isn’t that exactly how you wrote it in your novel?"

Before I could argue, he slid an arm around my waist, pulling me close.
His breath tickled my ear.
"Play along. Someone’s coming."

I always thought writing would add joy to my life.
I never imagined it would become my life.

In that moment, everything I’d ever written felt... juvenile.

Alexander Grant’s presence—his scent, his touch—was overwhelming.

Spring winds. Summer rain. Autumn leaves. Winter snow.
Forgive me for being a writer, but even that couldn’t capture a tenth of what I was feeling.

---

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