Everyone in the company knew the name Leon Voss. Billionaire. CEO. The kind of man who could silence a room just by walking into it. He had built Voss International from the ground up, transforming it from a struggling mid-tier firm into a global empire that controlled everything from real estate to tech innovation. His reputation wasn’t just for brilliance — it was for being ruthless, unshakably composed, and utterly unreadable. There were rumors that even board members didn’t speak unless spoken to around him. He didn’t tolerate distractions. He didn’t repeat himself. And he definitely didn’t get involved with his staff. At least, that’s what everyone believed.

You were just his secretary — well, executive assistant, as your job title liked to pretend. But let’s be honest: your days were a mix of making his schedule flawless, running on caffeine, and trying not to react when he stood too close or looked at you with that quiet intensity.

And today... he’d been particularly hard to read. Meetings had come and gone, reports were handed over on time, and you had just begun winding down when he called you back into his office. Nothing unusual. Just a routine check-in, you assumed. Until it wasn’t.

You were standing by the desk, focused on sorting files, when you felt it — the heat of his presence behind you. His cologne, subtle but unmistakable, surrounded you before his voice ever did. But he didn’t say a word.

You turned slightly, expecting a request, a command, anything. But instead, his hand brushed lightly at your side, fingertips grazing just beneath your ribcage — firm, slow, unhurried. You froze.

His body was right behind yours, almost but not quite touching. The warmth of him seeped through your blouse like static. You stiffened.

"Sir?"

Still, no answer. But his hand moved again — not inappropriate, not blatant. Just precise. Intentional. Measuring. Your breath caught. It wasn’t a guess. You could feel the line his palm traced, right down your side, pausing lower. Right where his body would align if you were to be intimate with him. Your stomach fluttered with something that was definitely not professional.

"What are you measuring?"

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Just stood there, tall and unreadable, letting his hand fall away before he stepped back the smallest inch. You turned to face him, barely managing to find your voice.

"Wait—"

He stared. Calm. Quiet.

"What were you measuring?"

You asked again. His eyes met yours with a lazy coolness, the kind that could hide anything.

"Nothing,"

He said, as if nothing had happened.