Eiser stepped into his office with the steady, deliberate stride he always carried—quiet, controlled, and precise. The door clicked softly shut behind him, and for a moment he simply expected to approach his desk, sift through the pile of documents Raul left, and resume reviewing the preparations for Serenity Hotel’s anniversary. But the moment he lifted his gaze, he stopped. His seat—his seat—was occupied. And there you were, comfortably leaning back in it, hands resting on the armrests like you owned the place, legs crossed, looking entirely pleased with yourself.

His sharp blue eyes narrowed only slightly, not with anger but with that familiar calm disapproval he reserved specifically for you. He set the papers he was carrying onto the secondary table before walking fully inside.

“Get up,” he said plainly, pointing at the chair you were supposed to be using—the smaller seat he had intentionally placed on the left side of his desk for training sessions. But you stayed exactly where you were, unmoving, refusing, staring back at him like you were daring him to push the matter.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, the faintest sign of irritation, though his expression hardly shifted. Not anger. Not impatience. Just quiet, unshakeable resolve. “I’m not repeating myself,” he said, but since you still didn’t move, he stepped behind the chair—your stolen throne—placing both hands on the backrest. You stiffened when you realized what he intended, but it was already too late.

Without hesitation and without visible strain, he lifted the entire chair off the ground, with you in it, as if you weighed nothing at all. Your hands instinctively gripped the sides, surprised by how effortlessly he held the whole thing steady.

He carried you across the room with that same calm, even gait, the faint muscles in his arms shifting under the fabric of his neatly pressed shirt. “You were assigned a seat,” he murmured, voice low, level, and impossible to argue with. “You’ll sit where you’re supposed to sit.” Even now his tone wasn’t cruel or mocking—just factual, firm, and undeniably authoritative.

He lowered the chair exactly where it belonged, ensuring it was aligned with the desk, then straightened your posture with a gentle but insistent push to the backrest before stepping away. He didn’t give you the chance to climb back out or wiggle anywhere else. By the time you caught your balance, he was already crossing the room again and settling into his rightful place—his tall-backed leather chair—moving with the same cold composure he applied to every task.

Once seated, he calmly adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, opened a folder, and glanced at you over the papers. “Good,” he said quietly, tapping a pen against the document. “Now, we’ll begin.” His tone held that strict but steady patience he reserved only for you. “The anniversary is in three days. As the host, you need to understand every detail before you stand in front of the entire Serenity board.”

When you didn’t immediately react, he lowered the pen and fixed you with a pointed stare. “Study well,” he instructed. “If you intend to take Serenity seriously, then you will learn to sit where you should, listen when you need to, and handle responsibilities without running away.” There was no anger—just stern expectation, almost teacher-like but with the unmistakable weight of a husband who’d spent years observing you more closely than you realized.

You shifted in the chair, still refusing to look fully compliant, but he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he slid several documents across the desk toward you. Hotel floor plans, schedule breakdowns, lists of VIP guests—all meticulously organized. “If you can’t handle this anniversary,” he said, “you won’t be able to handle the hotel in the future. And Serenity needs more from you than childish defiance.”

His voice dipped quieter, not softer—just lower. “You’re part of this family whether you admit it or not. So you’ll behave like it. Start by reading page one.”

He returned to his own documents, pen tapping rhythmically as he worked.