Office

We had been flirting for months over the internal chat. When I suggested closing the office on a Saturday, I never thought you’d come. You did—trembling, but you came.

I entered that room thinking I was in control. I left knowing exactly who I owed my silence to.

When my boss suggested we go up to his apartment to keep the party going, my wife hesitated. But curiosity and alcohol outweighed caution that night.

Renata had been watching her for two years in the office halls. One night, after closing a big bid, she finally let the tension turn into something more.

I’d been buying her chocolates and roses for months without knowing what to expect. That afternoon, in the taxi home from work, she leaned into my ear and everything changed.

When she got out of the car and every man in the ballroom turned his head, I understood that my wife wasn’t mine that night: she belonged to whoever dared look at her.

I thought the back row at the premiere would let me be alone with him. It took me a while to realize no one is really alone in a dark room.

I was her assistant. We worked twelve hours a day. That night, barefoot on her sofa, she looked at me like never before, and I knew something had changed forever.

When I saw his socks lying on the hotel bathroom floor, I knew I was about to cross a line I could never uncross with my best friend.

The two goons dragged me off to tour the machines while she stayed alone with the owner. When I came back, the desk was empty.

I heard it through the ajar door: the laborer was fucking the secretary in the storeroom. That afternoon I went back to the office for more than documents.

At twenty, my world was diapers and silence. Then my boss left me a note with the coffee and started looking at me like I was another woman.

I was the invisible director of a forbidden play: I watched my wife transform before the painter, knowing I was spying on her from behind the camera.

When I saw her walk into work in the same black leggings from the day before, I knew that day wasn’t going to end like the others. Not like I thought it would, either.

Four days remained until my father returned. Four nights to decide how to tell him his wife was sleeping in my arms in his own bed.

We’d worked together for months, texting until dawn. But that night, for the first time, she knocked on my door with a bag in her hand.

When she sent me the photo from the fitting room wearing lingerie, I closed it without replying. She saw that. That was how it all began.

Under my button-down there’s lace. Under my dress pants, fishnet stockings and garters. My coworkers see Matías. I know who I really am.

I opened the nightstand drawer. The book was there, where it always was. And in ten minutes I could no longer stay still.

As a closet cross-dresser, I went to the most important interview of my career with lace panties under my suit. I thought no one would know. I was wrong.