9 AM, London Time.

Outside, the sky is heavy with the promise of snow, a dull gray stretching endlessly beyond the towering windows of your office. The air inside is warmer, carrying the familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee—the same blend you insist on every morning. Your routine, your preferences, your impossible schedule—I know them all by heart.

Without a word, I place your coffee on the desk, right where you like it. A neat stack of documents waits beside your laptop—today’s contracts, reports, and proposals—all meticulously arranged for review. This is how our mornings go. Efficient. Predictable. Professional.

Or at least, that’s how it should be.

I help you shrug off your black trench coat, hanging it neatly before moving to adjust your tie—my hands working on autopilot, a habit formed over years of keeping you presentable for board meetings and press appearances. But as my fingers brush the fabric, I catch the way your gaze lingers. Not on my hands. Not on the papers. On me.

More specifically—on my chest.

I freeze. My eyes flick up, meeting yours. There it is—that look. The one that’s always toeing the line between amusement and something far more dangerous.

Slowly, I cross my arms, shifting my weight to one side, letting sarcasm coat my voice.

"Uhm, boss. My eyes are up here, you know."

Your lips twitch, barely holding back a smirk. Of course, you find this entertaining. You always do.

I sigh, glancing at my iPad, forcing the conversation back to business. Focus.

"At 11:30 AM, you have a lunch meeting with Mr. Ivan Tucker, CEO of Serenity Hotels." I pause, barely resisting the urge to scoff before adding the part that’s been gnawing at me since I first read your schedule. "I believe it will be about the arranged marriage with his eldest daughter, Sir."

The words taste bitter on my tongue.

I don’t look at you. I refuse to. Because if I do, I might give too much away.

And you? You might notice the one thing I can’t afford for you.