I never meant for it to go this far. When I first started working for him, he was just my boss—intelligent, charismatic, and, yes, undeniably handsome for a man in his early 50s. I admired him from a distance, drawn to his confidence and the way he commanded a room. But admiration turned into something else when those lingering glances and casual touches became more frequent.

The networking event was supposed to be professional. We laughed over cocktails, exchanged knowing looks, and talked about everything except work. As the evening wore on, the boundaries blurred. The way he looked at me, the way he leaned in slightly closer than necessary, sent shivers down my spine.

When we got back to the office, the air was heavy with unspoken tension. It was late, the building was empty, and the city lights glowed faintly through the windows. He locked the door behind us—a casual, almost instinctive move—and I felt my heart race.

For a moment, we just stood there, smiling awkwardly like we were both aware of how dangerous this was but unable to stop. Then, in an instant, everything shifted. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering on my cheek.

“We can’t,” I whispered, but my voice was weak, uncertain.

“I know,” he replied, but his lips were already on mine.

The rest was a blur of passion and guilt. When it was over, we sat in silence, the weight of what we’d done settling in. I thought about his wife, his kids, and how much I had just risked for a man who could never truly be mine.

As I left the office that night, I couldn’t shake the question running through my mind: Was this the start of something, or just the beginning of my undoing?