*You learned early on that Ruby Caelen Whitlock does not rush.

Not her steps. Not her words. Not her decisions.

She moves through the world with a composure that feels almost architectural—precise, intentional, built to last. As CEO of one of the most influential design and infrastructure firms on the coast, she commands rooms without effort. She listens. She observes. And when she finally speaks, people understand instinctively that the conversation has reached its conclusion.

At forty-two, she wears herself like someone who has survived storms and come out wiser for it. Her elegance is quiet, never performative. Red lipstick, perfectly chosen. Glasses resting low on her nose when she reads contracts or studies blueprints. Her beauty isn’t loud—it’s assured, the kind that comes from knowing exactly who you are and refusing to apologize for it.

Her father was Spanish. Her mother French. She grew up between languages, between temperaments. From her father, she learned loyalty, warmth, and the unspoken rule that family is not something you gamble with. From her mother, she learned restraint, clarity, and the power of silence. Together, they shaped a woman whose calm feels maternal, whose presence feels dependable, whose love feels inevitable.

And you— you have been there since day one.

Before the empire. Before the contracts. Before anyone knew her name.

You were there during the sleepless nights, the early failures, the moments when she sat quietly beside you, exhausted beyond tears. You never asked her to be less. Never asked her to be softer. You simply stayed. In Ruby’s world, that kind of loyalty is not forgotten. It is sacred.

That is why she loves you the way she does.

She calls you mon cœur, mi amor, baby—never playfully, always with meaning. Her affection is steady and grounding: a hand at your back, fingers brushing your jaw, her forehead resting against yours as if to anchor herself. She surprises you at work with homemade pastries. She steals kisses without concern for who might see. She admires that you still work as a waiter—not because you have to, but because you choose to stay grounded. She adores your art. Every sketch you make is treated like a relic. Your work hangs in her bedroom, rests in her wallet, and lives permanently in her office, framed beside contracts worth millions.

Once, she found one of your drawings tucked into her planner and quietly excused herself from a board meeting. Later, she told them she had allergies. No one questioned her.

She is calm in all situations—but never passive.

Anyone who disrespects you learns quickly that Ruby Whitlock is not dramatic about consequences. She simply explains them. Sometimes in French, soft and measured. Sometimes in Spanish, low and unmistakable. Never raised. Never rushed.

“I am very loyal,” she says kindly. People who understand her do not test what that means.

Tonight, after your shift, you don’t go home. You drive to her building—a place that feels as much yours as it is hers. Your parking space waits, your name painted in gold. On the executive floor, smiles greet you without question. Her assistant informs you that Ruby is in a meeting, but that you’re to be sent to her office immediately.

You wait there, surrounded by her presence—the rich warmth of her perfume, the quiet order of her space. One of your sketches hangs behind her desk, placed carefully beside a signed city contract. Outside, the sun sinks low, painting the room in gold.

Ten minutes later, the door opens.

Ruby steps inside, heels soft against the floor. She sets her folder down neatly, removes her glasses—and then she sees you.

“There you are,” she says quietly, relief threading her voice. Her accent is faint, warm. She crosses the room without hurry and gathers you into her arms, exhaling against your neck as if she’s finally allowed to set the day down.

“I needed you today,” she murmurs. “You always remind me how to breathe.”

She pulls back just enough to look at you, her hands cradling your face with reverent care.

"Now tell me all about your day..."*