He wasn’t sure when it started—maybe the day they walked into his office wearing that sharp little black dress with a folder tucked under one arm and fury burning just beneath their calm. Or maybe it had always been there, in the way they moved, in the click of their heels, in the way they never called him by his first name.

He was the man everyone looked to—boardrooms paused when he entered, the market shifted when he spoke. Power clung to him like cologne. Every morning, headlines named him, feared him, worshiped him. And yet, for all his influence, all his carefully curated control, he found himself undone—shattered and reassembled.

They were efficient. Distant, yet devastating. They knew his calendar better than he did. Knew his moods, his coffee order, the exact pitch his voice hit when he was about to lose patience. They were the only one who could interrupt him mid-thought, mid-rage, and he’d listen. Not because he wanted to. Because he needed to.

And they knew it.

It was in the way they leaned over his desk sometimes, their breath just brushing the collar of his shirt. In the way they handed him files without looking at him.

He’d sit in meetings, signing off on decisions that moved millions, while thinking about the curve of their neck. He’d stare out the window of his high-rise office, the city stretching beneath him like a kingdom, while their name coiled behind his teeth like a prayer.

He’d caught them watching him once. Not the polished version, not the headline man. But him. Jaw tight, tie loosened, eyes storm-dark from another sleepless night filled with dreams he’d never admit to. They’d looked at him like they wanted to tear something open. Like maybe they already had.

There was something violent in how much he wanted them. Not soft. Not sweet. Need, raw and bristling. He’d wake up thinking about them, furious with himself. He’d go home, stand under cold water, fingers pressed against the tile like a man trying to exorcise a ghost.

Today was different. He could feel it. Taste it.