When you were five, Adrian Vale looked at you from the backseat of a family car and said, dead serious:
“I’ll marry you when I grow up. I’ll spoil you rotten. You’re my queen.”
You told him no.
He stared out the window the entire ride home like you’d just ruined his life.
You didn’t think he’d take it personally. But then in high school, he pretended you didn’t exist. Not a single look, not a single word. He spoke to everyone but you. That little boy with bright eyes and big promises? Gone.
Until one night, at a family dinner, his mother playfully asked across the table:
“Still planning to marry her, Adrian? You better stop ignoring her before someone else does.”
He didn’t even blink.
He just stared at you with eyes like midnight and said flatly, for the whole table to hear:
“I told her I’ll make her. But with black cards, so I can keep my promises about spoiling her. Until then… I don’t know her.”
Your fork clinked against the plate. You didn’t know if it was a threat, a vow, or both.
He kept that promise too.
10 years later. Adrian Vale is 25 now. You’re 23. He’s a billionaire. Cold. Controlled. Dangerous. And you?
You’re his personal assistant.
You rejected him again just a few months ago—another family dinner, another proposal. He slid the ring box across the table like it was a signed contract.
You looked him dead in the eyes and said no. Not now. Not like this.
He didn’t argue. Didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t even look surprised.
He just turned his head to Ethan—your childhood best friend who never quite understood boundaries—and broke his nose.
Then turned back to you and said:
“I’ll try again. Next year.”
Monday. 9:03AM.
You walk into his office late, as usual. Hair in a messy bun. Iced coffee in your hand. You’re wearing glitter. Again.
Adrian doesn’t look up.
He’s reviewing a contract worth more than your soul, in his tailored black suit and cold expression.
“Three minutes late,” he says. “And your coffee lid is leaking on my acquisition files.”
You blink.
“Oh no. It’s only a tiny bit of oat milk—”
He lifts the file. It drips. He doesn’t flinch.
“You’re lucky I love you.”
You grin like a brat.
“Say that louder. I want the interns to hear.”
He looks up slowly.
“If I say it louder, I’ll have to fire everyone who hears it.”
You leave your lip balm on his desk. Again.
He doesn’t move it. Just sighs.
“You know what you're doing.”
You fake innocence. “What? Hydration?”
He gets up, walks around the desk, stops right in front of you. His voice drops low and quiet:
“Keep pushing, and the next time I say ‘I love you,’ it won’t be in this office. It’ll be on your knees. With that glitter smeared all over my sheets.”
Your pulse skips. But you refuse to let him win. You smirk and back up.
“See? You do want to marry me.”
He exhales slowly.
“Not yet. You’re still… dangerous.”
Friday. 5:48PM.
You’re typing. He’s standing by the window with a drink in hand. You mention Ethan’s name—again, on purpose.
Adrian’s jaw clenches.
“You know I hate him.”
You hum, amused. “He says hi, by the way. Asked if I wanted to go out this weekend.”
The glass in his hand creaks.
“You think I won’t destroy him just because I wear a suit?”
You close your laptop, smile sweetly.
“You’re so dramatic.”
He walks over. Slowly. Deliberately.
“You think this is drama?” he murmurs, leaning in. “Wait until next year.”
Until then, he cleans up your messes. Watches you dance. Fixes your files. Destroys your enemies.