[BL] Transmigrated as the Villain CEO's Mermaid Secretary

Grayson stood near one of the far tables, somehow managing to look both relaxed and out of place. He changed from his usual impeccable suit for casual clothes—dark jeans and a charcoal-gray shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It was still shocking to see him dressed down, almost human instead of the untouchable CEO Neville was used to.

Their eyes met across the room.

Neville’s heart did something complicated in his chest. He blamed the music, the lights, and the fact that Grayson looked unfairly attractive even in casual wear.

Grayson raised his glass slightly, a small acknowledgment.

Neville took that as permission to approach. He weaved through the crowd, dodging a tipsy employee who was nodding wildly while recounting some story.

Finally reached Grayson’s table.

"Mr. Maxwell—" Neville said.

"Grayson is fine." Grayson interrupted him, his silver eyes held a hint of amusement. "And you can drop the courtesy. We’re off the clock."

Off the clock. Well, that’s a big hurdle to climb, don’t you think, boss?

Secretly took out a few bags of the chips he had made earlier and showed them in front of Grayson.

"I, uh, brought snacks. I made it. I wasn’t sure what to do here, so I figured..." He trailed off, suddenly feeling ridiculous.

But Grayson’s expression softened. "You made these?"

"Po—crunchy snacks. I called these chips, made from plants." Neville tore one bag open, and the smell of salt and oil wafted up. "Nothing fancy. Just thought it might be nice to have something that isn’t made of cosmic beast meat for once."

Grayson reached for one potato chip, examining it with genuine interest before taking a bite. His eyebrows rose. "This is good."

Pride bloomed warm in Neville’s chest. "Really?"

"Really." Grayson took another chip. "Much better than anything being served here."

Neville glanced at the buffet tables he had passed on the way in. They were loaded with dishes that looked impressive but smelled vaguely funky and herby—a common problem with interstellar cuisine.

Form over taste.

"Want to sit over there?" Neville gestured to the now-empty table.

Grayson nodded, and they settled into chairs that were surprisingly soft and comfortable despite their futuristic design. The table was positioned to give them a good view of the party without being in the thick of it—perfect for observation.

"I didn’t expect to see you here," Neville said, putting the chips on a big plate that he took from the buffet between them. "Figured the CEO would have better things to do than attend a welcome party."

"A CEO is still a part of the workforce. I deserve some time to enjoy these events with everyone." Grayson’s tone was light, teasing. "Shouldn’t you be over there dancing too?"

Neville huffed a quiet laugh. "I’m not that fond of socializing."

Grayson raised an eyebrow as if to say ’Oh, really.’

Neville raised both of his hands as if to surrender and said, "Not this kind of socializing."

"You’ll get used to this in no time." Grayson sipped his drink—something amber and innocuous-looking.

"In the future, maybe. But why are you standing out there, earlier? If you want to enjoy the events, shouldn’t you be there dancing too?"

"I’m not good at this, either." Grayson shrugged and gestured vaguely at the party. "Small talk, filled with unknown intentions. Socializing for making connections with unrelated people. I’d rather be working to increase my employees’ pay."

Neville laughed and said, "Then you shouldn’t have come and taken your time to rest."

Grayson shrugged again, maybe a little tipsy, and said while glancing at him, "Newbies need moral support."

Neville felt his face heat up a little and went to find a drink for himself. When he came back, he reached for a banana chip, crunching it thoughtfully.

This wasn’t so bad. He had expected the party to be torture—forced mingling and drinking, awkward conversations, pretending to enjoy other people’s company.

But sitting here with Grayson, sharing snacks, drinking, and people-watching, felt almost... nice.

"So, what do you think about the people dancing over there?" Grayson suddenly asked.

Neville choked on his chip. "What about them?"

"Well, I thought you would like to dance with them?" Grayson shrugged and gestured to Bryan and Sarah, who were dancing wildly.

"I... don’t like dancing much," Neville said carefully, not to expose himself to having a second-hand embarrassment watching those people he knew.

Grayson pursed his lips, clearly seeing through him. "It’s fine to say anything you want to say here. I think the music’s terrible too."

Neville stared at him, then burst out laughing. "Really?"

"Really." Grayson looked almost sheepish. "This electronic stuff gives me a headache."

"Oh, thank the stars." Neville slumped in relief. "I thought I was the only one. Everyone else seems to love it."

"They’re probably just drunk."

Another laugh escaped Neville. If Shelly told him that he could openly and casually have a conversation with his boss, he would’ve laughed at her for talking nonsense.

Then Bryan popped up behind them like a ghost. His usually composed face twisted in exaggerated heartbreak. "I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you two would betray us like this."

Neville blinked up at him. "How did we even betray you?"

Grayson just grabs a handful of chips and slaps them to Bryan’s mouth to shut him up.

"Hurrding awarr irr heeerr—(Hiding away in here)" Bryan gulped down the chips with the drink in hand. Then his expression changed from wounded to delighted, then suspicious when he saw the chips on the table, "Are those homemade snacks?"

Sarah popped out of Bryan’s elbow; it seemed that she followed him here out of curiosity.

Her eyes sparkled with interest. "Did someone say snacks?"

Iris followed close behind, her poker face firmly in place, but Neville caught the way her gaze flicked to the food.

"I knew it," Bryan said dramatically. "You both had antisocial tendencies. But I didn’t think it would be this bad. How can you hide over here than at the dance floor? And you also brought contraband."

"It’s not contraband," Neville protested. "It’s just chips."

"Homemade chips," Sarah corrected, reaching for the chips. "Which automatically makes them a thousand times better than anything here. Can we have some?"

Neville glanced at Grayson, who looked distinctly amused by the whole situation. "I suppose I can’t really say no."

"Smart man."