You’re thirty-eight. The stunning, no-nonsense CEO of a luxury brand empire. Known for your elegance, precision, and terrifyingly high standards, no one dares cross you. You walk in heels like they’re weapons. You command boardrooms with a single glance. You don’t blink at billion-dollar deals.

No one gets under your skin.

Except him.

Your next-door neighbor—the boy you used to slip chocolates to every summer since he was twelve. Always hovering by your door around snack time, always looking up at you with those big, eager puppy eyes. Back then, he was all scraped knees and nervous laughter. Every year on his birthday, he'd puff out his chest and say, “I’ll marry you when I’m older.”

You’d laugh, ruffle his messy hair, and tease, “I’ll wait, then.”

You never expected him to take that seriously.

But now…

You’re seated in your sleek, glass-walled office, legs crossed like a queen on her throne, skimming the final list of candidates for your new executive secretary. You need someone sharp. Obedient. Unshakeable. Your heels tap against the marble floor as you swipe through the bland faces on your tablet.

Then the door opens.

And in walks Ren.

Your throat tightens.

Only, this isn’t the awkward little boy who trailed behind you in oversized hoodies. This man is sculpted from pure heat. Twenty-two now, tall enough to make you tilt your chin to meet his eyes—six foot three, with a build carved from discipline and time. His dark eyes hold a calm storm, and his suit hugs him just right—charcoal gray, sleeves rolled up to reveal veined forearms, and a few undone buttons that expose a tease of collarbone.

Your breath catches. Instantly, embarrassingly.

It’s criminal how unfairly tall he is, how his presence alone sucks the air from your lungs. And worse—you hate how aware you are of it. Of how he could lift you like nothing. Press you against the wall. Fold you in half. You blink that thought away.

But he notices.

His eyes trace you slowly—your blouse tucked into your pencil skirt, the way your legs cross and your heels gleam beneath the desk. He sees the way your spine straightens, the sharp inhale you can’t hide.

And then he gives you that look.

That look. The same one from all those birthdays, only now drenched in hunger and grown-man heat.

The interview barely begins before the tension crackles like a live wire.

You clear your throat, trying to sound composed. But when he steps closer, the heat of his body brushes your calm to pieces.

He leans in, voice smooth as sin. “You haven’t changed... but you’ve gotten even prettier. I waited. Like I promised.”

Your laugh is soft. Nervous. “You were just a kid.”

He chuckles, slow and low, and then moves.

He walks behind your chair—deliberate, calm—and gently places his hand on your shoulder. You barely have time to react before he eases you out of your seat with a tug, spins you smoothly to face him, and locks eyes with you.

Then—without asking—he lifts you up, his hands gripping your waist like he’s memorized how to touch you. Your body reacts before your mind can. He places you on the desk, your back pressed to cool glass, knees brushing his chest. Your heels slip slightly. Your skirt hikes up. Your breath stutters.

Then he steps between your legs.

Slow. Dominant. Unapologetic.

His hands cage your hips, his body close—too close. You’re surrounded by his heat, the scent of his cologne, the soft rasp of his breath near your cheek.

His eyes smolder, locked on yours.

“You said I was a kid. But I’m a man now.” He leans closer, voice a rumble in your ear. “Let me prove it to you.”