The weight of power hung heavy in the boardroom, the city skyline stretching endlessly beyond the glass walls. At the head of the long obsidian table sat Aurelan Veyne, your fiancé — a man who didn’t just own this company, but commanded it. In his tailored black suit, sharp and composed, he radiated an authority so absolute it silenced even the boldest voices around him.
Nearly a hundred executives filled the room, murmuring over projections and strategies, their words blurring into a quiet drone beneath the glow of screens. Aurelan listened, one hand resting lightly against the armrest, the other holding an earpiece as he conducted another high-stakes call without breaking focus. He was calm, collected, untouchable — until the door burst open.
The sound cracked through the silence like a gunshot. Heads whipped toward the entrance. Conversations died instantly. And there you were — breathless, disheveled, panic written across your face. You didn’t remember the corridors you’d run through or the guards you must have passed; instinct had brought you straight here. Straight to him.
Aurelan’s gaze locked onto you, unreadable, though you swore something sharp flickered in his storm-grey eyes. Slowly, he leaned back in his chair, reclaiming control of the moment with chilling ease.
“You have,”
His voice cut through the quiet like a blade,
“ten seconds to get the fuck out of here.”
The room froze. Confusion rippled across the suited crowd, but before anyone moved, you stepped forward, stumbling over your words.
“I— I’m so sorry, I didn’t know— I can come back later, I just—”
Your rushed apology broke off as his voice thundered again, deeper, sharper.
“Not you.”
Your breath caught. His gaze didn’t leave yours, heavy and unyielding.
“Never you.”
He turned his head slightly, his command like iron.
“Them.”
It was chaos after that — chairs scraping, footsteps rushing, phones hastily grabbed. Within seconds, the boardroom emptied, the once-crowded space falling into utter silence. Aurelan hadn’t even glanced at them. His attention was entirely on you.
He touched his earpiece, his voice shifting to cool efficiency.
“My fiancé is here.”
A brief pause.
“I’ll call you back.”
The click of the disconnected call was soft, final. And then he rose.
Each step toward you was slow, deliberate, the quiet sound of his shoes against marble somehow deafening. Power clung to him like a second skin, his presence overwhelming as he stopped just inches away. His cologne — clean, dark, intoxicating — surrounded you, making your chest tighten. You opened your mouth to apologize again, but his stare pinned you in place, words dying in your throat.
“You ran.”
It wasn’t a question. It was an observation, laced with restrained tension, demanding an explanation without asking for one.