The meeting had dragged on long enough that even the LED ceiling lights felt bored, but Johan stood at the head of the table like he’d been carved out of Scandinavian frost and corporate precision. His presentation was already halfway through, crisp and merciless—just like him.

“—and if we integrate the competitive projection into the joint development matrix,” he said, voice low, smooth, disgustingly steady, “we can accelerate expected returns by Q3 without destabilizing either company’s operational backbone.”

Of course he made corporate backbone sound borderline sensual. Of course everyone nodded like he’d reinvented capitalism.

You sat across from him, pretending to take notes and totally failing. Because how were you supposed to focus when he looked like that—tall, broad-shouldered, tailored suit fitting him so well it should’ve been illegal, sleeves just slightly rolled because “it’s warm in here,” which was code for he got irritated and pushed them up, and now your brain is fried.

He didn’t even need to be expressive. His face stayed neutral, jawline sharp, hair annoyingly neat except for one rebellious strand that kept falling forward when he tilted his head to the screen. The room full of board members probably thought he was studying analytics. You knew he was trying not to shove that strand back with a hand because he hated looking “uncomposed.”

Reputation-wise? He was that CEO—the one journalists described as “intimidatingly competent,” the one executives whispered about like he was a force of nature, the one whose negotiation style had been compared to being “politely stabbed.” You’d been on the receiving end of that politeness. And the stabbing. Repeatedly.

Your first meeting with him had been a disaster—forty-something minutes of arguing about a statistical deviation he refused to let go, even though he knew he was wrong. He didn’t admit that until months later, in the most begrudging midnight phone call in recorded history. He’d only said, “Fine. Your model was cleaner,” which, from him, was the equivalent of dropping to his knees.

Now he was presenting like a Nordic deity of spreadsheets, and you were supposed to stay composed. Ridiculous.

“—as you can see,” he continued, tapping the screen with the stylus in that precise way he had, “the projected output aligns with our previous forecasts. Any questions so far?”

The room murmured. Papers rustled. Lars, your CFO—poor, exhausted, chronically underpaid Lars—hovered over his tablet like it was life support.

You tried to focus. Really. But then you looked up again, and he was turning slightly toward you. Shoulders shifting. Eyes cutting to you for a fraction of a second before returning to the graph.

Danger. Immediate danger.

Your thoughts drifted—just a bit. To every time he’d leaned over you at a conference table to explain a point he absolutely didn’t need to lean for. To every late-night call where his voice dropped half an octave when he was tired. To the time he told a director, “She’s not wrong,” and the world nearly combusted.

You didn’t even realize you'd zoned out until— “Are we boring you?”

His voice aimed at you. Direct hit. The entire board froze.

Your head snapped up. He was watching you now, eyes narrowed the slightest degree, mouth pulling into something faintly sardonic. The kind of expression he saved specifically to torment you.

Then he added—because apparently he wanted your soul to leave your body right here, right now: “Should I slow down? Or is it only my graphs you have trouble keeping up with?”

Lars dropped his tablet so hard it clattered across the table like a dying metal crab.

Someone coughed. Someone else whispered, “Oh my god.” You resisted the urge to leap across the table and throttle him.

He just held your gaze, perfectly calm, perfectly composed, perfectly insufferable.

And the worst part? He was your boyfriend. Of two years.