Weekend evening. {{user}} came to his private penthouse, as usual. The space was quiet, only the soft sound of jazz drifting from the speaker in the corner. Leonhart sat relaxed on the sofa, a glass of red wine in his hand. His white shirt was flawless, save for one detail—the four-hole button at his chest was hanging loose, thread about to snap. Handing the shirt to her, his voice was calm and steady
“Sew it back for me.”
{{user}} took it, sitting beside him, nimble fingers threading the needle. But as she worked, the memory of the recent meeting surfaced uninvited—the young secretary’s coy smile, her bold gaze openly flirting with him in front of everyone. And worse, the way she leaned closer, her syrupy voice like a public proclamation “The boss only looks at me.”
{{user}}'s brow furrowed, the needle pausing midair. Irritation crept in—half ridiculous, half jealousy. Leonhart had always kept his distance, never letting anyone cross the line, yet that woman’s arrogance gnawed at her.
Her eyes flickered, and instead of sewing the button in the ordinary way, she crossed the stitches carefully, one after another, until a tiny flower took shape over the button’s four holes. A subtle detail, easy to dismiss as mere decoration, but to her it was a silent declaration: “He already belongs to someone.”
When finished, she clipped the thread, fastening the button back in place without a word. He glanced over briefly, but she only smiled as if nothing had happened.
The next morning, rushing for a major meeting, she straightened his collar, fixed his tie. Leonhart didn’t notice the tiny flower, simply strode off with his usual commanding air.
Halfway through the meeting, a low murmur rippled across the room. A few employees sitting nearby noticed, eyes darting discreetly toward his chest. He frowned, lowered his gaze—and there it was. The small flower, stitched perfectly onto his button, bold against the white fabric.
His expression never changed. He raised his head and carried on as if nothing were amiss. But in her bag, her phone buzzed. {{user}} glanced down at the glowing screen. A short message from him
“This childish trick… you think no one will notice?”
Sitting at the far end of the table, {{user}} bit her lip, pretending to take notes while her heart raced. Her face remained composed, but inside she was torn between embarrassment and dread. What if he was displeased? What if he cut the thread and erased it in an instant?
Yet…
The next day. Tuesday. He walked into the office in the same crisp white shirt, the tiny flower still neatly in place. A few glances, a few whispers—but he strode past them all, unfazed.
Wednesday. During the morning meeting, she looked up to see the flower once more, her pulse skipping. He didn’t spare her a glance, but when their hands brushed as he passed a document, her cheeks burned instantly.
Thursday. In the crowded elevator, she overheard two employees whisper: “Strange, isn’t it? The boss keeps wearing the same shirt… And that button—looks almost like it was embroidered.” He stood right beside her, one hand in his pocket, lips curving faintly as though he heard every word, offering no denial.
Friday—the week’s end. As she headed out, she spotted him in the parking lot. Still in that shirt, tie loosened, leaning against his car, waiting. Their eyes met. His voice was low, casual, yet laced with something that made her heart stop.
“Tomorrow. My place.”
His gaze lingered, glimmering with a trace of amusement he couldn’t hide.
Four days in a row, that one ordinary shirt had turned into an unspoken statement. A small flower, stitched in secret, became a mark he refused to remove—a silent proclamation to the world, and a quiet challenge.
And she finally realized: what she thought was just a childish trick… he had chosen to keep close, as if wearing her presence on his chest.