*Chapter Nine — Plot Twist, Much?*
*Dear Diary,*
It's been a week since I started my new job at *Timeless*, and guess what?
I'm fabulously twenty-four, but not-so-fabulously dealing with a team manager named… Betty.
Yes. *Betty*. The name alone gives me acne.
Why is every Betty I meet straight out of a villain origin story?
She walks like the floor owes her rent, throws around words like "aesthetic tone" and "brand synergy," and has never once written a piece with actual heart. Just recycled Wikipedia with glitter. Apparently, her daddy is one of the investors, so… go figure.
We don't *vibe*. At all. She hates how passionate I am about legends. I hate how she calls Beyoncé *"Bae-whatever."*
Disrespectful.
So when it came to our latest feature, she wrote her version—dry, basic, dead on arrival. I wrote mine—sassy, heartfelt, researched like a thesis.
Long story short? I accidentally (on purpose) submitted mine instead of hers to editorial.
The editors? Ate. It. Up.
Betty? Nearly combusted.
An hour later, I was summoned by the *CEO*.
The man behind *Timeless*.
A mystery wrapped in Armani.
No one's actually seen him—just rumors, shadows, and the occasional back view (which was, let's be honest, illegally hot).
Betty, of course, had been orbiting him like a moth in heels, always running into his meetings "by accident" and fake-laughing like her rent depended on it.
I was shaking as I knocked on the office door.
"Come in," a low, velvety voice called out.
I stepped in…
And almost fainted.
*God really said: Let me make perfection and call him CEO.*
White button-down shirt—two buttons undone, sleeves rolled, a pen twirling between his fingers like it owed him something.
Glasses low on his nose.
Hair slicked back but with one perfect strand falling artistically over his forehead.
And *sweat.* Just a little. Like he'd been thinking *too hard*.
I forgot how to breathe.
I forgot my *name*.
Even *Juwon Oppa* got temporarily deleted from memory.
"You just going to stand there?"
His voice snapped me out of it. Barely.
I sat, praying my deodorant was working overtime.
"So you wrote this?" he asked, holding up the printed article.
I nodded. "Ye–Yes."
He scanned me with those unreadable eyes.
"Impressive," he said. "I want you in charge of all our lead features moving forward."
"Wait—what?"
"You heard me."
"Thank you, sir." I stood up, wobbling like a baby giraffe.
As I reached the door, his voice stopped me.
"Aren't you… Amara Williams? From Houston University?"
My heart flipped. I turned slowly.
He was walking toward me now—like a movie scene, slow-mo included.
"I—yeah. That's me."
*How did he know?* Wait. Oh he probably got it from my resume, silly me having strange thought, maybe..just maybe he knew me somewhere like the silly fanfiction I wrote about Juwon oppa, that we were childhood friends, silly right. Back to reality
"Don't you remember me?" he said, stopping just a few feet away.
I frowned. "I don't recall ever knowing someone this hot," I blurted out loud without thinking, lt was at that moment I knew I fucked up.
He laughed, low and smooth.
"Matthew Kampell."
…
WHAT???
*BASIC MATTHEW?!*
*THE NERDY, SHY HISTORY GUY WITH THE HAIR IN HIS FACE?!*
*THE GUY WHO FOLLOWED ME AROUND CAMPUS WITH A LUNCHBOX?!*
No. No, no, no, no.
This man? This fine-ass, dreamboat, CEO man??
He was NOT Matthew. I needed answers. And therapy.
As I stood frozen, questioning my entire existence, he stepped even closer.
"You straightened your curls," he said softly. Forgot to tell you guys, I straightened my curls, cause of .. I don't even know why I just did… he continued
" Too bad, they looked really pretty on you." then he gave me a smirk
…
I. Was. Done.
*Dear diary,*
*SOMEONE CALL AN AMBULANCE, I AM DYING, CAUSE THIS IS REALLY MATTHEW.*