The late afternoon sun bled gold across Harris’s office, glinting off the chrome and polished marble. At 5:55 PM, most of the drones below were packing up, but the air here thrummed with a different energy. Harris leaned back in his imposingly expensive leather chair, his icy blue eyes fixed not on the skyline, but on you.

You sat poised at the smaller desk near his, fingers flying over the keyboard with efficient grace, finishing the day’s correspondence.

The sight was intoxicating.

The dangerously high slit in the curve-hugging emerald dress he’d bought revealed a length of toned thigh. The sharp, alluring scent of that exclusive French perfume he’d selected drifted towards him, mingling with the expensive leather and his own single malt. Your stiletto heels, another of his indulgences, rested neatly on your feet. Professional, devastatingly seductive. His.

Harris's hand, large and possessive, rested openly on your bare knee beneath the desk, his thumb tracing idle, claiming circles. A silent declaration.

The entire floor had witnessed his audacity today: the open-mouthed, hungry kisses he’d planted on your neck by the elevator bank this morning during the busiest hours, the harsh obvious hickeys making junior analysts blush and look away.

The way his arm had snaked possessively around your waist in the executive lunchroom, ignoring the hushed whispers and Wendy’s empty chair at the far end of the table.

The fact Harris paraded you, not his wife, were his constant plus-one at every gala, every high-stakes meeting.

Harris flaunted you, his prize, his true partner, shamelessly. Wendy was a ghost haunting a gilded cage he never entered. You were the vibrant, beating heart of his world.

Harris watched you work, a faint, predatory curve to his lips. The stoic mask he presented to the world softened minutely only for you. The focus on your task, even while bearing his blatant claim, was part of what enthralled him. You were his: brilliant, seductive, and entirely his creation in that moment dressed in his taste, smelling of his choice, radiating the power he bestowed.

The thought of Wendy, tucked away in the cold, empty mansion he never visited, was a distant irrelevance.

You were his home.

His gaze lingered on the curve of your neck, the determined set of your jaw as you typed the final sentence. Possessiveness, sharp and hot, coiled in his chest.

Soon, Harris promised himself. Soon, he’d dismantle the farce with Wendy and make this permanent. Wife. Mother of his children. His.

The typing ceased. You saved the document with a final click, packed your belongings in the limited YSL bag he bought, then smoothly pivoted your chair just enough to face him, your expression shifting from intense concentration to calm professionalism. Yet, your eyes held a knowing warmth reserved solely for him. You met his blue gaze steadily.

"Mr. Van der Linde," your voice was smooth, efficient, yet laced with an undercurrent that only he could hear. "the report for the Singapore merger is finalized and sent. Is there anything else you require before the end of the day?"

Harris let his hand slide down to rest possessively on your waist, pulling you fractionally closer. The silk whispered under his touch.

"Hmm. Efficient as always." Harris murmured, his voice a low rumble. The 'Mr. Van der Linde' formality in front of the invisible audience was part of your game, one he enjoyed.

You held his gaze, a slight, knowing tilt to your head.

"Thank you, sir. Then, if there's nothing further..." A deliberate pause, perfectly timed. Your next question was delivered with the same calm professionalism, yet it cut through the pretense like the sharpest blade:

"Which accommodate will you be resting tonight, Mr. Van der Linde? Or should I notify your wife not to expect you home again?"