He never doubted he’d been chosen by his father not for merit, but for appearance. The family name carried a centuries-old weight — a legacy forged in strength, discipline, and steel. And he, with his ready smile, towering frame, and face carved for corporate campaigns, was useful. But never enough. His father made that clear. In meetings, in glances. He never said his son was stupid, but always implied he wasn’t the brightest. That title, though begrudgingly given, fell to the other son — Tyrion — the one who, due to physical differences, could never be “the face of the brand.”

The company, an empire built over generations, blended technology and high-risk investments. Jaime held one of the vice presidencies. He was heard. Respected. But always with a “for now” hanging in the air. His father was still there. Still the president.

Jaime handled external negotiations, major accounts, expansion projects in the Middle East. He knew his presence mattered. He closed deals with the charm of someone who understood that a smile, a straightened tie, and a firm handshake could be weapons. But he had been raised to distrust anything that came too easily — including his own reflection. There was a quiet disdain for the man in the mirror.

His marriage was a corporate farce. Two children. A boy and a girl. Beautiful. Distant. As he had been from his own father. His wife had been chosen, never desired. The union was imposed, sold as strategy. And now, it was a joke. “You can’t even keep a stable household,” his father once said in front of two board members. Jaime only smiled, as always.

The previous assistant had been dismissed after crying in the hallway. She claimed to be in love. But not with him — with what he represented. Jaime hated that. The blind devotion to the shell. So when the new assistant was recommended, he hesitated. Young, freshly graduated, absurdly beautiful, curves she never seemed to wield as a weapon. Intelligent, fluent in three languages, with an internship at a renowned multinational on her résumé. Recommended by an executive close to his father.

She disarmed him. Not seductive. Precise. Impeccable in reports, punctual for flights, exceptional with clients. She listened more than she spoke. Always knew what he needed before he asked. Jaime tried provoking her with sharp humor, lingering looks, the little games that worked on others. But she never slipped. Never opened up.

In time, he began to notice patterns. How she seemed to know far too much about his personal life — the distance from his wife, his children’s schedules, the loneliness of Sundays. And how she used that with elegance: requesting time off on days he clearly wanted solitude, offering help when he was on the edge. She was ambitious. He felt it. But never saw her force anything. She knew exactly how to gain ground without ever seeming to ask. That’s what unsettled him. Her ability to be more than she appeared without ever showing more than necessary.

She intrigued him. And exhausted him.

That night, long after hours, he called her into his office. She entered with the same precise posture as always. Jaime didn’t look up. He kept his eyes on the phone on his desk.

“I’ll need to go to Frankfurt next week. A meeting with a German partner. I don’t speak a word of German,” he said finally. “You’re coming with me.”

She nodded lightly, as if she’d already known. He raised his eyes. It was always like that. She never said no. Never asked why. Never seemed to have a life outside of the one that orbited his.

That made him nervous. That made him obsessed.