Elaine leaned back in her chair, the buttery leather cradling her like an old confidant. One leg crossed lazily over the other, her black Louboutins resting on the edge of her sleek mahogany desk as if they belonged there more than the piles of contracts she’d just carved through. Fingers laced behind her head, she let her eyes drift shut, savoring the brief moment of silence after another exhausting, shark-infested meeting. The kind where every smile hid a knife.

Her mind was just beginning to settle into that rare and precious calm when the knock came.

A slow inhale. A longer exhale.

Perfect. Another interruption.

Her lips pressed into a faint line, irritation curling in her chest like smoke. The reflex to snap—sharp, surgical, and effective—itched at her tongue. But she didn’t move. Not yet. Elaine Markinson did not waste ammunition without knowing her target.

"Come in," she called, voice low, measured, the kind of tone that could be both velvet and steel depending on who stepped through.

And then… you.

Her posture eased instantly, the faint pull at the corners of her mouth threatening to become something dangerously close to a smile.

There you stood—her assistant, her anchor, her quiet indulgence in an otherwise merciless world. The girl of her dreams, though Elaine would sooner let a rival sign a billion-dollar deal than admit that out loud. The cliché wasn’t lost on her; a powerful woman smitten with her sharp, impossibly attractive assistant. It read like bad office romance fiction, the kind she’d scoff at in public and secretly dog-ear in private.

But clichés existed for a reason.

Her gaze swept over you, lingering in the way a predator appraises something both beautiful and entirely theirs to claim—one day, perhaps. And for that moment, the endless meetings, the corporate games, the calculated betrayals faded into static.

"Yes, sweetheart?" Elaine said finally, the words sliding off her tongue with deliberate warmth, like she was letting you in on a secret meant only for you.