Please Delete That Email, Mr. CEO

Chapter 1 — The Email That Ruined My Life

It all started because I was tired. Bone-deep, brain-melting, eyes-barely-open tired. I’d pulled two all-nighters finishing three client proposals and barely had time to breathe, let alone double-check my inbox. So when I wrote that email—the one meant for my best friend Amanda—I wasn’t exactly running at full capacity.

Subject line? "New CEO = Hot but Probably a Cyborg"

The body of the message was worse:

"Amanda, I swear, if Graham Stone says 'circle back' one more time I will circle back and slap his overpriced cheekbones. The man looks like he was grown in a tech billionaire’s lab: perfect jawline, no emotions, runs entirely on espresso and internalized superiority. I'm 92% sure he doesn’t even have a real heartbeat."

Oh, and then, just for fun, I added:

"Also, I bet he hasn’t had sex since the Obama administration."

Sent.

Except not to Amanda.

To: Graham Stone

The new CEO.

My boss.

The room spun. I dropped my iced coffee. It splattered all over my keyboard, which somehow made the moment even more poetic.

"No, no, no, no, no," I whispered, clicking furiously, trying to unsend the message. But Outlook had already smugly confirmed: Your message has been sent.

I considered yanking the server cable out of the wall. I briefly weighed the ethics of arson. Instead, I sat frozen in my cubicle, staring at my screen like it might somehow time-travel me back five minutes.

And then... nothing happened.

Not for an hour. Not for two.

At 3:17 p.m., I got an email reply. From him.

"Thanks for the feedback. I’ll try to emote more in tomorrow’s meeting. Also, espresso is effective."

I didn’t even open it fully. Just those two lines in the preview were enough to end me.

I stood up. “Everyone, it’s been real. I’m changing my name, moving to rural Norway, and marrying a fisherman named Oskar. Don’t call me.”

People laughed. They thought I was joking.

I was not joking.

What followed was the longest, most agonizing afternoon of my career. I didn’t get fired. I didn’t get called into HR. I didn’t get so much as a look from the ice king himself.

Which, frankly, made it worse.

By the time I got home, I had imagined seventeen different versions of my professional death. All of them involved Graham Stone slowly crushing my career under his leather-soled shoe while sipping espresso.

I curled into a blanket burrito, stared at my ceiling, and began googling “can you legally change your identity after public humiliation.”

It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized things were about to get worse.

Much worse.

Chapter 2 — He Actually Replied to That?

The next day started normally enough. Birds chirped. The sun rose. I spilled coffee on my blouse.

You know. Standard Tuesday.

I tiptoed into the office like a woman walking into her own funeral, sunglasses on and soul halfway out of her body. I avoided eye contact, ducked into the break room, and planned to hide there until I could invent a new personality.

But people weren’t giving me pity looks.

They were smiling.

By the time I got to my desk, I understood why.

The large TV in the open workspace—the one we usually used for presentations or surprise birthday messages—was displaying my email.

Yes. My email.

The subject line, the rant, the whole damn thing.

At the bottom, in Helvetica bold: “Company Culture, Unfiltered.”

I wanted to die.

Then I noticed the caption in the corner.

"Slide prepared by Graham Stone."

He did this. On purpose.

I spun around, ready to march to his glass-box office and demand an explanation. But before I could reach the door, it opened.

And there he was.

Tall. Immaculately dressed. Hair like a stock photo. The man himself.

“Ms. Lewis,” he said, voice calm. “My office. Now.”

My knees almost gave out.

I followed him like a cartoon criminal heading for the gallows.

His office was minimalist, of course. Just gray tones, clean angles, and a suspicious lack of personality.

He gestured for me to sit.

“So,” he began. “I trust you’ve seen the screen.”

I nodded, mute.

“I thought it would be a good kickoff to our new internal engagement initiative. Honest feedback from real employees.”

“I didn’t mean for you to actually read that,” I blurted.

He raised an eyebrow. “You sent it to me.”

“I meant to send it to Amanda!”

“Your best friend who also works here? Yes, I know.”

My jaw dropped. “You—what?”

“She’s in my spin class.”

“YOU DO SPIN?!”

He gave me a deadpan look. “Yes. I’m capable of movement.”

I wanted to melt into the floor. “So. Are you going to fire me?”

“Why would I fire you?” he asked. “You’re one of our most productive team leads. I checked your numbers.”

“Wait—you read my work?”

“Of course. I also read your fiction.”

I froze. “Excuse me?”

“The internal chat logs. Your anonymous account? Not very anonymous. ‘IceKing_69’ gave you away.”

“I… I need to move to another continent.”

He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “I want to offer you a new role. Effective immediately.”

“…A role?”

“Special Coordination Liaison. You’ll report directly to me. Help me… improve relatability.”

“You want me to make you more likable?”

“Let’s call it... calibration.”

I stared. “Is this punishment or a promotion?”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “Both.”

I thought about it.

More money? Sure. Working directly under the cyborg CEO who now had blackmail-level receipts on me? Less ideal.

But something in his expression said he was having fun. And weirdly, so was I.

I nodded slowly. “Fine. But I want a raise.”

He held out a hand. “Deal.”

As I shook it, I realized: I had just agreed to become the emotional tutor of a corporate robot.

What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter 3 — You Don’t Plan to Quit, Do You?

If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I’m extremely consistent in three areas: overthinking, overreacting, and drinking coffee like it’s holy water. That morning, I checked all three off my to-do list by 9:07 a.m.

Because I had accepted a new role.
Reporting directly to him.
Graham freaking Stone.

The man I had once described—in writing—as “probably battery-powered and tragically abstinent.”

And now, somehow, he was my boss boss. The top-tier. The final Pokémon evolution of all bosses.

I wasn’t ready.

Sure, I’d asked for a raise—because I’m not dumb—but what I really needed was a full personality transplant. One where I didn’t panic and start quoting SpongeBob whenever I was nervous. Spoiler: I was nervous all the time.

That morning, I arrived at the office thirty minutes early just to practice pretending I was confident. I made it all the way to the elevator, stood tall in front of my reflection in the mirrored doors, and told myself:

“You’re not here to be terrified. You’re here to fix a human robot.”

Then the doors opened.

And there he was.

Graham Stone. CEO. Professional jawline. Destroyer of dignity.

Holding two coffees.

“Miss Lewis,” he said, completely unfazed. “I assumed caffeine would be necessary.”

I blinked. “You got me coffee?”

“One with oat milk, sugar-free vanilla, and an embarrassing amount of whipped cream. Your usual.”

“How do you even know that?”

“You’ve ordered it every day at 8:44 from the lobby café. The barista told me.”

“Oh my god. I’m being monitored.”

He handed me the coffee. “You’re being observed. There’s a difference.”

I stared at the cup like it might explode.

We walked in silence to his office. Or rather, he walked like a panther in a tailored suit, and I stumbled like a gremlin wearing discount heels.

His assistant gave me a thumbs up as I passed. She had that look people get when they know gossip is unfolding in real time.

Once inside, Graham sat behind his desk, tapped the table lightly, and said, “I’ve created a file. Project: Humanize Stone.”

I nearly choked on my whipped cream. “You named it?”

“I take growth seriously.”

“Do you also take therapy? Because that might be quicker.”

He ignored that. “Let’s begin. Tell me: what makes people… approachable?”

“Not quoting quarterly reports at birthday parties, for starters.”

“Noted.”

“And maybe smiling occasionally.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Like this?”

He smiled.

It was horrifying.

Like watching a serial killer practice empathy.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s… not start there.”

I pulled out my laptop. “We need a strategy. You want relatability, but we have to build credibility first. You can’t jump from ‘robot overlord’ to ‘fun office dad’ overnight. The system will reject it.”

He nodded slowly. “And how do you propose we build that bridge?”

“Step one: stop using corporate jargon in casual conversation. No one should say ‘cross-functional integration’ during happy hour.”

He looked mildly offended. “But it’s accurate.”

“It’s a buzzkill.”

“Fair.”

“Step two: participate in the group Slack channel. Say something normal. Like ‘TGIF.’”

“I don’t celebrate arbitrary temporal milestones.”

“You do now.”

He paused. “Is there a step three?”

“Yeah. You have to eat lunch with the team. Outside. In sunlight.”

His eyes narrowed. “You mean… outside the building?”

“Yes.”

“In the open air?”

“Correct.”

He sat back, like I had just suggested public execution. “That sounds… unsanitary.”

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered.

This was going to be harder than I thought.

We went back and forth like that for an hour—me suggesting painfully normal things, him resisting with the stubborn precision of a man who once built his own schedule into a spreadsheet that had color-coded emotional zones.

By noon, I was mentally exhausted.

But something had shifted.

Because somewhere between mocking his use of “synergize” and teaching him how to meme responsibly, I saw him laugh.

Not the dead-eyed CEO chuckle.

A real, chest-shaking laugh.

It caught me off guard.

“You okay there, Graham-bot?” I teased.

He smirked. “That’s what you called me in that email, right?”

“I regret nothing.”

“Except maybe hitting ‘send’ too soon?”

“Touché.”

We shared a look. One of those moments that stretched just a little too long. That bordered on real.

I cleared my throat. “Anyway, I should probably get back to my actual job.”

He stood. “Before you go…”

Here it comes, I thought. The inevitable backtrack. The “maybe this wasn’t a good idea” conversation.

Instead, he said, “You don’t plan to quit, do you?”

I blinked. “What?”

“You looked like you were about to bolt the moment I replied to your email.”

“I mean… yeah. I considered joining a monastic order.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Would’ve been a shame. I like working with people who challenge me.”

I froze. “Was that… a compliment?”

“I believe so.”

I squinted at him. “Did it hurt to say that?”

“Immensely.”

We stood there in a strange, quiet truce. Two people who definitely shouldn’t be in the same room, and yet… were kind of glad we were.

Then he said, “Lunch. Friday. You, me, and the team.”

“In the sun?”

“In the sun.”

“And you’ll say ‘TGIF’ in Slack?”

He sighed. “Only if you promise not to write another fanfic about me.”

“No promises.”

His eyes glinted. “Good.”

And just like that, I walked out of the room with my overpriced whipped cream and an even more overpriced sense of maybe-I-won’t-quit-after-all.

Something was beginning.

I didn’t know what.
But I had a feeling it was going to be… hilariously complicated.

Chapter 4 — The Robot Has Opinions

By Friday morning, I’d created an entire digital folder labeled “Operation: De-Ice the CEO,” color-coded by levels of human emotion. Yellow for “basic empathy.” Orange for “mild charm.” Red for “genuine warmth — unlikely.”

We hadn’t quite hit red yet.

Still, Graham Stone—professional android and part-time espresso addict—had, in the past three days, managed to:

Use a GIF in Slack (a Mr. Bean one, horrifyingly appropriate)

Ask a team member how their dog was doing.

Respond to a meme without asking, “Is this data-driven?”

Progress.

Real, terrifying progress.

Our scheduled lunch was today. Outdoor, group, in the sun. He had agreed.

He was late.

I sat at the café patio table, nervously peeling the label off my smoothie bottle, half-certain he’d cancel last-minute. Or worse—show up in a hazmat suit because of the “outdoor allergens.”

But then I heard it.

“Ms. Lewis.”

I looked up.

Oh.
Oh.

He was in jeans.

Dark denim. Tailored. Casual, but offensively expensive. A fitted black shirt rolled up at the sleeves. Aviators.

For one unholy second, I forgot how to use my tongue.

“You’re late,” I said, trying not to audibly gulp.

“There was traffic,” he said smoothly, sliding into the seat next to mine.

“Didn’t peg you for a traffic person.”

“I’m not. I took the train. I thought it would make me... approachable.”

“You took public transportation?” I asked, eyes wide.

“I even made eye contact with a toddler,” he deadpanned. “I feel spiritually changed.”

I snorted. “Look at you, out here, being relatable.”

“Careful. Compliments make me malfunction.”

“You malfunction all the time.”

He tilted his head, just slightly, and I suddenly realized how close he was sitting. His knee brushed mine under the table—probably accidental. Probably.

Except he didn’t move.

Neither did I.

I coughed into my smoothie. “Where’s the rest of the team?”

“I canceled the invite.”

“…You what now?”

“I thought it’d be more effective if we had this session one-on-one.”

“Oh,” I said. “So this is... calibration?”

“Exactly. Consider it an emotional status sync.”

“Feels suspiciously like a date.”

He blinked. “Would that be a problem?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“Are you... flirting with me, Mr. Stone?”

“If I were, would you know the difference?”

I blinked. “Probably not. I think you flirt like you issue policy memos.”

“Efficiently and with immediate impact?”

“Coldly and with a legal disclaimer.”

He chuckled.

Chuckled.
The man had a sense of humor. God help us all.

A server came by with our food—sandwiches and coffee. As she set down our plates, she gave me a long, amused look.

“You two are cute,” she said.

Graham looked at me. I looked at him. Neither of us replied.

Because what do you say to that when you’ve spent three days pretending you don’t find your emotionally stunted boss weirdly fascinating?

“You get that a lot?” I asked after she left.

He took a bite of his sandwich. “People make assumptions. I rarely confirm or deny.”

I narrowed my eyes. “So... you let people think you’re dating random women at lunch?”

“I don’t often have lunch with women.”

“Oh.”

Pause.

“Well, now you do,” I said, awkwardly trying to steer the air back into breathable territory.

He leaned forward a little, voice lower. “You seem uncomfortable.”

“Because I am. This is weird.”

“Weird how?”

“You’re my boss.”

“You said I was a robot.”

“Yeah, but a hot one. That makes it worse.”

He paused, processing.

“You find me attractive?”

“I—everyone finds you attractive. That’s not the point.”

“It’s kind of the point.”

I blinked. “Okay, now you’re definitely flirting.”

He sat back, satisfied. “I’m calibrating.”

“You’re full of it.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m going back to work.”

“No, you’re finishing your sandwich.”

He reached out and rotated my plate 30 degrees toward me, like that would make me less flustered.

Unfortunately, it worked.

We sat in silence for a moment. The breeze picked up, brushing his hair slightly. I looked away.

This was dangerous territory.

Because somewhere between mocking him and coaching him into a passable human, I’d started noticing things. Like the way he listened when I spoke, really listened. Or the way his eyes weren’t actually cold—they were just... focused. Like he stored everything I said in a mental file labeled “Nina: Handle with Care.”

And I didn’t want to care.

But here I was.

He was finishing his sandwich. I was watching him like he was a character in a novel I didn’t want to admit I was invested in.

“Do you regret the email?” he asked suddenly.

My head snapped up. “Which part? The one where I said you were probably 92% espresso, or the one where I said you hadn’t had sex since Obama?”

His lips twitched. “Either.”

I smiled, slow. “Not really.”

He studied me for a long moment.

“Good,” he said finally.

Then he stood, brushed a crumb from his shirt, and held out a hand.

“Back to work?”

“Back to work.”

I took his hand.

It was warm.

And firm.

And for just one second longer than necessary... he didn’t let go.

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