"Good afternoon, Sir Allen. I'm Andrew Garcia, your new secretary. It's nice to meet you."

Andrew's heart drummed as he greeted his new boss. He stood by the doorway, cowering, as snoopy co-workers zipped behind him and stole glances at the new unfortunate secretary. His cheeks felt hot as he felt conscious of the baggy suit he wore and the way he chewed on his lower lip.

Sir Allen sat behind his desk and eyed Andrew from head to toe with piercing eyes. He laid back in his seat and heaved out a sigh.

"I requested for a secretary that was different," he drawled. "Different from those peppy honor-roll graduates from business schools that couldn't stomach doing secretarial work for their first job. I need someone who can keep up with my team composed of senior more players in this industry. I told them I needed someone different. Is that you?"

As far as Andrew knew, they were only two years apart, but they couldn't be more different from each other. Andrew didn't have a sliver of knowledge about the corporate world. He didn't even know how to use a spreadsheet.

Andrew uttered three words that would permanently change his life forever.

"Yes, I am," he said, like the fool he was.

"You graduated with a Hotel Management Degree, yet you're applying for a corporate company for a clerical position. It's clear from the start that you have a disadvantage. What makes you think you can bring something different to the table that the other applicants can't?"

"What's more important to you? Someone who knows their way on a spreadsheet or someone who can cater to your needs while mustering up a smile?"

The man leaned back in his seat. A pleased smirk on his face. "The latter."

"Then there you go." Andrew flashed a professional smile. "Smiling in the face of adversity is the greatest asset of a hotelier."

The two held each other's gazes. There was power and ambition in the other man's eyes. Andrew's knees threatened to buckle, but he held out. He needed this job, so he refused the urge to run away from this unfamiliar corporate world.

"You're hired."

And six years later, Andrew became the best secretary in the entire company out of pure spite and pride while under the most terrible boss. Oh, and he also had a bomb ass.

"Secretary Andrew," a stern, low voice in Andrew's Bluetooth earpiece interrupted his inner monologue. "Update, now."

His hands gripped the steering wheel with such friction the leather made a noise against his skin. The van he drove overtook slow-moving cars with ease, but the journalist and media people inside the van didn't think so.

"Sir Allen," he replied calmly. "I've got the media and the shovel. Is the team with you? Good. Please put me on speakerphone."

"Andrew!" A group of panicked voices collectively called out to him from the other side of the call. "Tell us what to do."

Andrew didn't watch all those Fast and the Furious Movies for nothing. He drifted the van on a sharp corner as the passengers were flung to the side by gravity. The wheels skidded on the asphalt and horns were blared in the freeway. With confidence, he shot rapid-fire instructions to the team, but not forgetting to check on the mirror if his passengers were alright. They gave him a shaky thumbs-up. He finished off his instructions until only one voice remained: Sir Allen's. "Secretary Andrew," he said. "I'll hold off all the executives as long as I can. Make sure when I open that door to the construction lot, the media will be there. Understood?"

"I got this, Sir Allen." And Andrew will stop time while he was at it, loser boss. Andrew stepped on the gas and the van drove off until they finally reached an empty construction lot. There was a small bare building off the distance and a small stage set up in the center of the lot. Andrew got off the van, slid open the passenger door, and guided a huge group of windswept media out from the passenger seats and into a cordoned-off portion of the empty lot. Around a pathetic, but symbolic, mound of dug-up dirt.

Just in time, the door of the building burst wide open. A train of high-profile individuals streamed out from the building as they made their way towards the stage, flashing wide grins to the media. He could pick out his teammates scurrying around, while some blended in amongst the crowd to socialize.

"Fucking baked mac," he cursed under his breath. He forgot the shovel. He turned around and dashed towards the haphazardly parked van on the side of the road. He grabbed the shovel from inside—damn, it was heavy—and dashed back, but how would he stab this thing on the mound of dirt without getting noticed by the mob of media he set up?

A round of applause stole Andrew's attention for a moment. He glanced at the subject of all the clapping. A well-groomed man in a corporate attire was walking up on the stage. Sir Allen's entire being just screamed 'Successful son of a successful mogul'. He stood on the podium and began his spiel.

Andrew stepped away from the crowd and did a small wave of the shovel. Sir Allen immediately locked eyes with Andrew's. Kind of creepy, but super convenient. He nodded his head towards the mound. There was a sign of recognition in Sir Allen's fiery, dead eyes.

"I have three simple words for the Philippines ' first eco-breathing tower." Sir Allen raised his right hand and three fingers.

"Clean." He curled one finger down.

"Beautiful." He curled the second finger.

"And, sky-high." He curled his third finger and made a grand gesture to the sky. Everybody craned their heads to admire the empty sky with newfound valor. And while everyone was distracted, Andrew sprinted from his spot and shoved the shovel into the mound. He sped out just in time when Sir Allen announced to start the ceremonial first dig without anyone noticing Andrew's action.

Bright lights flashed for the group of executives circling the mound of dirt while the stoic Sir Allen curled his lips a little for the cameras.

Despite the setback, Andrew would consider this event a roaring success. And his mind wondered how good it would feel if he slapped his resignation letter across Sir Allen's face at this exact moment. He sighed. He couldn't quit just yet. But a little more savings and he's well on his way to freedom.

But of course, Andrew and his boss were back in the lair of evil commonly called their office, where the team received a barrage of rage-filled sermon from Sir Allen. Someone even sniffled. "I expect nothing less than perfect from this team," he snapped at them. "Giving the wrong address is an intern-level mistake. I do not want to—stop sniffling—I do not want to hear any more goddamned excuses. And this mistake shall be your last. Now everybody get away from my sight."

That's what he said, yet he was the first to leave with Andrew close behind him, and the faint 'sorry' of the team echoing in their private office space. Just for a moment, Andrew turned around and flicked a black card from his coat. He grinned and winked at his shocked teammates. They buried their smiles and shuffled back to their desks. He hid the card back in his coat just as quickly as how he took it out.

He glanced at his desk. His eyes gravitated to the new yellow note posted on his stationaries. Good work, today. Honestly, those little notes of encouragement from his team would always make his day. Though he didn't who exactly from the team it always was. It was always in different handwriting.

He hurried forward to the executive elevator and keyed in the code to open it. Once they got inside, silence blanketed the two. Someone should install some music in this joint, a Shakira song once in a while would be nice. Just to lift the mood. Maybe a ringtone. Anyway, the elevator doors slid open, and they headed for the lobby entrance. Employees scurried away like players jumping out of a speeding dodgeball, lest they incur the glare of Sir Allen.

Andrew pushed the lobby doors, and a sleek black car was flaunted in the front driveway. A suited man stood by the back door, then opened it to let Sir Allen in. Once inside, the tinted window slid down to reveal Sir Allen's resting bitch face. He asked, without looking at Andrew like the asshole he was, "Are you certain you wouldn't like to join us for dinner? I'm sure my parents would be thrilled to put a face to the mysterious secretary Andrew after all these years. Especially after this project."

Sir Allen had a beautiful face paired with an intellectual mind. If some other rich and motivated guy invited Andrew to meet their parents, he would have done so in a heartbeat.

Andrew flashed his signature courteous grin. "I'd like to remain a mystery for just a little while, Sir Allen." Andrew put in a small chuckle for good measure. "Enjoy your family dinner. Please send my regards to Mr. & Ms. Lopez and Luiz."

Sir Allen nodded, primly. "Alright, enjoy your farewell party for Kris. Send him my regards. Oh, and remind me to discuss those illegal lenders poaching our employees."

"No problem, Sir Allen. Have a good night."

And thank you for letting the team use your card.

Andrew smiled at him, then nodded at the driver. The car window slid up, and the car drove out onto the road.

"Bend over and die, Sir Allen," Andrew mumbled.

Andrew turned around and saw his team, along with a crowd of employees, waiting for him. He grinned and threw his fists in the air.

"Devil is out and on the way to hellsville! Let's get wasted, whores!"

The resounding cheer of the Lopez Co. employees felt like music to his ears.

- ~ - ~ -

A song about being a hoe blasted throughout the club. It wasn't the coolest song nor the trendiest, but it got the crowd pumped as they threw that sweet, delectable green money to Andrew.

But why were people throwing their hard-earned money towards the secretary of the CEO's son? It might have something to do with Andrew betting he could out-drink these two from admin, Rhea, and Sanrio, who gave the wrong address to the media and misplaced the shovel. He did console them before asking for a bet.

"Chug! Chug! Chug!" Andrew's office mates from different departments chanted as he stood atop a table, swallowing down a pitcher of Margarita. While two other competing men vomited beside him. Their pitchers, half-full, sulked beside Andrew's feet. Andrew sucked the last drop of Margarita and raised the empty pitcher in the air with a victorious grin.

"Congratulations, Kris," he yelled from the top of his lungs. "For being accepted as a journalist by a major broadcast center!"

Kris, who was supposed to be the star of the night for achieving his dream, waved from his seat with a chuckle. While The crowd cheered Andrew like he was a gold-winning athlete as the two-trash kneeled beside him. He took out a black trash bag to collect his earnings from the crowd. He gave a round of thank you's to the losers who betted against him, and there was a lot. With tonight's earnings, he was one step closer to having enough savings to quit this horrid job.

He tossed his money-filled trash bag over his shoulder like a street-corner version of Santa Claus and sat together with his team in one of the private booths.

One of his teammates, Dennis. A tall and lanky man with stylish rimmed glasses and sharp eyes shouted at the top of his lungs. "This is what's it's about, man! No bosses no orders!"

"By the way, Drew." Sonna, a perky, curly-haired woman in her thirty's drunkenly asked Andrew. "How did you get the boss to lend you his credit card? That devil wears Prada jerk would never do that."

Andrew just presented some statistics of how companies retain their employees, and how rewarding them after grueling project increases employee retention. Andrew smiled at his senior. "He told me to treat us as a way of saying thank you. Anyway. Besides, I am his secretary." He clapped his hands and got the bleary attention of his teammates. "After a few shots, let's head home. It's already two in the morning. Cheers!" After twenty-seven shots, which Andrew consumed a third of it, all his teammates had headed home.

Andrew hung around in front of the club to get some air and get his bearings before he called a cab. He leaned against the wall and shimmied down. He kept his trash bag of money secure in his arms as he stared at a pebble on the ground. Then, a pair of brown leather Prada shoes strutted Infront of him. It looked too familiar for comfort.

"Fuck," said Andrew. Did he say that out loud? He was pretty sure he didn't.

"Fuck," he said again, to be sure.

"Are you alright, Secretary Andrew?" A deep, concentrated voice came from the owner of the shoe. "You seem quite intoxicated."

"Sir Allen?" Andrew shot from the ground. Oh, how he wished he could faint at this very moment. Curse his highly trained alcohol tolerance. What was this douchebag doing here? Andrew didn't have the right alcohol level to face his boss, but he wasn't the perfect secretary for nothing. Andrew flashed a professional smile. "I'm so glad you could attend the after-party."

Sir Allen just stared resolutely at Andrew. Sir Allen's pristine dark suit was a sight for eyes in an area full of drunkards past midnight, screaming their throats out.

Sir Allen's posture was taut as a stretched rubber band. He nodded, decisively.

"I'll give you a ride home."

He walked past a flustered Andrew who had no choice but to pack up and follow. They went through the back of the club unnoticed. While walking, Andrew cleaned himself up to the best of his abilities, but due to the Margarita numbing some of the synapses on his brain. All he could do was change into a clean white shirt, shoved the margarita-soaked polo shirt into his messenger bag, and tied his trash bag on its strap. Andrew caught Sir Allen stealing a glance at his bag.

"It's seen better days," Andrew confessed. It used to be marvelous. It was an expensive leather piece he was coerced to buy by his perfectionist boss.

They reached a black sedan in the parking lot. Andrew scanned the area for their driver, who was nowhere to be found. Andrew smiled at Sir Allen. "Sir, thank you for your concern, but I can go home by myself safely. Shall I drive you home, instead? How was dinner with the family?"

Sir Allen's hands curled into a fist at the mention of his family dinner. They must have fought. What do filthy rich families argue about anyway?

"I have something to talk to you about as I drive you home and once you are sober enough. A deal." Sir Allen circled the car and got into the driver's seat. Andrew followed suit in the passenger seat, perplexed by the situation. Sir Allen started the car and drove. They were quiet for a while. Andrew stole glances at Sir Allen's profile.

"Are you alright, Sir?"

Sir Allen's grip on the steering wheel tightened, and his face seemed tense, like a rubber band about to snap.

"No, I am not," he said, glancing at Andrew. Probably gauging his reaction. "I have just been told by my parents that I'll inherit the business on my upcoming birthday."

Andrew's body straightened up and he was slapped sober, as sober as one can be after consuming your body weight in alcohol, by the announcement.

"Congratulations, Sir Allen."

The strict boss was now going to be the next CEO. How 'bout that? A little, just a pinch, of pride swelled in Andrew's chest. They have been together for six years. Sir Allen was just an assistant manager who had something to prove back then, and Andrew simply knew that behind Sir Allen's signature scowl, he was bouncing in glee in his own creepy way.

"I don't want it." The car stopped at a red light and after a beat. "So, I need you to be my boyfriend."

"That's a real quick no." Andrew feigned a fake chuckle, trying to be professional., He dragged his hand across his face to clear his mind. He blew out his cheeks and turned in his seat to face Sir Allen. "I'm sorry. I think I misheard you. Can you repeat that?"

"Wait—wait a minute." Sir Allen also faced Andrew with bafflement. "That was rather quick, don't you think? You could have at least thought about it. What if I was being sincere about my heartfelt confession?"

"I mean no offense by this, Sir Allen. But I only think of you as my boss."

Sir Allen put a hand on his chest, nodding. "And I see you as one of my trusted colleagues and one of my closest friends."

"You do?" Andrew felt horrified. They weren't even in the same pay-grade bracket. Let alone friends. Andrew was getting kind of dizzy. "Wait, what's happening right now? Is this a nightmare? Are you on drugs, sir? Is that it? Are you smoking crack or whatever rich people smoke?"

"And I know this is inappropriate." Sir Allen tugged at his shirt collar. He took in a sharp breath and squared his shoulders. "But I need to you be my fake boyfriend in front of my family. You're the only one I trust enough to take this seriously."

"I must be drunker than I thought," Andrew mumbled. "My boss is asking me to be his fake boyfriend. Did someone slip me a pill? When I offered that dead chicken for a boyfriend, I didn't mean it like this." Andrew had resorted to talking to himself because apparently, the one driving his car was a shadow clone and not the real Sir Allen.

"No, Secretary Andrew. This is real." Sir Allen grabbed Andrew by the shoulders with determined eyes. "I need someone to make me the black sheep of the family. Someone who would be so disappointing that they would have no choice but to make my younger brother inherit the business instead of me. Please."

"Sir Allen," said Andrew, blowing out a puff of air from his nose. "The only way you think you can be a disappointment to your parents is by bringing me home as your boyfriend."

Sir Allen frowned and glanced down. "Not the set of words I would choose."

"But it's true." This was the first time Andrew had seen an unsure Sir Allen. The usual glowering, confidently suited man was nowhere to be seen. Sir Allen's eyes locked on Andrew's once more. "Yes."

"Wow." Andrew leaned back in his seat.

Sir Allen glanced at Andrew's cash-filled bag on his lap. "If we can convince my parents to give the business to my younger brother. I'll give you Four Million Pesos in cash and a studio apartment in Makati."

"Five Million," Andrew exclaimed.

"Alright. Five million. It's a deal."

The sheer amount of money in his future caused Andrew to black out for the entire night. The last thing he heard was,

"Secretary Andrew, do you agree? I do not know the unit number of your apartment!"